Only a trained marksman could have managed such a shot from such a distance. Had Paul hired one of his Marine buddies? How many people did Paul have working for him?

Sebastian collapsed against the floor. He turned onto his side and waited for the pain to quiet down, lose its bite.

Trixie had decorated his office—picked out all the furniture, the big walnut desk and matching bookcases and leather sofa and club chair and, leaning against the corner wall, the large standing mirror. Sebastian saw himself in the office now, soaking wet and curled up on the floor. It shamed him, seeing himself this way, looking like the scared little boy who had once curled into a ball and wanted to scream and cry at being sentenced to life in prison for a crime—

You’re alive, an inner voice said. It was the voice of his Higher Power—his higher self. Focus on that.

Yes. That was the main thing, the takeaway: he was alive and, for the moment, safe from Paul. Paul, who had outsmarted him. Paul, who wanted to control his blood business, where the kids were safe and well treated, turn it all into a horror show where he would rape and impregnate his female carriers in order to harvest their blood. Sebastian had to prevent that.

But first, the police. Were they already on their way here? The rifle shot hadn’t been that loud, which suggested the use of a silencer. That made sense; Paul wouldn’t have wanted to draw any unnecessary attention to the gunman—or himself. The two of them had needed to leave as quickly and quietly as possible. Still, the report could have been loud enough for someone to pick up the phone and call the police about a possible gunshot. And since Sebastian lived in Whitey Town, the police would be lightning quick.

He saw his suit jacket lying in a wet ball on the floor and patted down the fabric until he found his phone. He had never met any electronic device that enjoyed swimming, but he was hoping this case would prove an exception.

It didn’t. His smartphone was dead.

The safe. He had a couple of brand-new burners stored inside the wall safe, along with passports, IDs, and cash. He got to his feet too quickly and doubled over in pain so debilitating, his legs came dangerously close to buckling. Again he used the wall and furniture for support as he shuffled his way to the other side of the room and opened the closet door. He turned on the light, pushed aside his winter jackets, and faced the safe, an old-fashioned model with a rotary dial. Digital safes were notoriously easy to hack.

The burners were in there, sitting on top of neatly wrapped bundles of cash—fifty grand in total. For a brief moment he had the urge to throw everything in a duffel bag and then get the hell out of Dodge, live somewhere on a Caribbean island until he died of cirrhosis of the liver or skin cancer, whichever came first. The fantasy—and that was all it was and would ever be—quickly scattered like a puff of smoke.