His lungs burning, his legs jelly, his back plastered up against the exquisite Baroque wallpaper. Anything for a breather, but he didn’t have time.
He had his pursuer right where he wanted him.
He reached over, grabbed the thick braided rope and pulled. Slack – just enough.
The rope whipped free from the wall cleat and shot upward. He waited for the chandelier to crash land right into the middle of the front hall, right where his rival stood.
But nothing.
He looked up, saw the chandelier swaying in the shadows. He’d yanked the wrong rope.
So much for Plan B.
The Weekday One Hundred 