There was no more time. Every breath he took reduced the sliver of a chance he had purchased by pushing Sophia's mother out the window. The kitchen was a single-entrance trap. He was aware of that.
They were aware of that. However, they were unaware of his firearm. The only variable that mattered was that. In a game where he was supposed to have no hand at all, it was his ace, his last unexpected card.
He glanced around the room. On the counter was a block of knives. His body moved without conscious thought. He grabbed the heaviest one, a chef's knife.
It had a worn, smooth handle. It was a prop, but it felt pointless against men brandishing pistols. A prop was necessary for any successful deception.
He went to the door of the kitchen. He avoided standing in front of it. He squeezed into the corner next to the picture frame. He closed his eyes and rested his head on the cool plaster of the wall.
