Zaire felt the night's chill.
It was as dark as it could get.
He was currently resting on the entrance stairway.
His ears were perked, his head see-sawing. Add squinting eyes to his vigilance, and nothing was getting past Zaire Zontes tonight.
The manor had always belonged to the Skylance family, and who better to know its complete layout than the wife of the family patriarch?
The wife who treated this manor as her personal getaway—Amelia Skylance.
Amelia had sneaked inside from some entranceway behind the manor?
Zaire wasn't sure. She'd told him, but pay attention? He didn't.
Why does she even need me if she can just sneak in and do the job herself?... Is she fucking apprehensive about actually killing someone?... Maybe killing a man isn't the low she'd smilingly stoop to... Pretty fucking understandable, huh, Bot?
[I CANNOT COMPREHEND YOUR SENTENCE. THE ASSESSMENT OF HUMAN NATURE LIES OUTSIDE MY JURISDICTION.]
Buzzkill... I'm sorry, alright!... Why the fuck am I preemptively apologizing to you?... I've lost it, man... I'll stop drinking... Not a safe environment to enjoy God's nectar, hahaha...
Zaire, drunk and oblivious, faithfully played the role of the guard. Poor soul couldn't even fathom the sheer insanity the approaching pandemonium was about to unleash.
*****
Amelia snuck into the mansion from the backyard.
There were two gateways into the residence:
one, the patio doorway; the other, the little door on the far right that connected to the laundry room.
Amelia had it all planned.
The laundry room door key was right there with her—inside her right trouser pocket, safe and sound.
When Amelia first gave Messiah the house tour, she'd made an executive decision to keep a route known only to her.
It was meant to be a trump card. Her last resort. And play its role, it did.
Past Amelia, like always, I love you.
She slowly slid the key into the keyhole.
The slight turn of her wrist made a click, and with that, the latch dropped.
The door opened, and the dark laundry room welcomed its legal mistress.
*****
Messiah was in the master bedroom, breathing in the purple silk bedsheets.
His sniffing was so hard and rash that any onlooker might think such sniffing could cure all cancer.
His free right hand slowly slipped toward his pelvic region.
His pajamas were hoisted like a tent.
Ameliahh, Ameliahh...
Chanting the name of the woman he so passionately desired, he was about to proceed with his ritualistic practice.
But he stopped.
It was sudden and abrupt.
The tent went down, and the silk bedsheet slipped from his fingers.
The eyes that had been lost in lust now gleamed predatory.
*****
Fuck, that's my fifth one. I'm smoking slow, too. What the fuck, where's Amelia?
Zaire was slowly sobering up.
The cigarettes helped, but so did the tension of the utter silence.
A bad feeling slowly welled up in his stomach.
He wasn't in any way, shape, or form fond of Amelia.
But would he go out of his way to help her?
Absolutely.
I'm bloody contractually required to, ah...
The bad feeling soon became more evident.
It moved from his stomach to his head.
Zaire ignored it.
Taking out a cigarette, he lit it.
The bad feeling slowly turned... painful.
Yet Zaire paid it no heed.
It was the third drag of the sixth cigarette when Zaire finally felt it.
It was pain.
Ringing, sonorous pain, right on his temple.
It was as if Eddie Hall himself had placed a gong on his head and hit it, full force.
The pain was so incredible.
Zaire couldn't scream.
His jaw locked up, and a guttural groan leaked from his mouth.
Oh, fuck, I shouldn't have thought about that bitch. It's the Oath of bloody life, isn't it? Fuck, fuck, fuck...
Rat-tat-tat.
Bullets hit the grand wooden door.
Chips of wood and wall sprayed from the impact zones and covered the man crouched on the entrance stairs.
"WHAT THE FUCK, WHAT THE FUCK!"
Zaire screamed, terrified, as he felt bullets whiz right past him.
"ZAIRE, YOU MOTHERFUCKER! YOU DARE TRY TO ASSASSINATE SIR MESSIAH!? HE FUCKING SAVED YOUR BUM LIFE... EVEN I FUCKING SAVED YOUR LIFE. AND YET HERE YOU ARE, AIMING TO KILL SIR MESSIAH. WHAT KIND OF LOWLIFE, MESSED-UP ANIMAL ARE YOU, HUH, MOTHERFUCKER?"
The nauseous headache and the bullet spray somehow helped Zaire.
Adrenaline and cortisol flooded his system and helped his consciousness strengthen its grip.
This rush helped him recognize the voice: Sean.
Something was definitely wrong with Amelia.
The cogs of his sobering mind started moving, and he came up with a makeshift plan:
The night was dark; Sean couldn't see.
He'd throw his shoe to the left side of the house, then rush around from the right.
Find an entrance inside and check on Amelia.
That was his job. That was what he'd signed up for.