APN: Well, you guys . . . I don't know what to say, except . . . I'm BACK! Not only that, but I'm . . . so . . . SORRY! I can't believe how long I've been gone, and how long I've waited to actually update this fic! It would indeed be an understatement to say that RL's been busy, but that should be used as an excuse anymore.
I started this fic two years ago. Suddenly, I now find myself graduated from high school and entering university. shakes head Now how did that happen? LOL.
Just know that I'm back—this time, for good!
Thank you to everyone who's been reviewing and egging me on to finish while I've been gone. And thank you to the regular reviewers . . . if they still visit this site, that is! You guys know who you are . . . first and foremost Evil Irish Eyes (hey girl! I'm baaaa-aaack! I missed ya and I hope you missed me too! Don't hate me for leaving for so long!), Crimson Cat, Jaclyn, A. Windsor, Lady Kate . . . and anyone else I missed, you know who you are!
So, finally, here is chapter sixteen! Read it, enjoy it, and review it! Love you all!
PS. I'm not sure how well the formatting will be . . . if all of my paragraphs are stuffed together, don't worry! I will update and replace it!
Chapter Sixteen—The Dark Confession
Run . . . run. . . .
John Roxton's mind was trapped in a wild whirlwind; the events that had happened only moments ago drained from his mind with the desperate need to flee. His chest violently heaved in and out, swallowing in great amounts of much-needed air.
Run . . . run faster. . . .
Very distantly, he could hear the thumping sounds of Veronica and Malone's booted feet. They were several metres behind him, running almost as crazed as he, shouting words at him of which he couldn't seem to understand; words that he didn't want to understand.
No. The only thing he wanted to do now was run. Run—get to the treehouse in time before disaster struck. Before he struck.
Brett Jenkins was in the treehouse; he was certain of that. Roxton had no clue as to how long he had been there—that wasn't important to him. The only thing important to him was the idea of Challenger, Marguerite, and their unborn child remaining unharmed. And if Jenkins had threatened that idea. . . .
Run . . . run for all you're worth, God dammit. . . .
A tall plant with long, spiked leaves scratched Roxton's unshaven cheek as he flew past. The scratch was shallow, but the leaf was still sharp; it gave him a long cut that stretched out towards his ear. Warm blood slowly tricked anew as it ran down his face.
But Roxton didn't feel a thing.
Soon enough, the black silhouette of the treehouse erupted into detail as the frenzied trio closed the distance between it; bright light streamed forth from the Marguerite's window; the gate of the electric fence lay open; and the elevator which should have touched the ground creaked as it slowly swayed from the cables high above.
Roxton flew past the gate and forced his feet to come to a stop at the base of the large tree. He forced his head to look up at the creaking elevator, and clenched his fists deeply into his sides. "BRETT!" he screamed in fury, his breath coming out in loud, angry exhales.
Veronica and Malone had stopped behind him—they too were looking at the dangling elevator in pure wrath. Malone whipped out his pistol; Veronica clutched her knives in both hands.
All stood silent, waiting for a reply. The air was thick with tension and fury.
Not a moment longer, however, the reply came: a cautious and shaking voice sounded from a window above.
"Roxton. . . ."
Immediately, Roxton whipped his head to the left. Up above from Marguerite's window was Challenger. His head was pushed out of the rectangular space. Nervously, his eyes searched the darkness below for the man to whom the name he called belonged. Upon closer inspection, they realized that a hand had wormed its way into Challenger's mass of wiry red hair, sharply pulling it back. Another hand had jammed a pistol into the side of his skull.
"Challenger!" the trio roared in unison, gazing upwards in vehemence and fear.
"Roxton. . . ." Challenger repeated, swallowing deeply. "You, and you alone must come up to the treehouse. The elevator will be sent down for you."
"Hah!" Veronica gripped her knives even harder. "If that psycho thinks that we are going to send John up there by himself. . . ."
"It must only be Roxton!" cried Challenger, his voice wavering in fright. "If either of you move towards the elevator, you will be shot."
Roxton let his gaze fall towards Veronica and Malone. "The man is insane!" frantically whispered Malone, meaningfully gesturing with his pistol. There's no way you can go up there by yourself!"
"Who knows what games the psycho has in store for you up there?" chimed a frightened Veronica.
Much to their surprise, Roxton shook his head. "No—I'll not take any arguments. Challenger's right; I must go up there alone."
"But—"
"No buts." He sighed. "You two are right—who knows what games he has in mind? I'll not have you two put your lives at risk."
"Roxton!" hissed Veronica, clenching her teeth in defiance. "He plans to kill you! And Marguerite, Challenger, and us as well. . . ."
"I said no!" snapped Roxton, his fists shaking in ferocity. "This is my fight; Jenkins is my past, my problem. Only I alone can deal with him. And deal with him I will!"
Roxton once again flicked his gaze upwards, back towards Challenger. "All right!" he shouted in the night air. "All right! Challenger, you tell that bastard that I'm coming up—alone." He gazed meaningfully at Veronica and Malone, who shook their heads in frustration.
The hand which gripped Challenger's hair jerked forcefully, causing him to slam his eyes shut. "There is one other thing, Roxton—you must throw all of your weapons to the ground and come up unarmed."
"What!" cried Malone as his eyes widened in fright. "Roxton, there's no way you can—"
"He must be unarmed!" roared Challenger through teeth clenched. "Jenkins knows, Malone! If he does not surrender each weapon he carries, he will be shot. If he is found with one up top, he will be forced to watch Marguerite and myself be killed, just prior to himself being shot."
Malone roared in anger as Veronica stamped her foot to the ground. "He's probably going to do that anyway!" she shrieked. "Roxton, don't listen—"
She was sharply interrupted by Roxton as he swung his rifle off his shoulder and threw it to the ground. "Tell him it will be done!" he cried, unholstering both his pistols and dropping them with a loud thump. Next came his hunting knife; he took it from his belt and dropped it with the rest. Everything he had which was considered a weapon was quickly removed and dropped to the ground. He then looked up, waiting for his answer.
Jenkins must have been satisfied, for Challenger spoke again. "The elevator will be sent down. Remember, if either Veronica or Malone moves. . . ."
"Yeah, yeah," chimed Malone, glaring upwards, "we'll be shot. I think we get the picture."
Challenger yelped as the hand jerked him backwards, away from the window. A moment later, the familiar clanking sounds of the lowering elevator cables echoed through the nearly silent jungle. It descended slowly, rocking gently as it hit the ground.
Roxton, his face full of rage and hatred, clenched his fists and moved towards the elevator.
"Roxton!" cried Veronica, grabbing his arm. She sighed as he turned towards her. "I think that this is going to sound pointless . . . but please, be careful."
Malone slowly nodded in agreement. "You get that bastard. And be careful."
Roxton roughly pursed his lips and returned the nod. Slowly raising his hands, he placed one on each of his friends' shoulders and gazed at them valiantly. "I will."
And then, turning silently, he walked into the elevator and slowly began to ascend.
The moments that saw Roxton ascend in the elevator towards the treehouse were stretched out into the longest moments he had ever experienced. His life was literally flashing before his eyes. Each foot upwards saw a different vision—the first ones were of his life in England years ago, slowly stemming towards his broken and betrayed friendship with Brett Jenkins.
And then he saw him. Eyes full of fire, face full of malice. You called yourself a friend . . . yet you're nothing but a traitor. You're no longer a friend to me. Get out.
And suddenly, they were whisked away, back all those years ago by Henry street in the darkness of London's night. There he was, holding the large sack of money towards Brett, urging him, almost begging him to take it; begging him to repair their friendship.
But Brett only sneered and spit in his face. Your offer's been declined, and my decision's been made. Now walk away, just like you said you would, and leave!
And he did. He left . . . but was not back home. Suddenly, Henry Street in London vanished; hate was whisked away by love in the form of Marguerite.
Come with me . . . don't look back, John, we're safe now.
They were back at the treehouse and they were alone, folding beneath one another in passionate embraces. Marguerite smiled, her grey eyes glowing with love. Tenderly, she showered his face with zealous kisses, kissing his tears away.
I—out of all people in this world—know how hard it is to reveal dark secrets from the past. You can trust me, John. I love you.
The both of you.
And that was when Roxton's eyes snapped open. The fire of vengeance raged more powerfully than it ever had before. No longer was he going to succumb to his thoughts of death—he would never do so again.
Instead, he was going to fight. He was going to fight and overcome Brett Jenkins, save Marguerite and their child from the danger that the bastard threatened . . . and he was going to live through it.
No sooner than these thoughts flashed through his mind, the elevator came to an abrupt stop. He had arrived.
Cautiously, Roxton's experienced eyes scanned the treehouse entrance. It was dark, and it was quiet. The air was heavy with trickery and deception. With complete stealth, he moved his feet and quietly stepped out into the awaiting darkness.
No sooner than he had done so, Challenger's shaky voice once again sounded in the blackness. "Roxton!" he cried, and the hunter whipped his head forwards. Quickly ensuing Challenger's call was a loud and cracking noise; then he heard Challenger groan and slump to the floor.
"No!" cried John, leaping towards the direction in which he heard his friend fall. A few paces further, John found him, crumpled into a heap. He felt around in the darkness for Challenger's throat for a pulse; instead, his fingers brushed against his forehead. They came away, sticky with warm blood.
Roxton's shaky fingers slowly clenched into a tight fist. "BRETT!" he cried once again, springing to his feet.
A distant evil laugh sounded deeper into the treehouse, coming from Marguerite's room. "Never fear, my dear lord. . . ." called a taunting Jenkins, "he is alive, for the time being." A pause. "Now come. Come closer, John, come closer." Jenkins laughed maliciously.
Roxton clenched his teeth in pure fury and furtively crept towards the voice. Step by step, the treehouse became brighter. "Show yourself, Jenkins!" he demanded. He came to Marguerite's bedroom door. It was shut; bright candlelight streamed forth from its cracks.
"Within due time, John," came Jenkins' evil voice once again. "You've almost made it. Come on . . . I'm just through this door. . . ."
'He's playing games,' Roxton thought aloud, stopping just before the door, 'the fool! If he wanted me dead, he would have already shot me!' Not seeing any point in continuing his stealth, Roxton took in a deep breath and burst through the bedroom door. "Jenkins!" he shouted again, whirling around in search for his foe.
Brett Jenkins was nowhere to be found. However, lying on the bed, looking as still and pale as a corpse, was Marguerite. Roxton's eyes widened with fright. "Marguerite!" he cried, his voice cracking unsteadily. Immediately he was at her bedside, falling to his knees and stroking her smooth, ashen face. "Oh, Marguerite. . . ."
At the touch of his hand, Marguerite stirred. Her eyes half opened and immediately shut. "John. . . ." she weakly whispered, her forehead growing sweaty once again. "John . . . he has them . . . don't let him. . . ." She groaned in frailty and fell unconscious once again.
Before he could say another word, Roxton jolted as he heard a booted foot come in contact with the wooden floor behind him. Swallowing in anger, Roxton slowly rose to his feet, turned around . . . and widened his eyes.
There, at the front of the room, stood Brett Jenkins, smiling at Roxton with malice and deceit. In his arms were two small bundles of blankets, stirring lightly as they slept on, completely oblivious of the danger that they were in.
Roxton's voice was caught in his throat. He tried to speak, but any words that came to him failed, lost in that same whirlwind of emotion.
Jenkins was holding his children.
His children—twins!
"Congratulations, John!" came Jenkins' mocking voice, his malicious smile never leaving his face. He looked down at the twins. Gently, he rocked them in his arms and slowly began to pace around the room. "Not one offspring, but two! It's quite amazing, actually . . . they look like you. Especially the boy."
At this, a single sound emerged from Roxton's throat.
"That's right," continued Jenkins, "your son's resemblance is almost uncanny. I'll bet that within twenty years, you'll have a younger version of yourself." He paused to turn to Roxton and evilly stared into his eyes. "Too bad you'll never have a chance to find out."
Every muscle within Roxton's body began to quiver. "You bastard. . . ." he whispered, the hate emitting from his broken voice, "leave . . . my . . . children . . . alone! They have nothing to do with this . . . this is between you and I. . . ."
Jenkins laughed and shrugged nonchalantly. "Oh, very well, then." He walked over to the wooden crib that Challenger had made and gently set the infants in. "We'll play it your way, for now." Standing up straight once again, he pulled out his black pistol from his belt. "But do realize that I'm not going to let them live much longer." He cocked his head towards the unconscious Marguerite. "Or her. Or that mad scientist . . . or your friends outside." His evil smile drooped to a snarl. "Make no mistake—I'm going to kill you as well. But not before I've made you suffer!" He sinisterly cocked his pistol.
The two enemies held one another's gaze in a long line of furious and jolting fire. "Then what are you waiting for?" asked Roxton, his voice rising in hatred.
Jenkins' snarl once again pointed upwards in his wicked grin. "Because, my dear lord, I have a secret to tell you—a secret that I've been dying to tell you for years." He paused, his eyes never leaving Roxton's. "You never killed William, John. I did."
I started this fic two years ago. Suddenly, I now find myself graduated from high school and entering university. shakes head Now how did that happen? LOL.
Just know that I'm back—this time, for good!
Thank you to everyone who's been reviewing and egging me on to finish while I've been gone. And thank you to the regular reviewers . . . if they still visit this site, that is! You guys know who you are . . . first and foremost Evil Irish Eyes (hey girl! I'm baaaa-aaack! I missed ya and I hope you missed me too! Don't hate me for leaving for so long!), Crimson Cat, Jaclyn, A. Windsor, Lady Kate . . . and anyone else I missed, you know who you are!
So, finally, here is chapter sixteen! Read it, enjoy it, and review it! Love you all!
PS. I'm not sure how well the formatting will be . . . if all of my paragraphs are stuffed together, don't worry! I will update and replace it!
Chapter Sixteen—The Dark Confession
Run . . . run. . . .
John Roxton's mind was trapped in a wild whirlwind; the events that had happened only moments ago drained from his mind with the desperate need to flee. His chest violently heaved in and out, swallowing in great amounts of much-needed air.
Run . . . run faster. . . .
Very distantly, he could hear the thumping sounds of Veronica and Malone's booted feet. They were several metres behind him, running almost as crazed as he, shouting words at him of which he couldn't seem to understand; words that he didn't want to understand.
No. The only thing he wanted to do now was run. Run—get to the treehouse in time before disaster struck. Before he struck.
Brett Jenkins was in the treehouse; he was certain of that. Roxton had no clue as to how long he had been there—that wasn't important to him. The only thing important to him was the idea of Challenger, Marguerite, and their unborn child remaining unharmed. And if Jenkins had threatened that idea. . . .
Run . . . run for all you're worth, God dammit. . . .
A tall plant with long, spiked leaves scratched Roxton's unshaven cheek as he flew past. The scratch was shallow, but the leaf was still sharp; it gave him a long cut that stretched out towards his ear. Warm blood slowly tricked anew as it ran down his face.
But Roxton didn't feel a thing.
Soon enough, the black silhouette of the treehouse erupted into detail as the frenzied trio closed the distance between it; bright light streamed forth from the Marguerite's window; the gate of the electric fence lay open; and the elevator which should have touched the ground creaked as it slowly swayed from the cables high above.
Roxton flew past the gate and forced his feet to come to a stop at the base of the large tree. He forced his head to look up at the creaking elevator, and clenched his fists deeply into his sides. "BRETT!" he screamed in fury, his breath coming out in loud, angry exhales.
Veronica and Malone had stopped behind him—they too were looking at the dangling elevator in pure wrath. Malone whipped out his pistol; Veronica clutched her knives in both hands.
All stood silent, waiting for a reply. The air was thick with tension and fury.
Not a moment longer, however, the reply came: a cautious and shaking voice sounded from a window above.
"Roxton. . . ."
Immediately, Roxton whipped his head to the left. Up above from Marguerite's window was Challenger. His head was pushed out of the rectangular space. Nervously, his eyes searched the darkness below for the man to whom the name he called belonged. Upon closer inspection, they realized that a hand had wormed its way into Challenger's mass of wiry red hair, sharply pulling it back. Another hand had jammed a pistol into the side of his skull.
"Challenger!" the trio roared in unison, gazing upwards in vehemence and fear.
"Roxton. . . ." Challenger repeated, swallowing deeply. "You, and you alone must come up to the treehouse. The elevator will be sent down for you."
"Hah!" Veronica gripped her knives even harder. "If that psycho thinks that we are going to send John up there by himself. . . ."
"It must only be Roxton!" cried Challenger, his voice wavering in fright. "If either of you move towards the elevator, you will be shot."
Roxton let his gaze fall towards Veronica and Malone. "The man is insane!" frantically whispered Malone, meaningfully gesturing with his pistol. There's no way you can go up there by yourself!"
"Who knows what games the psycho has in store for you up there?" chimed a frightened Veronica.
Much to their surprise, Roxton shook his head. "No—I'll not take any arguments. Challenger's right; I must go up there alone."
"But—"
"No buts." He sighed. "You two are right—who knows what games he has in mind? I'll not have you two put your lives at risk."
"Roxton!" hissed Veronica, clenching her teeth in defiance. "He plans to kill you! And Marguerite, Challenger, and us as well. . . ."
"I said no!" snapped Roxton, his fists shaking in ferocity. "This is my fight; Jenkins is my past, my problem. Only I alone can deal with him. And deal with him I will!"
Roxton once again flicked his gaze upwards, back towards Challenger. "All right!" he shouted in the night air. "All right! Challenger, you tell that bastard that I'm coming up—alone." He gazed meaningfully at Veronica and Malone, who shook their heads in frustration.
The hand which gripped Challenger's hair jerked forcefully, causing him to slam his eyes shut. "There is one other thing, Roxton—you must throw all of your weapons to the ground and come up unarmed."
"What!" cried Malone as his eyes widened in fright. "Roxton, there's no way you can—"
"He must be unarmed!" roared Challenger through teeth clenched. "Jenkins knows, Malone! If he does not surrender each weapon he carries, he will be shot. If he is found with one up top, he will be forced to watch Marguerite and myself be killed, just prior to himself being shot."
Malone roared in anger as Veronica stamped her foot to the ground. "He's probably going to do that anyway!" she shrieked. "Roxton, don't listen—"
She was sharply interrupted by Roxton as he swung his rifle off his shoulder and threw it to the ground. "Tell him it will be done!" he cried, unholstering both his pistols and dropping them with a loud thump. Next came his hunting knife; he took it from his belt and dropped it with the rest. Everything he had which was considered a weapon was quickly removed and dropped to the ground. He then looked up, waiting for his answer.
Jenkins must have been satisfied, for Challenger spoke again. "The elevator will be sent down. Remember, if either Veronica or Malone moves. . . ."
"Yeah, yeah," chimed Malone, glaring upwards, "we'll be shot. I think we get the picture."
Challenger yelped as the hand jerked him backwards, away from the window. A moment later, the familiar clanking sounds of the lowering elevator cables echoed through the nearly silent jungle. It descended slowly, rocking gently as it hit the ground.
Roxton, his face full of rage and hatred, clenched his fists and moved towards the elevator.
"Roxton!" cried Veronica, grabbing his arm. She sighed as he turned towards her. "I think that this is going to sound pointless . . . but please, be careful."
Malone slowly nodded in agreement. "You get that bastard. And be careful."
Roxton roughly pursed his lips and returned the nod. Slowly raising his hands, he placed one on each of his friends' shoulders and gazed at them valiantly. "I will."
And then, turning silently, he walked into the elevator and slowly began to ascend.
The moments that saw Roxton ascend in the elevator towards the treehouse were stretched out into the longest moments he had ever experienced. His life was literally flashing before his eyes. Each foot upwards saw a different vision—the first ones were of his life in England years ago, slowly stemming towards his broken and betrayed friendship with Brett Jenkins.
And then he saw him. Eyes full of fire, face full of malice. You called yourself a friend . . . yet you're nothing but a traitor. You're no longer a friend to me. Get out.
And suddenly, they were whisked away, back all those years ago by Henry street in the darkness of London's night. There he was, holding the large sack of money towards Brett, urging him, almost begging him to take it; begging him to repair their friendship.
But Brett only sneered and spit in his face. Your offer's been declined, and my decision's been made. Now walk away, just like you said you would, and leave!
And he did. He left . . . but was not back home. Suddenly, Henry Street in London vanished; hate was whisked away by love in the form of Marguerite.
Come with me . . . don't look back, John, we're safe now.
They were back at the treehouse and they were alone, folding beneath one another in passionate embraces. Marguerite smiled, her grey eyes glowing with love. Tenderly, she showered his face with zealous kisses, kissing his tears away.
I—out of all people in this world—know how hard it is to reveal dark secrets from the past. You can trust me, John. I love you.
The both of you.
And that was when Roxton's eyes snapped open. The fire of vengeance raged more powerfully than it ever had before. No longer was he going to succumb to his thoughts of death—he would never do so again.
Instead, he was going to fight. He was going to fight and overcome Brett Jenkins, save Marguerite and their child from the danger that the bastard threatened . . . and he was going to live through it.
No sooner than these thoughts flashed through his mind, the elevator came to an abrupt stop. He had arrived.
Cautiously, Roxton's experienced eyes scanned the treehouse entrance. It was dark, and it was quiet. The air was heavy with trickery and deception. With complete stealth, he moved his feet and quietly stepped out into the awaiting darkness.
No sooner than he had done so, Challenger's shaky voice once again sounded in the blackness. "Roxton!" he cried, and the hunter whipped his head forwards. Quickly ensuing Challenger's call was a loud and cracking noise; then he heard Challenger groan and slump to the floor.
"No!" cried John, leaping towards the direction in which he heard his friend fall. A few paces further, John found him, crumpled into a heap. He felt around in the darkness for Challenger's throat for a pulse; instead, his fingers brushed against his forehead. They came away, sticky with warm blood.
Roxton's shaky fingers slowly clenched into a tight fist. "BRETT!" he cried once again, springing to his feet.
A distant evil laugh sounded deeper into the treehouse, coming from Marguerite's room. "Never fear, my dear lord. . . ." called a taunting Jenkins, "he is alive, for the time being." A pause. "Now come. Come closer, John, come closer." Jenkins laughed maliciously.
Roxton clenched his teeth in pure fury and furtively crept towards the voice. Step by step, the treehouse became brighter. "Show yourself, Jenkins!" he demanded. He came to Marguerite's bedroom door. It was shut; bright candlelight streamed forth from its cracks.
"Within due time, John," came Jenkins' evil voice once again. "You've almost made it. Come on . . . I'm just through this door. . . ."
'He's playing games,' Roxton thought aloud, stopping just before the door, 'the fool! If he wanted me dead, he would have already shot me!' Not seeing any point in continuing his stealth, Roxton took in a deep breath and burst through the bedroom door. "Jenkins!" he shouted again, whirling around in search for his foe.
Brett Jenkins was nowhere to be found. However, lying on the bed, looking as still and pale as a corpse, was Marguerite. Roxton's eyes widened with fright. "Marguerite!" he cried, his voice cracking unsteadily. Immediately he was at her bedside, falling to his knees and stroking her smooth, ashen face. "Oh, Marguerite. . . ."
At the touch of his hand, Marguerite stirred. Her eyes half opened and immediately shut. "John. . . ." she weakly whispered, her forehead growing sweaty once again. "John . . . he has them . . . don't let him. . . ." She groaned in frailty and fell unconscious once again.
Before he could say another word, Roxton jolted as he heard a booted foot come in contact with the wooden floor behind him. Swallowing in anger, Roxton slowly rose to his feet, turned around . . . and widened his eyes.
There, at the front of the room, stood Brett Jenkins, smiling at Roxton with malice and deceit. In his arms were two small bundles of blankets, stirring lightly as they slept on, completely oblivious of the danger that they were in.
Roxton's voice was caught in his throat. He tried to speak, but any words that came to him failed, lost in that same whirlwind of emotion.
Jenkins was holding his children.
His children—twins!
"Congratulations, John!" came Jenkins' mocking voice, his malicious smile never leaving his face. He looked down at the twins. Gently, he rocked them in his arms and slowly began to pace around the room. "Not one offspring, but two! It's quite amazing, actually . . . they look like you. Especially the boy."
At this, a single sound emerged from Roxton's throat.
"That's right," continued Jenkins, "your son's resemblance is almost uncanny. I'll bet that within twenty years, you'll have a younger version of yourself." He paused to turn to Roxton and evilly stared into his eyes. "Too bad you'll never have a chance to find out."
Every muscle within Roxton's body began to quiver. "You bastard. . . ." he whispered, the hate emitting from his broken voice, "leave . . . my . . . children . . . alone! They have nothing to do with this . . . this is between you and I. . . ."
Jenkins laughed and shrugged nonchalantly. "Oh, very well, then." He walked over to the wooden crib that Challenger had made and gently set the infants in. "We'll play it your way, for now." Standing up straight once again, he pulled out his black pistol from his belt. "But do realize that I'm not going to let them live much longer." He cocked his head towards the unconscious Marguerite. "Or her. Or that mad scientist . . . or your friends outside." His evil smile drooped to a snarl. "Make no mistake—I'm going to kill you as well. But not before I've made you suffer!" He sinisterly cocked his pistol.
The two enemies held one another's gaze in a long line of furious and jolting fire. "Then what are you waiting for?" asked Roxton, his voice rising in hatred.
Jenkins' snarl once again pointed upwards in his wicked grin. "Because, my dear lord, I have a secret to tell you—a secret that I've been dying to tell you for years." He paused, his eyes never leaving Roxton's. "You never killed William, John. I did."