Chapter 3 - Poison in the Wine
I didn't hesitate. I shoved Tyler behind the heavy mahogany desk and signaled Ethan to move into the blind spot near the bookshelf. I drew my customized 9mm pistol, pressing my back against the wall adjacent to the entryway.
The key turned in the lock.
The door swung open, revealing Reynolds, the head of Blackwood security. A broad-shouldered man in his late fifties with a stern jaw and graying hair, he held a silver tray bearing a decanter of Grant’s favorite fifty-year-old scotch and a single crystal glass.
Reynolds stopped in his tracks, staring at the empty desk, then at the open secret passage behind the bookcase.
“Lower the tray, Reynolds,” I said coldly from behind him, pressing the barrel of my weapon against the base of his skull.
Reynolds went rigid. “What is the meaning of this? I brought Mr. Blackwood’s nightcap—”
Ethan stepped out from the shadows, grabbing the silver decanter from the tray. He unscrewed the crystal stopper and brought it close to his nose, fanning the fumes toward his face.
“Bitter almonds,” Ethan said, his voice dropping an octave. “Cyanide.”
Reynolds tried to spin around, but I grabbed his wrist, executed a swift joint lock, and forced him to his knees on the marble floor. His weapon slipped from his shoulder holster, clattering harmlessly under the desk.
“Grant Blackwood didn’t request a drink tonight, did he?” I asked, kneeling beside Reynolds, my knee pinned firmly into his upper back. “You were going to walk into his bedroom, leave the tray, and let him drink it while he read his late-night reports. By morning, everyone would assume his heart finally gave out.”
Reynolds spat on the floor, his eyes wild with defiance. “You think you’ve won, little girl? You’re standing on a sinking ship! Grant Blackwood’s empire is crumbling. The Vance family controls half the police force and the entire security board. Whitaker made a deal! When Grant dies, Tyler’s mother dies, Ethan gets executed, and we take the East Coast!”
“Where is Tyler’s mother being kept?” Ethan demanded, stepping forward, his polished shoe coming down hard on Reynolds’ right hand.
Reynolds screamed in pain, but he bit his lip, refusing to speak.
Suddenly, heavy footsteps echoed from the grand hallway outside.
Grant Blackwood walked into the study, flanked by four heavily armed loyal bodyguards. His silver hair was perfectly combed, his dark suit impeccable, but his eyes burned with a terrifying, apocalyptic rage.
He looked at Reynolds pinned beneath my knee, then at the decanter in Ethan’s hand, and finally at me.
“My sister told me she saw Reynolds entering the east wing with an unauthorized key,” Grant said slowly, his deep voice vibrating through the room. “It appears my sister was right to trust your instincts, young lady.”
Grant stepped toward Reynolds, looking down at his former head of security like a man looking at a cockroach. “Twenty years, Reynolds. I paid your children’s Ivy League tuition. I bought your house in the Hamptons. And you sold me out for Vance gold?”
“You’re a monster, Grant!” Reynolds snarled.
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“I am a king,” Grant corrected coldly. “And kings do not negotiate with traitors.”
Grant looked at me, a rare, genuine glint of respect flashing in his dark eyes. “You proved me wrong about one thing. You’re not just a bodyguard. You’re a tactical weapon. But we have a war on our hands. The Vance family has fifty men surrounding the outer perimeter as we speak.”
