But his prize possession, the pièce de résistance, was the huge Scottish coat of arms hanging above his desk. The placard was enormous, stretching almost four feet across and six feet tall. It was red, yellow, and green, and didn’t match anything else in his house. But it was him. His history, his name, his origins.
It represented him, and all that he stood for, and he stood a moment in front of it, admiring the wooden shield.
He walked behind his desk, grabbing the decanter of whiskey and pouring himself a glass. He stood face-to-face with the coat of arms for another moment, enjoying the warm liquid. Finally he turned to sit down.
And saw a man standing in the center of the room, staring at him. Recognition washed quickly over Livingston, but he was angered that the man had caught him by surprise.
“Oh — my God,” Livingston said, nearly dropping his glass of liquor. “You scared the shit out of me. What are you doing here?”
He made a mental note to call his security company to set up perimeter alarms. The HD motion cameras were enough to turn over footage to the police after a break-in, but they obviously weren’t meant as an early-warning system. He grunted and sipped on his whiskey.
The man continued staring.
“Well, what do you need? You seemed to enjoy sneaking up on me. What is it?”
The man finally looked Livingston up and down and shook his head. Livingston sat down behind the desk, acting preoccupied with a stack of papers. As he picked up the stack and began to rummage through them, he heard a clunk on the desk.
At the edge of the desk, Livingston saw a small, compact 9mm pistol. His visitor had placed the gun there, and now stepped back from the desk to the middle of the room once again.
Livingston felt his blood run cold. His nostrils flared, and anger flashed through his body. Still, he was calm. He took another sip of whiskey, this time deeper, letting the heat sting the back of his throat.
“Trying to intimidate me?” he asked.
“Is it working?”
Livingston snorted through a mouthful of liquor. He swallowed and blew out a breath of alcohol-laced air.
“This is a waste of time,” Livingston said. “I don’t know anything, or anyone.”
“I didn’t say you did,” the man replied immediately.
“You want answers, talk to Julie, or that thug she’s running around with.”
“I don’t need to.”
Livingston’s anger grew. “What the hell are you here for, then?”
The man blinked.
Livingston looked down at the pistol, then up at the man, catching his eye. He looked to the large bust of the moose-elk, across the mantel at the pictures of someone else’s family, and then back down at the gun again. He picked it up slowly, delicately.
He’d actually never held a gun before.
It was heavier than he’d imagined, surprising for its compact size. He examined it. The barrel, trigger, and hammer — is that what the back thing is called?
He felt its weight beneath his fingers. The man didn’t say a word as Livingston pressed the safety release back and forth, locking and unlocking the gun’s firing pin.
Livingston wasn’t going to let himself be intimidated. He wouldn’t be humiliated, especially not in his own home. He felt his lip turn upward into a slight sneer. This asshole.
He stood up, gaining confidence. “Get out.” The words were cold.
The man didn’t move.
“Get out,” he said again. He lifted the gun quickly and pointed it at the man’s chest. “Don’t make me repeat it.”
Still, the man didn’t speak. His expression was stoic, but Livingston could see a glint of something — amusement? — in the man’s eyes.
He felt his right arm shaking, and he tried to force it to stop. He aimed the gun and closed his eyes just as he pulled the trigger.
He heard a tiny click.
That wasn’t right.
He tried again.
Click.
Shit.
He looked down at the gun, as if silently arguing with the metal contraption, but nothing happened. When he looked up, the man standing in front of him was shaking his head.
“You’re too predictable, Livingston. Always have been. All of you.”
Livingston frowned, but the man was already moving. He closed the distance between them in less than a second, and Livingston saw him pull his arm back.
He smashed his fist into Livingston’s face. Livingston felt his hands open, dropping the empty gun and the glass of whiskey. They both tumbled and fell to the top of the desk. The glass shattered, whiskey and shards of crystal exploding around him. He was immediately in a daze, his mouth opening and closing as his brain tried to offer some sort of help.
The man, however, didn’t stop to wait for Livingston to recover. He grabbed a wad of Livingston’s thick, dyed hair and pulled up on it. He met Livingston’s eyes for a brief moment, then slammed Livingston’s head down on the top of the desk. Hard.
Livingston’s face and ears exploded in pain, only to be followed by a much more penetrating ringing pain that lanced through the inside of his mind. He felt as if his entire head had been lit on fire from the inside out.
He flailed his arms wildly, but the man was still in control. Once again, he brought Livingston’s head up, held tightly by the tufts of hair, then smashed it back down on the desk.
Livingston groaned, and his body went slack. His eyes were blurry, but he was still conscious. He felt a trickle of drool escape the corner of his mouth, but he made no motion to wipe it away.
He collapsed downward, his rear end somehow finding the chair as his torso and upper body sprawled forward onto the desk. He lay still, wondering why he hadn’t already blacked out.
“You’ve been a cancer to this organization for years, Livingston,” the man said. Livingston heard a scrape and felt the desk vibrate slightly. He turned his face to the side, trying to will his eyes to focus.
The man had picked up the gun and was now reaching into his jacket pocket. He withdrew something — something small, shiny.
It was a bullet.
Livingston was unable to panic, or perform any other voluntary function, but alarm sirens erupted in his brain. Or was it still the pain? He was unsure — everything was blurred together, one giant smear of pain and confusion.
“You’re predictable, useless, and spineless. I can’t think of a greater waste of air than the breath you breathe.”
Livingston was surprised to discover he was still capable of feeling anger. He relished the anger, though he was unable to act on it. He grunted again.
The man loaded the bullet into the chamber of the gun, and Livingston heard a succession of clicks.
“This has been a long time coming, Livingston. Sorry it had to be this way, but like I said — you’re predictable.”
Livingston didn’t hear the explosion of the bullet as it raced out of the barrel and found its target.
Chapter Forty
Julie was adamant. “Go! Stop being ridiculous — I’ll be fine!”
Ben shook his head, planning to stage a resistance. Malcolm grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the hotel room. “It’s fine, Ben. We’ll only be gone for a few minutes.”
She had insisted that the two men head to the nearest supermarket to get some supplies and pick up food for the three of them. Takeout Chinese had been her request. After a few minutes of arguing back and forth, Julie had prevailed, and the two men left for the F450 parked outside.