Minotaur

12

Stephen didn’t shout out as he ran. Instead he saved all his breath for sprinting. He ran like his death was after him. Chapel had no desire to kill the man—his only mistake had been choosing the wrong employer—but Stephen couldn’t know that.

The servant led Chapel deeper into the house, toward a hallway lined with narrow tables on spindly legs. Silver platters holding wine bottles and pitchers of water stood atop the tables. Looking back over his shoulder, Stephen intentionally hooked one of the tables with his foot as he ran past. Cursing, Chapel dashed forward and caught a glass water pitcher before it could smash on the floor. Maybe Stephen had hoped to strew the way behind him with broken glass, or maybe he’d thought someone would hear the noise and come to investigate. Either way Chapel needed to make sure that didn’t happen.

Up ahead a pair of swinging doors led into a space lined with white tile. Stephen dashed through the doors and disappeared. Chapel barreled after him, wondering if he was running straight into an ambush. Stephen had a gun, now, and though he hadn’t had a chance to use it yet, that could all change in a moment.

So as he pushed through the doors Chapel brought his head down, making himself as small a target as possible. He just had time to veer to one side as he saw a middle-aged woman in an apron and a hairnet right in front of him. She was shouting something, but he didn’t listen until he’d had a chance to straighten up and look around. It took him a second to realize she was speaking Spanish, and demanding to know why people were running through her kitchen. Chapel caught a flash of something metallic in her hand and he grabbed for her wrist before realizing she was holding a spatula. She had to be the cook, and she was no enemy of his.

“Stephen,” he said, hoping he’d got the right name. He tried to think of the Spanish words, “Stephen, donde… vaya… where did he go?”

The woman’s eyes were very wide and her face was turning red. She opened her mouth to say something.

Then a bullet passed through the side of her neck, cutting the air just to the side of Chapel’s cheek. Blood erupted from the woman’s throat and she made a horrible gurgling noise Chapel had heard before. He knew she was already dead, she just hadn’t fallen down yet.

“Jesus,” he breathed, as he threw himself to the floor behind a high counter. Beside him the cook dropped slowly to her knees, unable even to bring her hands up to grasp at her wound.

A gunshot rang out and Chapel realized that in the general panic he hadn’t even heard the first one. A third shot shattered a jar of pasta on the counter and dry sticks of angel hair showered him from above.

It seemed Stephen had decided to make his stand.