Page 34 of His Verdict

“You’re right, Arthur,” he says softly. “You are allowed to change your mind.”

And in one smooth, fluid, impossibly fast motion, he reaches inside his suit jacket. He does not pull out a phone or a folder. He pulls out a gun. A sleek, black, semi-automatic pistol, fitted with a suppressor.

My breath hitches in my throat. It is not a scream. It isn't even a gasp. It is a small, sharp intake of air, the sound of a life ending.

There is no dramatic standoff. No final words. Before Arthur Vance can even process what is happening, before his defiant expression can curdle into fear, Jasper raises the gun and fires.

The sound is not the loudbangI expect from movies. It is a dull, wetthwump. A flat, ugly, intimate sound that is somehow worse than an explosion. A small, perfect, black hole appears in the center of Arthur Vance’s forehead. His eyes go wide with a final, terminal surprise. A fine spray of red mist and gray matter paints the glass wall behind him.

He collapses backward, not forward, a puppet with its strings cut. His chair tips over with him, and his body hits the plush carpet with a heavy, sickening thud.

The scream trapped in my throat dies before it can be born. A choked, strangled sound escapes my lips as I stumble backward, my hand flying to my mouth. My back hits the cool, solid wall of the conference room. My legs give out. I don't fall; I slide, slumping to the floor, my entire body a trembling, useless collection of disconnected limbs.

I stare, my mind a blank, white canvas of pure, undiluted horror. The body. The blood, a dark, spreading stain on the cream-colored carpet. The coppery, metallic smell that is already beginning to fill the air. The other four men at the table are frozen, their faces masks of abject terror. One of them makes a small, retching sound.

Jasper doesn't even look at the body. He looks at the remaining executives, his face completely devoid of emotion. He is a machine that has just performed its designated function.

“As I said,” he continues, his voice as calm and steady as if he was just interrupted by a waiter, “you were allowed to change your minds. But choices have consequences.”

He places the gun gently on the table, the black metal a stark, obscene object on the polished wood. “This was your lastchance. I tried to be benevolent. I tried to do this cleanly. But one of you, I don't yet know which, decided to leak my civilian name, my… recreational identity, to the authorities. You had me arrested on bullshit charges, hoping to sideline me. It was an amusing, if profoundly misguided, attempt to gain leverage.”

He picks up a water glass and takes a slow, deliberate sip.

“That problem,” he says, setting the glass down, “has been handled. As has the witness who recanted. As has Mr. Vance’s dissent.” He looks at each of the remaining men in turn, his gaze lingering for a cold, terrifying moment on each of them. “So let me be perfectly clear about the new terms. This is now a hostile takeover. Your company, as of this moment, is mine. You will facilitate the transfer of all assets, all credentials, all control, without question or delay. And if I hear so much as a whisper of this, if another problem arises, if my name appears anywhere it shouldn't… I will not just handle you. I will handle your families. Your wives, your children, your grandchildren. I will wipe your entire bloodline from the face of the earth. Do you understand me?”

They don't speak. They just nod, small, jerky, terrified movements.

“Good,” he says. He picks up the gun and tucks it back into a holster hidden inside his jacket. He straightens his tie. Business concluded.

And then, for the first time since he pulled the trigger, he seems to remember I am there. He looks over at me, huddled in a pathetic, shaking heap on the floor against the wall. A small frown, a flicker of annoyance, crosses his face. I am a loose end. A messy detail in his otherwise clean execution.

He walks over to me, his expensive shoes silent on the carpet. He reaches down and grabs my upper arm, his grip like steel. He pulls me to my feet. My legs are jelly, unable to support my own weight. I would have collapsed again if he wasn't holding me up. I am in shock, my mind completely detached from my body. I can't feel the floor beneath my feet. All I can see is Arthur Vance’s dead, surprised eyes.

“Don’t look,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost gentle. He turns me away from the grisly scene, pulling me toward the door.

I don’t fight him. I can’t. I am a doll, limp and unresisting, in his grasp. He pulls the conference room door open and leads me out into the hallway, leaving the four terrified executives in the room with their dead colleague.

He doesn't let go of my arm. He half-drags, half-supports me down the hall. His secretary, Katherine, is standing near her desk. Her face is a mask of perfect, professional calm. She doesn't even glance at me.

“Katherine,” Jasper says, his voice returning to that of a normal, busy executive. “Get the asset recovery team to the main conference room. We had a… spill. And handle the rest of the gentlemen.”

“Yes, Mr. Donovan,” she says, her voice utterly placid.

Before she has even finished speaking, two men in identical dark suits, both equipped with earpieces, are already moving past us, heading for the conference room. They move with a silent, terrifying efficiency. One of them carries a large, hard-sided case. They don't look surprised or alarmed. They look like janitors on their way to mop up a mess.

Because that’s what this is to them. A mess. A routine cleanup. This isn’t an anomaly. This is a Tuesday.

My stomach heaves. The world goes gray at the edges. The last thing I hear before the darkness takes me is his voice, a low curse of irritation, as he catches my fainting body in his arms.

Chapter 16

My return to consciousness is a slow, agonizing crawl out of a deep, black well. Before I open my eyes, I am aware of two things: the impossibly soft surface beneath me and a cool, damp cloth being gently pressed against my forehead. The sensation is soothing, a stark, bizarre contrast to the chaos that sent me into the darkness.

My eyelids feel heavy, glued shut. When I finally manage to peel them open, the world is a blurry wash of soft, gray light. I blink, and the image sharpens into focus. I am in his bed. In the penthouse. The vast, minimalist room is quiet, the only sound the faint, distant hum of the city far below.

Jasper is sitting on the edge of the bed beside me, leaning over me. He is the one holding the cloth. He has taken off his suit jacket and tie, his sleeves are rolled up again, and his expression is one of quiet, intense concentration. He looks less like a murderer and more like a concerned caregiver tending to a feverish patient. The cognitive dissonance is so profound it makes my head spin.

The memories come rushing back in a tidal wave of horror. The conference room. The sickeningthwumpof the suppressed gunshot. Arthur Vance’s dead, surprised eyes. The smell of blood.