Chapter 19 - The Fireplace
John’s thumb tightened on the hammer, but Sam was already moving.
She didn't scream. She didn't announce herself. She swung the heavy iron crowbar from under the wool blanket with everything she had left, catching John squarely across the back of his knees.
The crack of bone was sickeningly clear.
John collapsed forward, his silenced pistol discharging once into the floorboards before clattering under the oak table. Mark didn't go for his gun—he lunged over the table, driving his elbow down into John’s neck, pinning his brother’s face against the rough pine floor.
On the porch, Vance dropped his cigar. The slick politician persona evaporated in a heartbeat. He reached into his leather coat, pulling a short-barreled revolver from his armpit holster.
Mark shoved John’s head down with one hand, grabbed the hot iron poker leaning against the hearth with the other, and hurled it like a javelin through the open doorway.
The red-hot iron caught Vance across the chest, burning straight through his dry leather jacket. Vance shrieked, staggering backward off the porch steps and falling hard into the mud, his revolver flying into the tall grass.
"Mark... please..." John rasped beneath him, his fingers clawing uselessly at the rug. "It’s... it’s your family..."
Mark didn't look down at him. He didn't offer a dramatic speech or demand an explanation he already knew was hollow.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out his heavy steel handcuffs, and snapped them onto John’s wrist—pinning his brother’s hand tightly to the iron leg of the wood-burning stove.
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"Stay here," Mark said, his voice terrifyingly calm.
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