Moving, though, was the problem. Moving through water was like moving in slow motion, which made him an easy target. Still, he kept at it, limbs flailing. He gagged on water and, he was certain, blood. He didn’t stop to check, just kept moving, the adrenaline, he knew, keeping him alive for the moment.

Sebastian’s hands found purchase on the pool steps. He crawled up them, but when he went to stand his legs gave out and he collapsed sideways against the ground. The sliding glass door off the kitchen was less than twenty feet away. Get to that now.

By some miracle combination of adrenaline and sheer will he managed to get back on his feet and then staggered to the sliding glass door, which was unlocked because Paul had come out through it earlier, with the crystal highball glasses.

Sebastian’s destination was his office. He slipped, slid, and skidded his way across the living room’s hardwood floor, splashing and dripping water along the way, then moved through the immense kitchen, with its tiled floor and gleaming white surfaces, using the furniture and walls for support. He kept glancing over his shoulder, half expecting to see Paul behind him, coming to finish the job.

Down the foyer, and finally there was the door to his office. He stumbled inside and slammed the door shut. When he threw the dead bolt, his legs fluttered in relief or fear or maybe both; whatever the reason, he collapsed against the cold tile floor, wet and shivering—and safe. Paul couldn’t get in here. The door had a steel core and two strike plates—no way Paul could kick it down. The pair of windows overlooking the front yard were made of bulletproof glass—no way the sick prick could shoot his way in, either.

Sebastian was no longer gagging but it still hurt like a mad bastard every single time he drew a breath. He managed to get his tie and suit jacket off, but unbuttoning his shirt was another matter; his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, his fingers unable to hold on to the buttons. Screw it. He ripped his shirt open, buttons flying everywhere, and with a quick and silent prayer looked down at his chest.

At Frank’s urging, Sebastian had purchased a bulletproof vest—a sad statement on the world they now lived in. Frank had picked out one that, according to the website, was designed with a gel that worked in conjunction with carbon nanofibers, which resulted in a vest that guaranteed police-level protection from any round on the market, without the weight and bulk.

It seemed the claim wasn’t marketing bullshit. Sebastian was pleased to report that he didn’t see any blood, just a mark on the fabric where the round had struck him.

Maybe I’ll go online and leave a review, Sebastian thought, and was overcome with a fit of giggling. His body put a stop to that when his ribs howled in protest. Must have cracked one—probably a whole bunch of them. He undid the Velcro straps and pulled away the thin fabric to examine his skin. He had one hell of a welt, and it was located on the right part of his chest—directly opposite from his heart. The shooter had been aiming for it when Sebastian turned at the last second.