Chapter 14: The Persian Rug
Chapter 14: The Persian Rug
I drove the Chevy Impala back through the towering iron gates of the Holloway estate. The fog had lifted, revealing the grotesque opulence of the mansion.
I walked through the open front door, my gun drawn. Grant and Margaret were on their knees in the living room, kneeling on the exact same white Persian rug where my daughter had bled three days ago.
Margaret looked feral, her pearls torn, her hair unkempt. "You ruined us! You're just a waitress!"
"No, Margaret," I said, stepping onto the plush rug. "I served my country in the shadows for twenty years before I ever served a cup of coffee. I wiped blood off my hands long before I wiped flour."
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Grant wept, his face buried in his hands. "Please. The cartel. They're coming."
"They're already here," a voice echoed from the grand staircase.
