The Inception Trilogy by Easton Livingston (best classic novels .txt) 📗

crossing a few lines, bending a few rules. That was how the game was played, regardless of the moralists who wanted to sit in their sanctimonious thrones on the outside looking in. Haters are gonna hate. All a part of the game. He had no qualms or crisis of conscience about it. It's what it took to be the best. The best dressed. Best haircut. Best car. People admired him though most of them didn't want to admit it. Some called it arrogance. Conceit. Dana called it assurance. He was good at what he did. People could complain and salivate all they wanted. He knew who he was.

A flash of realization invaded his mind juxtaposed on the caboose of the train of thought which exited his mind. This intruder was a rival agent hired by a competitor. Someone he had crossed paths within business. Someone he had offended or got over on. Who? That was a long list.

It didn't matter. Now that he understood what was going on, he decided what he needed to do. He refused to be hunted down in his own house. He was Dana Johansen. Six-figure income Dana Johansen. Jaguar XJ in the garage Dana Johansen. Wife, kids, and a cottage in Pennsylvania Dana Johansen. Half a million dollar house Dana Johansen. If the intruder wanted to be so audacious and stupid as to invade his domain, fine. He had something for him.

He took a step away from the back of the chair, testing his legs for sturdiness. They faltered but strengthened with each cautious step as he moved across the living room, ears pumping with adrenaline, sensitive to the slightest noise.

Bong! Bong!

He spun around, eyes wide and alert but sighed in relief at the sound of his grandfather clock's resonant chime. Closing his eyes, he calmed himself.

Pull it together Dana. This is your refuge. Your home.

Dana took deep breaths until he felt he was under control and his heart rate had decreased. He needed to get upstairs where he kept his Taurus 85 Ultra- Lite 38 Special. something he'd bought on a recommendation. A friend on the police force. Friend? More like an acquaintance. There were few people he called friend. Pete was a definite one. He couldn't think if there was anyone else.

He and Debbie had talked about having a gun, or rather had argued about it frequently. She hadn't wanted a gun in the house because of the kids. That was the excuse she gave. The fact of the matter is that she didn't like guns. They made her nervous and scared. Dana's argument was he didn't like her and the kids by themselves while he was away on business with nothing to protect them. After weeks of debating, they decided that they would keep the gun locked away in a small safety box. Only him and Debbie would have the key and the combo.

Reaching inside his pocket, he checked to see if he had his keys and he did. Relief washed over him. He thought he had left them in the kitchen his normal location for them. But nothing about tonight was normal.

He walked to the far left side of the living room archway and peered around the corner down the small hallway that led to the kitchen. The light over the stove seemed to flood the whole area with its luminance. He knew it only appeared that way because of the darkness attaching itself to everything in the house.

The furnace clicked off. He paused. No movement. No footsteps. That meant nothing. The intruder could have been mirroring what he was doing, listening for some sign of where his prey might be.

He needed to get upstairs.

The light, black soles of his penny loafers came down onto the high-polished oak floor of the foyer.

CREAK.

Dana turned his head to position his ears toward the sound. Every muscle in his body congealed.

CREAK.

The intruder was in the dining room and sounded close.

Leaping to the stairway in front of him, he bounded up to his room, taking three to four steps with each stride. Pausing at the landing, he heard what he feared would come.

Pursuit.

The last set of stairs he took two at a time as he sprinted straight to his bedroom closet, sweat effusing from his pores in minute beads. It was open which meant he wouldn't have to make any noise to alert the intruder to his whereabouts. Someone in heaven liked him tonight.

Furtive, hasty movements took him to the back of the closet. He settled behind a deluge of suits, shirts, and coats he hadn't worn in God knows how long but was reluctant to get rid of. Four hangers swayed and hit each ether, their sound filling the silence like an explosion. He clasped his hands around them in a quick fit of desperation, intense irritation on his face. His heart thumped in his head and it was hard to hear anything through its incessant beating. Plastering himself against the back wall of the closet in the darkness, he crouched, waiting.

His stomach churned, bowels somersaulting. He felt something on his cheek and wiped it off. The stress was getting to him as tears trickled down his face.

Wait… Dana. Are you crying?! Seriously?! This is your house man. This is not a time to cry! What is wrong with you?!

He took deep breaths to calm himself. Here he was, a literal prisoner in his own home, contemplating shooting someone. The possibility of it rained havoc in his thoughts.

Moments passed. He heard nothing.

Minutes. Still nothing.

He surmised the intruder didn't know where Dana was, putting him at a disadvantage since he was in unfamiliar territory. He would take every step with measured care. Dana was thankful for that. But he knew it wouldn't be long before he would discover his location.

There was a reason he'd gone to that corner of the closet. The gun safety box was there, stashed away above on the closet shelf. He felt safe being so close to it, but he knew