according to Greg, it was all that was needed.
One smooth shot to the dirt beside Matthews to let him know that they were in control–that this was their territory. Matthews jerked back, obviously startled and embarrassed of his own reaction. Things were going so smoothly. So far, anyway.
And then a deafening bang exploded downstairs. It was everything that Blake had feared. It was one thing to sit in a window and blindly shoot a gun where no one could touch you, but when there's someone in the house, a trained Agent, it's time to start worrying.
Blake's body went stiff. Deep down, he was nothing like his father, the fabled spy. But then a strong primitive instinct stole over him and he jumped to his feet, running out of the room and grabbing the pistol off the dresser as he went.
He stopped at the top of the stairs. He wasn't sure if it was to listen or to give him enough time to bottle it. Regardless, he could hear nothing other than the mechanical ticking of the grandfather clock below him, echoing eerily up through the hall.
How much noise did you really expect him to make? Whoever it was had already given himself away with the homemade booby trap, and it was unlikely that the intruder would come waltzing up the stairs with a target strapped to his chest.
But why such silence…
It was unbearable for Blake. He was already as nervous as could be. He thought that whoever it was could already be upstairs, could come up behind him and feed a blade into his back. He shuddered, glanced over his shoulder and side-stepped down the stairs bit by bit. He paused halfway, listened.
Nothing again.
It struck him that he was in the perfect position to just run away. He still had the barman's car keys. He could slip out while Greg was preoccupied. If he could get out at all, that was. But the silence was enough to drive anyone mad.
Blake drew his pistol.
Slowly, he traipsed down the last of the steps, half-expecting to be attacked as soon as he hit the bottom, but no such thing happened. He immediately took a right, passing the holdall he had left in the hallway, and poked his head into the kitchen. As an afterthought, he lifted the gun to defend himself. He would have to be quicker next time.
Blake closed the door and crossed the hall to the study. His finger shook around the trigger. His voice seemed to echo up the massive walls, like a desperate man's final wail. There was a sweat coming on as he approached the door. Eyes closed tight, he counted to three and then burst into the room, raising the gun immediately to the face of a man.
The shadows danced across his face in the gloom, but his scars were visible and his build would be intimidating in any lighting. 'You better shoot that thing,' he said.
Blake paused. He thought he saw the faintest glimmer in the man's eye, like he enjoyed this kind of stuff. It was almost as if he wanted to be shot. But why would he? He worked for The Agency, he was obviously trained to survive and it didn't take a genius to know that a bullet in the chest would slow you down.
'I'll shoot.' Although it was a lie to himself.
'No, you won't.' The Shadow Man was so confident that he seemed not to care what happened. He took a step back. 'I'm going to give you your chance. You can lower the gun and I'll go easy on you, or you can fire and have done with it. But I promise you this: if you shoot that thing at me, you had better kill me, or I will pin you down and hack you up.'
Blake believed him.
The man took another step back into the shadows. Blake was finding it harder to see him; his eyes played tricks on him and he was losing his nerve. The gun rattled in his hands. He knew he wasn't prepared to take a human life. But for his dad, for Rachel and for himself?
Blake clenched the gun tighter, but by then it was too late.
'You were warned.' The voice was beside him now, as if he had teleported from one end of the room to the other.
Blake could no longer see him, the shadows concealed his
One smooth shot to the dirt beside Matthews to let him know that they were in control–that this was their territory. Matthews jerked back, obviously startled and embarrassed of his own reaction. Things were going so smoothly. So far, anyway.
And then a deafening bang exploded downstairs. It was everything that Blake had feared. It was one thing to sit in a window and blindly shoot a gun where no one could touch you, but when there's someone in the house, a trained Agent, it's time to start worrying.
Blake's body went stiff. Deep down, he was nothing like his father, the fabled spy. But then a strong primitive instinct stole over him and he jumped to his feet, running out of the room and grabbing the pistol off the dresser as he went.
He stopped at the top of the stairs. He wasn't sure if it was to listen or to give him enough time to bottle it. Regardless, he could hear nothing other than the mechanical ticking of the grandfather clock below him, echoing eerily up through the hall.
How much noise did you really expect him to make? Whoever it was had already given himself away with the homemade booby trap, and it was unlikely that the intruder would come waltzing up the stairs with a target strapped to his chest.
But why such silence…
It was unbearable for Blake. He was already as nervous as could be. He thought that whoever it was could already be upstairs, could come up behind him and feed a blade into his back. He shuddered, glanced over his shoulder and side-stepped down the stairs bit by bit. He paused halfway, listened.
Nothing again.
It struck him that he was in the perfect position to just run away. He still had the barman's car keys. He could slip out while Greg was preoccupied. If he could get out at all, that was. But the silence was enough to drive anyone mad.
Blake drew his pistol.
Slowly, he traipsed down the last of the steps, half-expecting to be attacked as soon as he hit the bottom, but no such thing happened. He immediately took a right, passing the holdall he had left in the hallway, and poked his head into the kitchen. As an afterthought, he lifted the gun to defend himself. He would have to be quicker next time.
Blake closed the door and crossed the hall to the study. His finger shook around the trigger. His voice seemed to echo up the massive walls, like a desperate man's final wail. There was a sweat coming on as he approached the door. Eyes closed tight, he counted to three and then burst into the room, raising the gun immediately to the face of a man.
The shadows danced across his face in the gloom, but his scars were visible and his build would be intimidating in any lighting. 'You better shoot that thing,' he said.
Blake paused. He thought he saw the faintest glimmer in the man's eye, like he enjoyed this kind of stuff. It was almost as if he wanted to be shot. But why would he? He worked for The Agency, he was obviously trained to survive and it didn't take a genius to know that a bullet in the chest would slow you down.
'I'll shoot.' Although it was a lie to himself.
'No, you won't.' The Shadow Man was so confident that he seemed not to care what happened. He took a step back. 'I'm going to give you your chance. You can lower the gun and I'll go easy on you, or you can fire and have done with it. But I promise you this: if you shoot that thing at me, you had better kill me, or I will pin you down and hack you up.'
Blake believed him.
The man took another step back into the shadows. Blake was finding it harder to see him; his eyes played tricks on him and he was losing his nerve. The gun rattled in his hands. He knew he wasn't prepared to take a human life. But for his dad, for Rachel and for himself?
Blake clenched the gun tighter, but by then it was too late.
'You were warned.' The voice was beside him now, as if he had teleported from one end of the room to the other.
Blake could no longer see him, the shadows concealed his
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