I was hired to survive exactly one day as an assistant to a paralyzed, terrifying man who made people cry for sport. I only stayed because the thousand-dollar bonus meant I could buy my son’s asthma medicine. Then I noticed the powdery yellow residue at the bottom of his daily pill cup.

Part 2

Dan burst into the room, gripping a suppressed handgun.

Three armed men had just bypassed the outer gate.

Craig gripped the armrests of his wheelchair, his knuckles turning white, but his arms trembled violently.

The drugs pulled him down into the heavy fog.

He demanded Dan fetch his weapon from the time-locked safe.

Dan’s face drained of color.

The safe would not open until morning.

Muffled gunfire echoed through the distant hallways.

Rival associates had chosen tonight to strike, knowing the boss was incapacitated.

My chest tightened as I thought of Toby sleeping miles away in our freezing apartment.

I refused to leave my son an orphan in this world.

I stepped over to the fireplace and wrapped my fingers around the cold, heavy iron of the poker.

I leveled a steady gaze at the hulking bodyguard.

You take the door.

I pointed the iron tip toward the floorboards behind the oak desk.

Mr. Costello, get behind the wood.

Craig stared up at his overweight, underpaid assistant wielding a fire poker like a broadsword.

He ground his teeth together and forced his chair backward into the shadows.

Footsteps thundered down the corridor.

Wood shards rained across the Persian rug as two men in black tactical gear breached the room.

Dan fired his suppressed weapon twice.

The first intruder dropped instantly to the floor.

The second attacker lunged forward, returning fire.

A stray bullet grazed Dan’s shoulder, spinning his massive body backward into a glass display cabinet.

I swallowed the scream rising in my throat.

The remaining hitman swung his rifle directly toward Craig’s slumped form.

He never even glanced in my direction.

I stepped out from the shadows of the bookshelf.

I gripped the wrought iron poker with both hands, raised it high, and brought it down with every ounce of my weight.

The iron bar connected brutally with the back of the hitman’s kneecap.

He collapsed forward, his rifle discharging a deafening blast into the ceiling plaster.

I swung a second time, bringing the heavy brass handle down across the base of his skull.

The man crumpled into an unconscious heap at my worn shoes.

Silence crashed back into the room, broken only by Dan’s ragged breathing.

Craig leaned forward, the drug haze temporarily burned away by pure shock.

A third set of footsteps pounded down the distant hallway, moving rapidly toward the rear exit.

The cut alarms, the heavy sedation, the timing of the strike.

Brenda.

I dropped the poker onto the rug and sprinted out of the study.

My sensible shoes squeaked against the polished marble as I cut through the servants’ corridor.

I intercepted her in the mudroom.

The slim nurse was frantically stuffing bundles of cash and leather-bound ledgers into a canvas duffel bag.

I stepped squarely in front of the exit door.

She dropped a stack of hundreds and pulled a small silver revolver from her coat pocket.

She aimed the barrel directly at my chest.

I stared at the metal, calculating the distance between us, and kept my voice utterly deadpan.

You are holding that safety catch wrong.

Brenda instinctively flicked her eyes down toward her hands.

I lunged forward.

I did not try to punch or kick.

I simply used physics.

As my heavy frame slammed her onto the mudroom floor, her silver revolver skittered into the dark corner—but which one of us was going to reach it first?