Chapter 8 - Blood and Mud
The back door kicked open, lightning illuminating Marcus's silhouette. He was wearing a dark raincoat, holding a suppressed pistol.
"David!" he called out, his voice practically singing over the thunder. "Come out, come out. Let's make this quick. I have a flight to catch in the morning."
I didn't speak. I fired two blind shots into the dark hallway. Wood splintered, and Marcus cursed, returning fire. Bullets tore through the drywall, showering me in dust.
I rolled behind the kitchen island just as he entered the room. He moved with terrifying tactical precision.
"You're out of your depth, dad," Marcus taunted. "You're a middle-class accountant. I'm a survivor. I adapt. I take what I want."
He flanked the island. I lunged at him, tackling him at the waist. We crashed into the wooden floor, the gun flying from his hand. He was stronger than he looked, fueled by pure malice. He drove a knee into my fractured ribs, and I gasped, my vision flashing white. He flipped me over, his hands wrapping around my throat like iron vises.
"I'm going to watch the life leave your eyes," he spat, spittle hitting my face. "And then I'm going to find the dog in the closet."
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I thrashed, my oxygen cutting off, black spots dancing in my vision. I reached out blindly, my hand brushing against a heavy cast-iron skillet on the floor that had fallen during the scuffle.
With the last ounce of my strength, I swung it upward. It connected with the side of his skull with a sickening crack. Marcus slumped sideways, stunned.
