The crunch of crushed slate came to an abrupt halt.
Behind Karl, the eight hitmen locked into position, forming a tight semicircle that cut off the garden path. Two gun barrels settled in his peripheral vision, angled directly at his chest and neck. The message was unmistakable: twitch, and you die.
Karl stood rigid beside the balustrade, the bottle slick in his grip, a cold bead of sweat rolling down the back of his neck.
'I should have run.' A wave of bitter frustration burned in his gut.
The second he felt that hostile pressure in the air, he should have cleared the railing and gambled his life on the treeline below. Broken bones, maybe, but he would have lived. Instead, he had hesitated like an amateur. He had actually convinced himself the old bastard had a way out, an ace up his sleeve to flip the board.
And now, the trap was shut. Two barrels were leveled dead at his head, killing any thought of a move before it could start.
