Authors: Shannon Curtis
“It really was very poor form, what you did,” Neil commented, resting both hands on the end table. He stretched his back, flexing his hips.
Kurt nodded. “I know. I’ve regretted it, ever since. I’ve had to live with it, day in, day out, hating myself. You get that, right, Neil?” He leaned forward, staring up at the counselor. Vicky frowned. Was he really looking for support from the life coach? She turned back to the window, shaking her head. The guy had knowingly sent a man to rot in prison.
She heard Neil suck in a breath. “Yeah. I understand how you can hate yourself for not doing something, for not standing up to the monster. But there are ways of dealing with it.”
The sofa cushions rustled as Kurt adjusted his position. “Like how?”
“Well, you could do everyone a favor and die.”
Vicky gaped. Had he just said that? She turned around, just in time to see Neil bring the heavy lamp down on Kurt’s head.
“No!” she screamed, but it was too late. Kurt’s head snapped back as Neil struck him with the brass lamp. Glass crunched, and the brass lampshade crumpled, bits of colored glass dangling from the twisted leadlight framework.
Elliot opened his eyes, and his jaw dropped at what he saw. “God, man, stop!”
“Neil, no!” Vicky cried as he raised his hand again, bringing the lamp down in full swing. She ran, but the weapon connected again with a sickening crunch. Kurt slumped over and fell forward on to the carpet, where he lay motionless.
Elliot rose and took a shaky step forward. “My God, Neil. What have you done? You should have left the police to deal with him.”
Vicky knelt by the fallen man and felt for a pulse. It was faint and thready. She shrugged out of her cashmere shawl, wadded it up and pressed it to stem the flow of blood from the wound on his head, cringing as her hand pressed against sunken skull.
Neil turned on Elliot, his face twisted in a snarl. “Like they dealt with him in the past?”
“You can’t play judge, jury and executioner, Neil.”
Neil straightened, pulling a long shard of glass out of the warped lampshade. “No, because you’d be guilty, too, wouldn’t you, Elliot?”
“Huh?” Elliot frowned in confusion and backed away as Neil advanced. Vicky briefly glanced up.
What the hell is going on?
She quickly turned her attention back to the injured Kurt.
“You cheated on your college entrance exams,” Neil growled.
Oh
,
for the love of
— Vicky shook her head, then halted.
Oh
,
God
. She had just found Simon Maxwell.
“How did you know?” Elliot gasped as he took another step backward, his leg knocking against the back of the sofa, sending him off-balance.
“Because you took my scholarship, you stupid, worthless, arrogant imbecile,” Neil snarled. “I went to prison, and they gave you
my
scholarship—and you had to cheat to keep it. You got the degree I wanted, you got the job that was supposed to be mine. You didn’t deserve it, though, did you?” He pointed to Kurt. “He stole my freedom, but you stole my life.” He raised his arm, the green-stained glass in his hand catching the muted light from the wall lamps. “No, Simon! Don’t!” Vicky shouted. Simon/Neil turned for a moment, distracted, and Elliot launched himself at the man, grappling with the glass. They struggled, and Vicky called for help, shielding the unconscious Kurt as the two men fought.
Elliot cried out in pain as Simon Maxwell slashed his arm with the glass. He tried to block, but Simon was frenzied, slicing and slashing with the strength of years of pent-up rage. Simon struck out, and Elliot’s scream was cut short as he fell back, stunned, holding the glass shard in his neck.
Vicky screamed, and bolted for the door. Simon flung himself after her. He grabbed her around the knees and tackled her to the floor. Vicky went down yelling, twisting to face him. She shuffled back on her hands and hips, trying to free her legs. She managed to get one free, while Simon bared his teeth at her, clutching the denim of her other leg.
She kicked him. Hard. His head jerked to the side, and she kicked again, pounding with both legs as though she was running a sprint race. He tried to grab her, but she twisted, jerked and flicked her leg out in a low roundhouse kick. Her left leg connected with his cheek with a crack. The ankle holster.
Simon fell back, dazed, and Vicky scooted to her feet and pounded out of the room, hearing Simon swear as he stumbled to his feet and lurched after her. She grabbed hold of the doorframe and used it like a slingshot to turn tightly and run.
The staff door. She bolted toward it, heart hammering, as Simon’s thudding footsteps on the carpet sounded behind her.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Ryan jerked his head up when he heard the screams.
Vicky
.
“Take everyone back to the office suite and lock the door. Don’t let anyone in or out,” he told Hank, and raced out of the bathroom.
“Vicky,” Ryan shouted, but heard no response.
A shadow crossed the floor of the carpet, and Ryan twisted to find the source. A dark figure stood outside the main doors, rattling them to try to gain entrance. The doors were locked. The figure stood back, pulled a gun from his jacket and aimed it at the glass. Ryan ducked and shielded his face and head. Two shots fired, and both the exterior swing doors and the interior sliding doors shattered. The man stepped through the now-open doorway, kicking glass out of his way as he threw his hood back.
Drew.
His colleague held his hands out. “You started without me,” he said, his tone half accusing, half amused.
Ryan jerked his head toward the guest lounge. “C’mon, I think I heard Vicky screaming.” His heart was racing.
If anything happened to Vic
...He quashed that line of thought. He wouldn’t let anything happen to Vic.
Drew’s expression changed to stone-cold sober as he followed him into the lounge.
Ryan swore. Kurt lay on the floor, and he recognized Vicky’s shawl wrapped around his head.
Elliot, on the other hand, lay on his back, his wide eyes staring up at the ceiling, clutching a shard of glass that stuck out of his throat. Ryan thought he was dead, until the man’s eyes blinked, and he raised a trembling finger.
Ryan and Drew raced over to him. Elliot tried to talk, but only a gargling sound emerged from his throat. His face was pale, his eyes terrified.
“Shh,” Ryan said.
Drew gingerly inspected the wound, wincing. “Don’t move, whatever you do. Don’t try to take this out.” He turned to Ryan. “It looks like the weapon is filling the puncture. If he takes it out, he’ll bleed out.”
Ryan grimaced. That wound was vicious. A cruel and debased attack.
Where the hell is Vicky?
“Come on, let’s go find your girl,” Drew said. He held a finger up to Elliot. “Don’t move. We’ll get you help.”
Both men rose and ran out of the room. “I’ll take the staff hall, you take the public areas,” Ryan said, and they split. They had to find Vicky, and splitting up was the fastest way to do it. He ignored the sick coil of lead in his gut and slammed through the staff door.
* * *
Jade tagged along behind Hank as they emerged from the bathroom area, just in time to see one of the guests racing into the staff area. She frowned. That had to be the guy Simon had told her about. And where was Simon? She’d heard the screams. Hopefully he’d followed the plan and taken care of business.
Jade slowed down, ambling behind the group as they made their way toward the management suite. She’d already shaken off a concerned Deborah. Her injury wasn’t as bad as she’d made out. She slowly edged toward the staff corridor, silently putting more distance between her and the group, until she could gently push the swing door open and disappear. Simon and she were a team. If he needed help, she’d give it to him, just like he’d helped her. On the streets. With that doctor. This time it was her turn to be there for him.
Together, there was no stopping them.
* * *
Vicky pounded down the concrete corridor. Where the hell was she? Where could she go? She rounded a bend and skidded to a stop at an intersection in the corridors. Left or right?
Hell
,
left or right?
She could hear Simon’s footsteps, pounding closer and closer behind her.
She ran left, hoping there was some place to hide, someplace to take cover.
Please
,
please let there be someplace to hide
. She ran on her toes, trying to run on silent feet.
She ran past a door, then halted, ran back and darted inside, closing the door with a quiet snick. She braced herself against the door and glanced around. She was in some sort of kitchen.
She gaped at the pots hanging from the racks above the workbenches, the sharp knives that were clipped to railings along the wall. Oh, crap. Wall-to-wall weapons for a psycho.
She ran and jumped up to grab a large fry pan. Maybe she could knock him unconscious before either of them got hurt badly. She quickly hid behind the door, trying to control her panting. She gripped the fry pan with two hands, feeling the slide of steel between her sweaty palms. She eyed the knives. They looked really, really sharp. Lethal. She quickly raced to the bench, leaned over and grabbed one.
May as well stack the odds in my favor
,
not his.
She was running back to her hiding spot when the door flung open. It hit her in the side and sent her stumbling back against a bench full of dishes. Plates and bowls went skittering across the bench and crashing on to the floor—along with her knife.
Ow
,
damn it
.
She turned and came back swinging with the pan. Simon dodged her first hit. She swung again. He ducked and grabbed her from behind, picking her up and running against the bench. She cried as her hip hit the metal edge. She lifted the pan back over her head and felt the satisfying clunk as it hit him on the head.
He bellowed with rage, his arms tightening around her. It was like having a steel band around her stomach that was intent on crushing her.
She screamed as she raised her arms again, lifting the heavy pan. This time she did it with enough force that had Simon reeling back, loosening his arms. She grabbed a bowl and turned, bringing it against the side of his head. He staggered back. She’d seen what he could do. She couldn’t let him hurt her, or get her down on the ground. He was bigger, he was stronger, and he was meaner.
But I’ve got two older brothers
.
She brought the pan around in a low arc and whacked him between the legs.
He jerked, eyes wide, clutching his groin as he fell to his knees, the veins standing out against his neck and temple as his face turned red, then purple. He fell, twisting, his arm reaching for something. Her blood ran cold when she saw what he was going for. She tried to kick his hand, but he managed to grab the knife she’d dropped.
He snarled as he whipped around. She used the bench to pull herself up and out of the way, but she wasn’t quite quick enough. The blade sliced through denim and skin, cutting her across the back of her calf. She bellowed, not so much from the pain, but from violence of the action.
She dragged her arm across the bench, sending piles of pots and pans raining down on him, then jumped down and started to run down the aisle. The sound of crashing crockery behind her spurred her on. She rounded a preparation island in the middle of the kitchen and faced him, keeping the long slab of bench between them. He glared at her, blood and sweat trickling down his forehead.
He darted one way.
She darted the other way.
He halted.
She halted.
He faked to one side.
So did she.
His eyes narrowed. Her heart rate sped from pounding to freak-out frenzy as he placed his hands on the bench and heaved, vaulting over it. She screamed and ran.
The door flung open again, and Ryan caught Simon in a flying tackle.
“Run, Vicky!” Ryan shouted as he wrestled with the knife-wielding Simon. She hesitated, wanting to help.
“Run, damn it!” His voice was deep as he bellowed at her.
She ran.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Vicky ran through the kitchen, hair streaming behind her. She barreled through the door at the opposite end and found herself in another corridor. She sobbed. She felt like Alice in the Queen of Hearts maze. Trapped. She kept running, her leg burning, rounding one bend after another. She saw a door and ran to it, throwing it open.
It looked like a smaller kitchen, with cheap tables and single chairs.
Must be the staff lunch room.
She glanced around wildly.
No
,
no
,
no
. It was a small room, and the doorway she stood in was the only entrance—and the only exit. If she hid in here, she’d be trapped.
She darted away down the corridor, perspiration trickling down her neck. Her leg felt like it was on fire, and she gritted her teeth every time she put her weight on it. She paused, sticking her leg back and twisting to look down at it.
She swallowed. Her jeans were ripped and stained with dark crimson. Even now she could see the stain spreading. She leaned over and touched the ragged edges, and her stomach heaved when she saw the sliced flesh. Her flesh. Tears pricked her eyes.
Damn
,
it stung
. The cut was just above her ankle holster. She shook her head. She could have used the gun. Just using it against a living, breathing human being was a whole different ball game than shooting black cardboard cutouts at the range.
A soft sound, like the slight shuffle of shoe on concrete, snapped her head up, her eyes wide. She held her breath. There it was again. She paused. It wouldn’t be Ryan. No, he’d call out. Oh, heck, what had happened to Ryan? Was he okay? Did that shoe shuffle belong to Simon? Was Ryan alive?
The alternative had her backing up the corridor, casting about wildly for someplace to hide. She silently cursed the barren corridor. No hiding place. She started to run again in a limping rhythm that had her gritting her teeth to stop herself from crying out with pain. Now she was sweating profusely.
Please let Ryan be okay
,
please
,
please
,
please.
She came up to a hatch in the wall. The laundry chute.
That will do
. She swung the door inward and hoisted her hip up over the ledge. Biting her lip, she maneuvered her legs down, then the rest of her body, slowly closing the door above her. She braced her feet and back against opposite walls of the chute. Her injured leg began to throb. It couldn’t take much of her weight, so she compensated with the other leg, her thigh muscle tightening under the strain, and shuffled her way down, just out of arms reach.
Just in case
.
She trembled in the darkness, trying to control her breathing. There. Someone was out there. She opened her mouth, trying to breathe silently. She used one hand to brush the sweat off her face, and then let it drop to her side. It brushed against something that startled her for a moment. She reached out in the darkness, feeling along the metal sides of the chute until her fingers brushed against a cord. She frowned. What the hell?
The rope was attached to something above her, and dangled down the chute. It was heavy, as though something was hanging from it.
Her legs began to shake, and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to keep herself braced, hanging on to the rope, and heard the slide of shoe right outside the chute.
She held her breath.
* * *
Hank opened the door to the office suite and stood aside to let everyone else in. Jeffrey walked in, with Deborah holding his arm, offering him support. Paula walked in next, holding a wad of towels to Jennifer’s head. Hank frowned and looked out into the foyer. He halted Paula and turned her to face him.
“Where’s Meagan?” he asked.
* * *
Ryan rolled around on the floor, hitting the legs of benches as he fought Simon. The man was feral, grunting and snarling as he tried to strike him with the blade. Ryan dodged, twisting and rocking in the close-quarters fight.
He blocked a stabbing strike, eyeing the knife that gleamed in the fluorescent lighting of the kitchen. Simon moved, and Ryan yelled in surprise as the man’s teeth clamped on to his wrist. A dirty fighter, huh? He grabbed the knife-wielding hand and punched Simon in the face with his own fist. Simon howled, jerking back, then his head snapped forward and he slumped on Ryan.
Ryan looked over the unconscious man’s shoulder to see Drew standing at his feet, hefting a fry pan in one hand.
“That’s what you get for starting without me,” Drew stated, indicating the senseless Simon. Ryan rolled his eyes and shoved the man off him, not caring when he received another thwack to the head as he fell to the side and against the steel leg of a bench.
“You take too long,” Ryan said as he rose to his feet.
“You’re welcome.”
“I could handle him,” Ryan said, gasping for breath.
Drew nodded. “Sure you could.” He kicked idly at the guy’s feet. “He’s out cold. What do you want to do with him?”
“Tie him up. Let’s get at least one of these psychos restrained and incapacitated.”
“I incapacitated him. You restrain him.”
Ryan shook his head. “You restrain him, I’ll go find Vicky.” He turned and jogged down the aisle to the other kitchen door.
Drew made a face. “Fine. I’ll restrain him,” he said gloomily at the spot where Ryan no longer stood.
* * *
The chute door swung inward with a clang, startling Vicky. Her foot slipped, and she fell deeper into the chute, crying out as the cord burned in her hand before she finally grabbed it tight enough to stop falling.
A head peered inside. The light of the corridor was behind the figure, casting the face in shadow. She couldn’t quite see who it was, but the silhouette—long hair. It was a woman. Not Simon. Not Ryan, either.
The woman leaned in, and finally Vicky could make out her features in the weak light.
“Meagan,” she gasped in relief, then faltered. Meagan was staring at her funny.
Meagan’s gaze narrowed as she caught sight of Vicky. “Well, well, well, what have we here?”
“Jade? Jade, is that you?” Vicky gasped.
Jade smiled, her lips twisting in a proud sneer. “Why, yes, it is.” She leaned in and grabbed the cord. Vicky’s eyes widened. Uh-oh.
Jade pulled, and Vicky was dragged up a couple of inches.
“Here, let me help you,” Jade offered sweetly.
Vicky had no choice. She let go of the rope and cried out as she slid down the chute.
* * *
Jade watched as the red-haired woman was swallowed by the darkness. She cocked her ear, listening, until she heard the thunk at the bottom. She smiled as she closed the door and jogged down the corridor to the stairs. She knew exactly where the woman would end up.
And Jade would be there to greet her.
* * *
Ryan kept his eyes on the floor as he followed the blood trail. Vicky was hurt, damn it. He stopped at the door to some room, glancing inside. She’d gone in, he could see that. He frowned. But then she’d left. Probably realized it was a bad place to hide. Good girl.
He followed the drops of blood. They were getting bigger, closer. Either she was slowing down, or she was bleeding faster. Either way, it wasn’t good.
He picked up his pace, continually scanning ahead. And then the trail stopped. He frowned, turning around, looking at the ground. The trail ended. He lifted his gaze. The laundry chute.
He swung the door in and glanced inside. No Vicky, but he could see a smear of blood on the edge. She’d climbed inside. He peered into the inky darkness. It must lead down to the basement. He withdrew, looking down the hall.
There’s got to be stairs somewhere.
He ran down the hall until he found them, pushing open the door and clattering down. He needed to find Vicky, keep her safe.
He hated the sick feeling in his stomach. Just like that evening, long ago, when he’d seen his father’s car drive by his new friend’s place. His father hadn’t seen them, playing in the yard. He wouldn’t have recognized him if he had. His mother had dyed his hair and cut it in a different style than the one his father insisted he wore.
But he’d seen his father. And he’d run. He’d run all the way home, wishing his legs would move faster, faster.
He was feeling the same thing, as though no matter how fast he moved, it was still too slow. Heart pounding, legs pumping, he’d run all the way home, but he hadn’t been in time to save her, to warn her.
He swallowed as he took the stairs two at a time, the panic rising in him as he remembered that night, of bursting in to find his dad standing over his mother’s beaten body, wiping the blood off his knuckles. He’d fallen to his knees, crying over his mother as he tried to wake her. And he remembered that little wheezing laugh behind him.
He remembered the hot rage, the red fog that had filled his mind, of launching himself at the man who’d sired him. Everything got a little hazy after that. He vaguely remembered the police hauling him off his father, of the paramedic rushing to the old man’s side to patch him up.
His old man had gone to prison for murdering his mother. The cops at the scene had insisted to the judge that they found Ryan defending himself, so he’d gotten foster care.
And now he had that sick dread lining his gut again, heart pounding, legs pumping, as he tried to find Vicky.