True Servitude

"Find him!" His vision steadier now, Max's long legs ate up the distance between him and Maria. His arm swung in an exaggerated arc, burying his fist into her stomach. Her cry of pain seemed to be a full body effort, accompanied by an all encompassing exhalation of every breath contained within her. As if he was used to striking those smaller than he, Max was right there to cradle her body as she slumped to the floor.

"We're running out of time," Thrall warned. "We should forget this and go."

"Relax, we're in the country," Max said. "There isn't a police officer for miles. Even if they've been called they're far away. We finish this now."

All it took was a small breath for the Thrall to recover. Pistol held before him in a classical shooter's stance, he made his way to the kitchen.

But it was from the bedroom behind him that Ben stepped out of with his hunting rifle cradled to his shoulder. The range was something less than twenty feet, so he sighted down the cold, hammer forged barrel of the Austrian made rifle as opposed to its powerful scope. The report from it was much louder than the smaller handgun had been, like a thunderclap confined by four walls. The Thrall took the round low in his back, and with a wordless cry of deep throated surprise and agony he tumbled heavily forward.

Max didn't have time to change his shocked expression before it was his turn. A swivel of the hips, an expert flick of the bolt and another high powered round found its way into its target. The big man was thrown onto his back an instant later.

Ben kept the rifle trained on Max as he advanced, but soon saw that his caution wasn't necessary. A bouquet of blood flowers had bloomed in Max's suit pocket. The big thirty caliber round had cored its way into his chest, a perfect shot to the heart.

"Jesus Christ, Mary, Mother of God..." The big man gasped. His hands flailed towards his wound and then his ruined eye.

Ben made sure to step clear of the fallen Max before he put another round in the crawling Thrall, who had been moaning against the linoleum of the kitchen, putting him out of all of his loud misery. He lay there, intestines grotesquely spread out on the cold floor, like some kind of squashed arachnid.

When Ben was sure both of them were down he safely stowed the rifle away into a corner and knelt by his domina, who was mewling and holding her fingers into her ears, bloodshot and tired eyes wide open at the grisly scene.

Tenderly, Ben took her hand. He spoke to her in a low and soothing voice for what seemed like a long time, but in reality was only a few minutes before the police arrived on the scene and gently separated them.

Later, when the kindly old detective who was interviewing them asked about the nature of their relationship, neither had the energy or words to quite describe it.

THE END