Chapter 10 - The Cornered Wolf
Clara stepped across the threshold of the master bedroom. The room was ransacked. Clothes were dumped out of the cedar closets, velvet jewelry boxes lay empty on the carpet, and the painting above the fireplace swung open on its brass hinges, revealing the empty safe behind it.
Julian stood by the window, his back to her, slipping thick stacks of emergency offshore cash into a black duffel bag.
Beside the bag on the mahogany desk sat the heavy iron revolver.
""Did you really think I’d leave with just one suitcase?"" Julian asked without turning around. His voice had lost all its polished charm; it was guttural, raw, soaked in bile.
""You're not leaving with that money, Julian,"" Clara said, leaning against the doorframe. ""Those are serial-tracked bearer certificates. The moment you attempt to deposit them in Geneva, Interpol will be alerted.""
Julian slowly zipped the duffel bag closed. Then his hand slid across the desk, his fingers curling around the grip of the antique revolver. He picked it up, turned around, and pointed the barrel directly at Clara’s heart.
""You think I care about the money now?"" Julian said, stepping forward, his eyes bloodshot and dilated with fury. ""You humiliated me in front of the entire eastern seaboard. You destroyed five years of work in five minutes. You took my mother’s dignity, you took my status... you took everything.""
Clara did not flinch. She looked down the dark hollow of the barrel, then looked straight into Julian's wild eyes.
""You took my hair,"" Clara said, gesturing faintly to her bare scalp. ""You carved my skin. You tried to make me an invalid so you could sign my name on paper. Which of us is the monster, Julian?""
Julian chuckled, a manic, broken sound. ""You were weak. You let me do it. You cried like a beaten dog on that bed last night! You begged for mercy!""
""I wasn't begging for mercy,"" Clara said, stepping forward into the room, closing the distance between the gun and her chest. ""I was buying time.""
Julian's finger tightened on the trigger. ""Stop walking! Stop right there, Clara, or I swear to god I’ll paint this wall with you!""
""Pull the trigger then,"" Clara dared him, her voice terrifyingly tranquil. ""Do it. Marcus is downstairs. Harris has two sniper teams positioned across the lawn. If that gun fires, you will not spend twenty years in a minimum-security federal camp. You will be executed for premeditated homicide.""
Julian’s hand began to shake. The sweat was pouring down his temples, stinging his eyes. ""You think I’m scared to die with you?""
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""I know you are,"" Clara whispered, stopping three inches from the barrel. ""You're a coward, Julian. Cowards never pull the trigger when someone is looking them in the eye.""
A floorboard creaked in the corridor behind her. Julian’s eyes flickered toward the doorway—and in that split second of distraction, Clara moved.
