Chapter 2 - The Red Thread
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It was a glint in the branches of the ancient oak tree, fifty yards out past the manicured gardens. Tiny. Almost imperceptible. But entirely wrong.
Norah blinked, thinking her eyes simply stung from the harsh ammonia fumes. She shook her head and looked again.
And there it was: a faint, laser-red line, thin as a spider's silk thread, cutting cleanly through the falling snow. It did not waver in the wind. It ran in a perfectly straight, perfectly horizontal line from the darkness of that tree, straight through the glass of the arched window.
Her eyes frantically followed the beam across the vast room.
It ended in a small, glowing red dot, resting perfectly still on the right temple of Daniel Russo.
Time completely stopped. The rhythmic drip of melting snow off Carmine's expensive wool coat became the loudest sound in the entire world. Norah's pulse hammered violently in her throat. She tasted copper.
Keep your head down. Keep your mouth shut.
The rule echoed in her mind, screaming at her to look away. If she screamed, he would turn his head. If he turned, he would step directly into the line of fire. The bullet was already chambered. She had grown up around enough desperate, violent men in the shooting galleries of the Southside to know the cold, unforgiving mechanics of a gun. You do not outrun a trigger pull.
Daniel was still standing by the stairs, rubbing his neck, entirely oblivious to his impending death. Carmine was looking down at his phone. The armed guards at the front doors were watching the driveway.
Everyone in the room was blind. Only the ghost scrubbing the floor saw the Reaper coming.
There was no heroic inner monologue. There was no time to weigh the consequences. There was only math—the brutal, instinctual math of a body at rest and a force that had to move him out of the way.
Norah launched herself off the marble floor.
Her rubber-soled work shoes gripped the wet stone with a sharp squeak. She covered the ten feet between them in under two seconds.
Daniel caught the sudden, erratic movement in his peripheral vision. His head began to turn slowly toward her.
The red dot slid perfectly from his temple toward his cheekbone.
He's too heavy. Her brain fired the desperate warning mid-stride. You weigh a hundred and thirty pounds. You'll bounce right off him. A shove to the chest would barely move his head in time.
She had to move his skull.
Norah planted her left foot hard on the slippery floor, completely ignoring the sharp bolt of pain that shot up her ankle, and twisted her hips, channeling every ounce of momentum she had. She did not know how to make a proper, trained fist. She just curled her fingers tightly, locked her wrist, and swung her right arm in a violent, desperate sweeping arc.
Her knuckles connected flawlessly with the side of Daniel Russo's jaw.
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The impact was sickening—exactly like punching a block of solid granite wrapped in fine leather. A bright, blinding crack of pain exploded through her hand. Two knuckles split open instantly.
But it was enough.
