Chapter 4: Siege

Chapter 4: Siege

"What do you mean never found alive?" Jhonatan stepped back, his back hitting the table behind him. "My father... my father wants to kill me?"

"No," Glenmorrin answered, setting his phone down on the table. "Your father is too much of a coward to do it himself. He hired people."

"Why?" Jhonatan's voice cracked. "I'm already worthless to him. Why not just let me go?"

"Because you know too much," Glenmorrin answered, his eyes narrowing toward the door. "Or more precisely, because I now know too much, and he's afraid you'll bring that information to me."

"What information?" Jhonatan asked, confused. "I don't know anything about his business."

"Not yet," Glenmorrin corrected. "But you're his son. Sooner or later, he thinks I'll use you to pressure him further."

"So this was never about me at all," Jhonatan said quietly, his voice bitter. "This is about the two of you."

Glenmorrin didn't answer, which told Jhonatan he was right.

"How much time do we have?" Jhonatan asked, trying to steady the shake in his voice.

"Ten minutes," Glenmorrin answered, moving quickly toward the cabinet in the corner of the room, pulling out a metal box. "Maybe less."

"Ten minutes for what?" Jhonatan followed him, panic starting to creep into his chest.

"To decide," Glenmorrin answered, opening the box—containing two pistols and a set of car keys. "Whether you come with me now, or stay here and hope your father's men aren't as bad as I've heard."

"Why should I trust you?" Jhonatan asked. "You said it yourself, I'm just leverage to you."

Glenmorrin stopped moving, looking straight at Jhonatan.

"Because dead leverage," Glenmorrin answered, "is useless to me. But you alive—" he held one of the pistols out toward Jhonatan, "—you're still useful."

Jhonatan looked at the pistol for a moment, then took it, checking the magazine with movements more skilled than Glenmorrin expected.

"You know how to use that?" Glenmorrin asked, an eyebrow raised slightly.

"My father trained me as heir for eighteen years," Jhonatan answered bitterly, cocking the pistol. "I know how to shoot. I've just never had to do it to survive."

Something shifted in Glenmorrin's expression—brief surprise, then something closer to reassessment.

"Fine," Glenmorrin said, moving toward the door. "You stay behind me. Don't shoot unless I say so, and don't waste bullets on anything without a clear target."

"I'm not a child," Jhonatan protested, following him.

"I know," Glenmorrin answered shortly, "but this is your first time shooting a real person, and that's different from a practice target."

The sound of heavy footsteps began echoing from outside the apartment door—many, coordinated, drawing closer.

"They're here," Jhonatan whispered, his body tensing, but his hand holding the pistol no longer trembled.

Glenmorrin pulled Jhonatan behind his own body, one hand gripping his pistol, the other still holding Jhonatan's wrist tightly.

"Whatever happens once that door opens," Glenmorrin said, not looking back, his eyes fixed on the door, "don't let go of my hand."

The knock on the door never came.

What came instead was the sound of a small explosion at the door's hinges, and the door flew open with a force that made Jhonatan instinctively raise his pistol, his finger ready on the trigger.