BANG!
The clay pigeon shattered into a thousand razor-edged shards against the afternoon sky, each fragment glittering like bone splinters as it rained down in a brief, cruel confetti of destruction.
Marcus lowered the shotgun—a Purdey, hand-engraved, worth at least four figures—and cracked the barrel open. Smoke curled from the chamber like a departing soul screaming its last.
Behind him, the sprawling Heavenchild estate stretched across manicured acres, every blade of grass trimmed to aristocratic perfection as if even nature itself had been broken and taught to kneel.
"The doctors," he said, not turning around. "All of them?"
Chief Harrison stood three paces back, sweating despite the mild weather. He'd been Chief ofPolice after Chief Morrison was arrested.
