Duty Bound

Prologue

PrologueHe’d killed a man.

Didn’t matter which way he tried to spin it or justify it in his mind. He’d killed a man. Until the day he took his last breath, Murphy knew he would wake up every morning with the knowledge he had blood on his hands; he was responsible for a man losing his life. He had no confidence at all that he’d be able to live with it easily. Guilt already scratched incessantly beneath his skin, a constant itch he feared would never ease.

“Murphy?” The soft voice he’d gotten to know well over the last few weeks cut into his thoughts. “It’s the right thing to do,” she whispered.

“I know,” he answered, patting her small hand resting beside his on the table they sat around. “It’s just…I never thought I’d be here.”

A deeper, gruffer voice replied, “Not a one of us did, Son.”

They were right. Both of them. They’d had a decision to make, one of vital importance. At the end of the day the decision had been easy, yet oh so hard. Despite the guilt gnawing at him, he knew they’d made the right one. The only one they could. Now, he needed to learn to live with the consequences of that decision.

“So, we’re still agreed?” Another voice, authoritative, emotionless. Years from now, Murphy had little doubt he’d be able to recognize each of these voices in a crowd. He doubted he’d forget a single detail of the last few weeks. Unfortunately.

“Yep,” Murphy answered, “we’re agreed.”

“Now is the last chance to speak up if there’s even a hint of doubt…” The elderly man with the stern voice looked around the room, meeting and holding the gaze of each person. When no one spoke up he nodded and said, “Well, let’s get on with it then.”

Murphy rose from his seat. His legs felt weak, shook as though he’d find himself on his ass any second. Once they stepped out of this room, all of their lives would be irrevocably changed, though really, they already were. He was certain none of them had imagined themselves here a little over three weeks ago. How times change.

Now the decision had been made beyond altering, Murphy was keen to get on with it. He’d force himself to look one last time into the eyes of the man he’d killed and then hopefully work towards finding peace within himself, redemption even. He’d like to believe he’d never think of the man again, but he knew that to be untrue.

He followed the others as they trod single file out the door. Despite making their decision an hour ago, it had taken time for them to be able to get to the point where they were able to execute their decision. While they’d waited for things to fall into place, they’d—perhaps foolishly—continued to discuss their choice. But the back and forth couldn’t go on indefinitely. Besides, they’d all been adamant, firm with the choice they’d made. It was inevitable they’d get to this point.

When he stepped through the second door, he kept his gaze lowered. All around him silence spread. Only their footsteps and the heavy breathing of a room full of nervous people broke the quiet. The last to enter the room, Murphy’s group quickly took their place.

Murphy sat as still as possible, not yet daring to raise his gaze. He would, though. He would stare right at the man he’d killed when the time came. He knew he had to—needed to—if he had any chance of getting his life back after this clusterfuck.

While he waited for somebody to speak, his thoughts trickled back over the last three weeks—no, even longer than that. This had all started with him wanting to be a good citizen, a productive member of society. He had only wanted to do his duty, and that path led him here, to this moment. To a reality in which he’d killed a man. He recalled his grandmother warning him never to wish your troubles away because who knew what worse ones might take their place. He couldn’t help but wish this one away though. But if it wasn’t him sitting in this seat, some other poor bastard would be, and he would not wish the last three weeks on anyone else.

At the front of the room Judge Hendricks cleared her throat and spoke, “Has the jury reached a unanimous decision?”

Their foreperson, Cyrus of the authoritative voice, stood and answered, “We have, your Honor.”

“Very well. Will the defendant please rise.” She paused to allow the defendant to get to his feet. His hands were chained in front of him, his feet shackled. They’d learned not to give him too much leash after a violent outburst a week ago. “On the charges of murder in the first degree, how do you find?”

“Guilty, your Honor,” Cyrus answered, his voice solid as a rock. Murphy admired his strength; he’d be lucky to squeak out a word if he were in Cyrus’ place.

Murphy kept his gaze on Romulus Mazarin as the verdicts were given. The man’s dead black eyes stared right back. Fear rippled up Murphy’s spine, chilling the warm blood in his veins as he looked into the eyes of a vicious killer.

As the judge read out each charge and Cyrus replied with a guilty verdict, Romulus’ eyes impossibly darkened. Murphy had heard, sometime in his life, shark eyes described as dead, having no life in them until they bit down on their prey. Murphy thought it an apt description for Romulus Mazarin. He wondered if there’d been life in those dead eyes when he’d hacked into his victims.

A sickening shudder ripped through his body as the visions of Romulus’ victims played on a loop through his brain. So many images, each more disturbing than the one before. Not only images taken by crime scene techs, but photos Romulus had taken himself of his victims in various phases of their suffering. Murphy had endured nightmares nightly almost from the first day of the trial. He’d hoped he’d be in too much shock to even dream. Now, he doubted even bleach could wipe his mind clean of those sickening images.

All the jury had left is to consider the sentence. Murphy knew the death penalty was on the table and he knew that would be the final outcome. Finding Romulus Mazarin guilty had been, in the end, quite simple. The overwhelming evidence removed all doubt.

The sentencing phase would begin immediately. Murphy knew himself and his fellow jurors well enough by now to leave no doubt. Romulus Mazarin would be put to death. And it would be from their say so.

A sob echoed through the courtroom. Murphy flicked his gaze from the statue-like defendant, settling on Romulus’ loudly weeping mother sitting behind him. Beside her, Romulus’ father sat with his arm about her shoulders. Rather than comforting his wife more than that simple gesture, Mazarin senior was fixated on the jury box with a look in his eyes far too similar to his son’s for Murphy’s comfort. Predatory and cold, Roberto Mazarin’s eyes bled contempt and danger.

Until now, Murphy hadn’t given much thought to the family. At least Romulus’ anyway. The agonized suffering so plainly evident in the victim’s families had kept him awake more nights than he cared to consider. But at some point he’d stopped caring about the elder Mazarins. They’d showed no empathy toward the victims, so Murphy hadn’t been able to care much for their suffering.

Crystal Mazarin dabbed prettily at her eyes; her make-up remained pristine despite the tears. Though he believed beauty to be subjective, Crystal was one of those women universally considered beautiful. Her son had inherited many of her features: the straight, patrician nose, plump lips, and long lashes. But Romulus’ eyes and jawline were all his father’s. As was his build. Father and son both stood well over six foot, broad across the shoulders and long limbed. Where Roberto had begun a middle-aged spread around his middle, Romulus boasted a trim waist, probably ripped abs lurked beneath his suit. He needed to be fit to do what he’d done to his victims.

In a microscopic portion of his heart, Murphy managed to dredge up some sympathy for Roberto and Crystal, but the whole of his heart ached constantly for the victims and their families.

While Murphy had been watching the parents, Judge Hendricks brought proceedings to an end. Two court officers held an elbow each as they moved Romulus toward his exit. Crystals’ sobs morphed into screams, but they were drowned out by the victim’s families shouting for Romulus to have a quick and fiery ride to hell. All were on their feet, some hugging and crying while others hurled well deserved abuse. More court officers descended into the courtroom, ready should things spiral into chaos. Murphy couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there. So much pain and emotion boiled in the air waiting for a single spark to ignite into violence.

As he rounded the defense table, Romulus yanked an arm free. He raised his hand and dragged a single finger across his throat while his dead eyes glared at each member of the jury. The message could not have been clearer.

Bile rose in Murphy’s throat, threatening an escape, but he swallowed it down. He would not give Romulus the satisfaction of seeing him unnerved. Instead he stood and stared right back, feigning indifference. Romulus’ lips tugged into a smirk when his gaze landed on him. Murphy held himself still, refusing to look away despite staring into the face of pure evil.

Murphy knew that face, right there with the vicious grin and dead eyes, would haunt his nightmares for days, weeks, likely years to come.