The Healer's Redemption

Chapter 5: The Awkward Double Date

"You’re going to be the death of us, Jorvan."

The pressure of the cold steel against her nape was enough to keep Velmira perfectly still. Through the ringing in her ears from the flashbang, she could hear the heavy, tactical boots of the men moving through the kitchen, crunching on the glass shards of the fruit bowl.

"Don't move," the man behind her growled. His voice sounded like gravel grinding in a dryer. "The girl stays alive. The man is negotiable."

Jorvan, huddled under the kitchen island with his hands behind his head, let out a sharp, jagged gasp. "I’m not negotiable! I have the login credentials for the secondary server! You can't liquidate the data if you don't have the keys!"

Velmira rolled her eyes, even with a gun to her head. "He’s lying. He doesn't know the password. He lost it in the divorce audit."

"I did not!" Jorvan hissed back.

The man behind Velmira shifted, pressing the barrel harder against her vertebrae. "Enough. Where is the drive?"

"It’s in the gutter, melted," Velmira said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "But if you look in the garage, I’m sure you’ll find the remnants. Or you can just shoot us and find out why the auditors are already en route to your employer’s penthouse."

The gunman paused. "You're bluffing."

"Am I?" Velmira turned her head just enough to see the shadow of Aunt Sylvia. Sylvia wasn't hiding. She was standing by the pantry, her pistol leveled at the gunman’s chest, completely calm. "Auntie, tell him about the firm's legal insurance. Tell him what happens when a sub-contracted cleaner causes an unauthorized casualty inside a private residence."

Sylvia didn't blink. "It’s a twenty-year sentence, minimum. And the firm doesn't pay for legal defense when the hit is botched. It’s cheaper for them to just erase the contractor."

The gunman hesitated. His grip on Velmira’s shoulder tightened. "You’re lying. You’re just stall—"

Click.

The sound came from the foyer. Not a gun, but a deadbolt. The front door had just opened.

"Someone’s here," the gunman muttered, his focus momentarily shifting toward the hallway.

"That'll be the dinner guests," Jorvan blurted out, a hysterical edge creeping into his tone.

"Dinner guests?" the gunman barked.

"The double date!" Velmira said, sensing the opening. "My boss and his fiancee. They’re coming over for a celebratory dinner. If they walk into a scene with three armed men, you’re not going to be able to make this look like an accident. You’ll be on every traffic cam from here to the harbor."

The gunman cursed. "Check the foyer."

"I'm not leaving the girl," the man behind Velmira snapped.

"I said check the foyer!"

The gunman shoved Velmira toward the wall. She stumbled, her hand brushing the counter, fingers closing around a heavy, marble wine chiller. She didn't look at Jorvan. She didn't look at Sylvia. She just threw the weight.

The marble struck the gunman’s temple with a sickening thud. He crumpled, his pistol skittering across the tile.

"Run, you idiot!" Velmira screamed at Jorvan.

They bolted for the back stairs, Mochi’s carrier banging against their legs. Behind them, the house erupted in gunfire. Sylvia wasn't hiding anymore; she was holding the line, a steady, rhythmic popping of shots echoing through the kitchen.

They crashed into the upstairs hallway, breath hitching in their lungs.

"The balcony," Jorvan wheezed, pointing to the master bedroom. "We can jump to the neighbor's trellis."

"We’re not jumping!" Velmira hissed, pulling him into the guest suite. She slammed the door and locked it. "We’re going to be the couple they expect. We’re going to open the door for the guests."

"Are you insane? They’re going to walk into an execution!"

"No," Velmira said, her eyes manic, grabbing a bottle of champagne from the bedside vanity and cracking it open to pour into two glasses. She handed one to Jorvan. "They’re going to walk into a marriage proposal. And the person who kills us in front of the CEO of our firm—the man who can crush our enemies with a phone call—is the person who will be arrested immediately."

"You want to propose? Now?"

"I want to survive! Now, get on your knees!"

The bedroom door rattled as a heavy boot slammed into it. The wood splintered.

"Jorvan, on your knees!" she shoved him down.

Jorvan scrambled, his face pale, hands trembling as he reached into his pocket. He didn't have a ring, but he pulled out a gold-plated key—the only thing he had left.

The door burst open. The man with the scar stood there, his submachine gun leveled at their heads. At the exact same moment, the front doorbell chimed—ding-dong—and a cheerful voice drifted up from downstairs.

"Velmira? Jorvan? We’re here for the engagement dinner! Hope you haven't started without us!"

Velmira turned to the gunman, tears welling in her eyes, her voice loud enough for the visitors downstairs to hear.

"Oh, Jorvan," she sobbed, holding her hand out. "Yes, I’ll marry you!"

The gunman stared at them, confused, his finger twitching on the trigger. He looked at the door, then at the couple on the floor, then at the ceiling as heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs behind him.

"Drop the weapon," a deep, booming voice commanded from the hallway. It was the CEO. And he wasn't alone.

The gunman froze, his eyes widening. He looked down at Velmira, his barrel hovering inches from her heart.

"Do it," Velmira whispered to the gunman, a cold, jagged smile breaking through her fear. "Shoot me, and you’re a dead man. Walk away, and you might just make it to the window."

The gunman looked at the CEO, then back at Velmira. He pulled the trigger—but not at her.

He fired a burst into the bedroom floor, shattering the floorboards and plunging them all into the dark, unfinished crawlspace below.

As Velmira plummeted into the abyss, the last thing she heard was the CEO’s roar and the distinct, terrifying sound of a gas line hissing open.

"Jorvan," she screamed in the dark, clutching his hand. "Don't let go!"

"I can't!" he shouted back, his voice small. "The floor isn't beneath us anymore!"

They hit the basement concrete with a bone-jarring thud, surrounded by the smell of leaking natural gas and the muffled, echoing sound of a match being struck somewhere above them.