Chapter 4 - THE SHADOW IN THE TACK ROOMNaomi slipped silently off her stool, her hand dropping instinctively to the heavy brass-handled riding crop resting against the workbench. Her heart thudded against her ribs like a trapped bird, but her mind remained razor-sharp.
The heavy oak door slowly creaked open, admitting a sliver of pale moonlight that cut across the dusty wooden floorboards.
A tall silhouette stepped inside. The man moved with the silent, predatory grace of a professional operator. He didn't turn on a flashlight. He didn't call out. He scanned the room with a tactical thermal-imaging monocular pressed against his right eye.
"I know you're in here, Naomi," a deep, gravelly voice rumbled. It was Marcus Vance. "Uncle Edmund sends his regards. He hates loose ends almost as much as Julian hates losing control."
Marcus stepped closer, his right hand sliding slowly toward the holster beneath his heavy wool coat.
"You think framing a dog was clever, Marcus?" Naomi’s voice rang out from the shadows near the back corner, completely calm, weaponizing her own psychological composure. "Too bad forensic pathology doesn't lie. Edmund’s sleeve wasn't bitten. It was sliced with a tactical blade and snagged on an Aegis cord to simulate a tear."
Marcus chuckled, a cold, humorless sound. "And who is going to believe a dog trainer when the trustees vote at noon? Julian will be stripped of guardianship, the estate will be reorganized under Edmund's corporate board, and little Finn will be shipped off to a boarding school in the Swiss Alps where no one will ever ask questions."
In a blur of motion, Marcus drew his suppressed pistol and raised it toward the darkness where Naomi’s voice had originated.
May you like
CRASH!
The tack room window shattered inward as a massive, obsidian-black shadow launched itself through the glass frame, tackling Marcus violently to the concrete floor before he could squeeze the trigger.
