“All right. Don’t be slow.”
The footsteps moved away.
One. Two. Three.
Gone.
Bissy sagged against the wall, legs trembling so badly she had to sit on an empty bucket.
Chief Kletchi covered his face with both hands.
That had been too close.
Far too close.
When he lowered his hands, Bissy was staring at him.
“Sir,” she whispered, “we cannot stay here.”
She was right.
If someone came back, there would be nowhere to run.
He straightened slowly, forcing himself to think like the businessman who had survived negotiations, hostile takeovers, regulatory storms, political traps. Emotion would drown him if he let it. He needed sequence. Options. Risk. Escape.
“Where is the back staircase?” he asked.
Bissy pointed. “At the end of the corridor. But the kitchen camera sees that path.”
The camera.
Of course.
He had installed a full internal surveillance system himself.
“Who controls the cameras?”
Bissy hesitated.
“Madam changed the passwords two years ago. She said it was for privacy.”
Privacy.
The word hit like an insult.
Every smart system he had paid for had been turned into a shield for the person trying to end him.
“Any place without cameras?”
“The old boys’ quarters behind the generator house,” she said. “The camera there stopped working last year. Madam never repaired it.”
That was their chance.
They stepped out into the corridor.
The lights glowed softly, performing normalcy. From the living room came low voices and even laughter now—casual, comfortable, secure. The kind of laughter people make when they believe the prey is unaware.
Bissy walked first, calm on the outside, terror hidden beneath. Chief Kletchi followed a few steps behind, head slightly lowered, moving like a guest who did not want attention.
They passed the guest bathroom.
Then the kitchen.
Inside, two unfamiliar men stood by the counter eating and joking quietly. One glanced up. Chief Kletchi turned his face away and kept moving.
The back door opened.
Cool night air hit his face like mercy.
