Seffargo

Chapter 18

Bile rose in Barcley's throat as he stared dumbfounded at the sight before him. Margaret was ... dead.

'Why ...?' he said weakly. 'Why kill her?'

So many questions were running rampant through Barcley's mind; some were sad, others stemmed from anger, and guilt perused his body from the single selfish question which circulated to the forefront of his mind: how would he find the antidote now?

'All loose ends must be cut.' The assassin stood, his eyes still on Margaret. 'Even the ones we wish could be tied anew.'

'She was your partner? You just said that betraying someone was a rite of passage—so why kill her? Why not let her grow old enough to betray you?'

'I didn't kill her,' his voice was tight. 'I saved her from misery.' He turned his gaze to Barcley, and if it weren't for the wall at his back, he would have retreated. 'Once you two are dealt with, I will have to escape—stealthily, at that. How am I to manage that with her being unconscious?' He paused. 'I can't! It was either I kill her now or let whoever finds her torture her till she dies. I saved her months of suffering.' Barcley saw a single tear stream down the assassin's cheek, shining bright like the stars in the sky.

'She wouldn't have been tortured.'

'Yes, she would have!' The assassin stepped over Madeline and held his fist to Barcley's chin. 'You want that antidote, don't you?' When Barcley didn't respond, the assassin slapped him hard with his other hand. 'Don't you?!'

'Yes,' he said weakly.

'And you'd have stopped at nothing to get it?'

Barcley hesitated. 'Yes.'

'Including torturing an innocent girl.'

'No.'

Another slap stung his cheek.

'I wouldn't have tortured Margaret.'

Another slap.

'You can hit me all you want—'

'Oh, good.' The assassin brought his fist from Barcley's chin and drove it deep into his stomach. Barcley gagged and hunched over but was held aloft by the assassin's fist.

'I would never torture Margaret. I would have never let anyone torture her. She deserved better ... she deserved so much better.'

'It's easy to say those kinds of things when the subject of the matter is lying dead on the floor, isn't it?'

Barcley channeled his anger and pushed the assassin back. He stumbled, struck Madeline's back and toppled to the floor. Before he could recover, Barcley was on him, his fists raining down in unpracticed blows. The assassin had since covered his head with his hands, his forearms forming an impenetrable shield. With his forearms in the way, Barcley shifted his aim for the assassin's ribs. He landed a solid blow, heard the assassin grunt, then was heaved forward as the assassin lifted his hips.

Hands wrapped around his back, pulling him close. The assassin's head was buried in his chest, and he quickly wrapped his hands around the assassin's head and squeezed. With the assassin this close, he couldn't punch or kick, and his hold was so tight that squirming out was impossible.

Heat and anger swelled in his body, and suddenly the assassin was too close, his hold too tight. Barcley could feel himself losing control. Everything was too much. He needed space. Air. He needed to breathe.

He lashed out, his boots striking something solid. He heard a surprised grunt—Madeline. He struggled but managed to twist and caught sight of her. She had rolled onto her stomach.