The Poison Boy

When the door crashed open, Dalton Fly was holding his breath in the shadows, his back pressed against the cool marble of a thick pillar and his eyes pleading with a playing card. That lucky
Jack, spattered in Bennie’s blood, had somehow saved his life. He couldn’t leave it. From where he was hiding, Dalton could see the Jack’s face staring at him, smudged in red. It was lying face up at the edge of the rug near the fireplace, perhaps a dozen strides away, Dalton thought.
He blinked and his vision smudged and blurred again; everything was a wash of swimming shapes for a moment. He rubbed his eyes. There was blood on his hands and under his fingernails.
Dalton was sure of one thing: two men had come into the room and they had pistols; he heard the click of a cap drawn back to shoot.