Chapter 2: The Sound of Leather and Steel
Underneath the bed, Sarah was paralyzed. Dust particles floated in the thin sliver of light coming through the bottom of the door. Every fiber of her being screamed at her to run, to jump out the second-story window, to fight, but fear locked her muscles like vice grips.
The footsteps moved with terrifying precision. There was no urgency, no frenzied searching. The intruder checked the kitchen first. She heard drawers sliding open and closed—not looking for jewelry or silver, but checking for weapons or hidden occupants.
He knows what he’s doing, Sarah realized, her chest tight. This isn't a random robbery. This is an execution.
The sound of footsteps turned back toward the main staircase. Creak. Creak. Creak. Each stair groaned under the deliberate weight of the man climbing up to the second floor.
Sarah’s eyes were wide, unblinking in the dark gap beneath the bed frame. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, tracking wet lines down her pale cheeks and soaking into the carpet. She tried to slow her heart rate, terrified that the loud thump of her heart inside her chest would somehow give her away.
The footsteps paused at the top of the landing.
Silence swallowed the home. The kind of oppressive silence that precedes a thunderstorm.
Then, slow, heavy steps moved down the hallway carpet. The intruder passed Leo’s bedroom. He lingered there for a fraction of a second before continuing straight toward the guest bedroom where Sarah lay trapped.
The brass door handle turned slowly.
The door creaked open.
Through the narrow six-inch gap between the bottom of the bed skirt and the floor, Sarah saw them: a pair of immaculate, polished black dress shoes attached to dark tailored trousers. They stood motionless in the doorway.
The man didn't call out her name. He didn't make a sound. The sheer restraint of his movements made him infinitely more frightening than a screaming attacker. He walked with the cold discipline of someone performing a routine task at work.
He stepped into the room. The leather soles of his shoes clicked softly against the hardwood border before stepping onto the thick beige carpet. He walked slowly toward the closet, opened the door, paused, and closed it.
Then, his feet turned. He walked directly toward the side of the heavy wooden bed.
The polished black dress shoes stopped just inches from where the bed skirt draped down. Sarah could smell the faint scent of rain, damp pavement, and expensive cologne drifting underneath the bed frame. A single tear rolled down her cheek, dripping onto her knuckles. She clamped her hand harder over her mouth, her knuckles turning bone white as she fought the overwhelming urge to scream.
The man reached into his jacket. The distinct metallic clack of a firearm slide being pulled back rang out in the quiet bedroom.
Then, his phone vibrated inside his coat pocket. A low, dull buzz.
He paused. Slowly, he pulled out his phone and pressed it to his ear.
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"It's done," a voice was supposed to say, but instead, the man spoke in a low, gravelly baritone that chilled Sarah to her core.
"I'm in the house," the hitman said coldly into the receiver. "She's hiding somewhere upstairs. Don't worry. Her husband paid me half up front. Let's finish the job."
