Chapter 3 - The Cold Steel
The air in the funeral hall turned to solid ice.
Richard stopped three inches short of the splintered box.
His left hand slowly slid into the breast pocket of his black suit jacket.
CLICK.
The metallic sound of a safety latch disengaging echoed off the vaulted ceiling.
Richard pulled out a sleek, matte-black handgun, his wrist completely steady.
The crowd behind them surged backward in a frantic, stumbling wave.
SCREECH.
Chairs scraped violently against the floorboards.
Toby froze, his small fingers still holding his mother’s cold, trembling wrists.
He took a slow step backward, his boot heel crunching over a piece of sharp white pine.
His green eyes widened until the whites showed completely around his irises.
Richard raised the barrel, aiming the black steel directly at the space between Toby’s eyes.
May you like
"Stop asking questions," Richard said, his tone flat, calm, and utterly devoid of warmth.
---
