Wherever She Goes (ARC)

by Kelley Armstrong

  She doesn’t bother finishing the threat. I give Brandon to Paul and take out my gun as I yank open an interior door. Behind it, Lynn stumbles back through what looks like a living room. She has her hands raised.

  “Pl-please, don’t—” she begins.

  I shush her and whisper, “Where’s the basement?”

  She points. So do I . . . with the gun, aiming it at her.

  “Where exactly?” I say.

  She tells me.

  I shove her toward the sofa. “Hide there. Don’t come out.”

  I race into the hall, where Paul’s waiting. Outside, Mama Zima is ordering her men to surround the house.

  “Basement,” I call to Paul, then I shut the living room door . . . and hustle them to the stairs leading up instead.

  Paul has Brandon in his arms. The boy hasn’t said a word. He’s spent his lifetime hiding, and he only peeks at me over Paul’s shoulder, and then buries his face in it as Paul whispers reassurances.

  We get up the stairs just as the front door opens. Paul glances back at me, but I only motion for him to move farther down the hall. Then I stop him and start checking rooms. Below, I hear someone say, “It’s me.”

  Lynn comes out from her hiding place and starts talking quickly to Mama Zima, telling her we’re in the basement. Is she ratting us out in hopes of winning her freedom? Or is she the one who brought Denis’s mother here? Either is equally likely, and I’m not the least bit surprised to hear her.

  The third door opens to another staircase, ascending into a dark attic. I wave Paul over.

  “Take him up there,” I whisper. “I’ll handle this.”

  “I’ll find him a place to hide,” Paul says. “Then I’m coming to help you.”

  I shake my head. He opens his mouth to protest, but I grip his arm.

  “I have a gun,” I say. “You do not. I need you to stay with Brandon. Please. Call the police and stay with him.”

  He still hesitates, and I know he wants to argue, but he also knows this is the right plan. Finally, he gives an abrupt nod and says, “Don’t engage. Just stall.”

  I nod and start to go.

  He grips my arm. “Be careful.”

  I lean in to kiss his cheek. “I will.”

  Below, Mama Zima is telling someone to check downstairs. Two sets of heavy footfalls retreat. That means two men are in the house and two are patrolling outside. Mama herself stays on the main level. Once the footsteps retreat down the steps, she says to Lynn, “Go outside. Wait in the car.”

  Lynn’s footsteps head toward the front door. A shot fires. A body thuds to the floor, and I close my eyes, forcing my hammering heart to slow.

  Mama Zima shot Orbec. Killed him without warning. Now she’s killed a girl who helped her, a girl who’d probably been on her payroll the whole time.

  She will not hesitate to shoot me.

  Shoot me. Then go after Paul and Brandon, and if she does that, I have no doubt of what will happen to Paul. Another loose end to be clipped off. That’s all he is to her. All we are.

  What the hell have I done? What have I gotten my family into?

  I thought I had this under control. I thought Hugh Orbec was the worst thing I had to deal with, and he was the sort of person I’d dealt with before. A thug. A man who would use force to get his way, but a man who could be reasoned with, a man who had no justification for killing me and therefore would not.

  That isn’t what I’m dealing with now.

  I have never encountered anything like I’m dealing with now.

  I am not prepared for it. I don’t know how to prepare for it. I don’t know—

  Breathe. Just breathe.

  Two options here.

  Retreat upstairs and hope Paul managed to contact the police, and they are on their way and will arrive before Mama Zima’s thugs find us.

  Or confront the problem.

  I’m not a fool. I know I can’t take on five armed criminals. The police are my best bet, and the only question is how I’ll stall. Whether my best hope for stalling is defense or offense.

  Offense.

  I don’t really have a choice here. To retreat puts Paul at risk. To confront means putting myself at risk, and praying that will buy enough time for the police to arrive. If that costs me my life, well, it’s better than costing us both ours. Better than robbing our daughter of both her parents.

  Distract. Stall.

  Pray.

  I start my descent. The problem with coming down a set of stairs? Mama Zima below will see my feet long before I spot her. So I try to angle myself away from the bannister, and with every step, I duck to get a look. I also listen. I can hear the men downstairs. I don’t know how big the basement is, but there’s a limited amount of time they’ll spend down there before realizing they’ve been duped.

  What I don’t hear is Mama Zima. I take another two steps and then spot her shadow stretching across the floor. She’s right around the corner. As soon as I come down, she’ll see me.

  So much for the element of surprise.

  I’ll need to go big. Hope to startle her and dodge and keep dodging.

  While she shoots at me? While the sound of my running feet brings the thugs racing upstairs?

  This isn’t going to work. It cannot—

  Deep breath.

  I take out my phone. I need to text Paul. Make sure he’s summoned the police and maybe find out how long—

  There’s no cell signal.

  My phone has no signal.

  No.

  Oh God, no.

  Either there’s no signal here or they’ve blocked it.

  Of course they’ve blocked it, you idiot. Otherwise they wouldn’t be taking their time searching. They’d know we would call for help.

  Movement flickers below. It’s Mama Zima’s shadow . . . moving away.

  I close my eyes and strain to listen. For a big woman, she walks with very little noise, but she’s definitely moving in the opposite direction.

  Maybe if she continues into another room—

  No maybes. No hopes. No prayers.

  No waiting for the perfect opportunity.

  I fly down the stairs as fast as I can. I’m leaping off the bottom step when she hears me. She starts to turn. I’m halfway to her, only a few feet left to go, but she’s spinning, gun going up—

  I slam into her. It’s like hitting a brick wall, and all I can think is You’re a fool, Aubrey Finch. A stupid, senseless fool. I’ve played my ace, throwing my entire body into hers, and she’s barely stumbling.

  Except she still does stumble. It’s only a slight stagger, but I’ve caught her as she was turning, and her feet twist, and it’s enough. I’ve knocked her off-balance. I slam into her again, and we go down with a crash.

  Her gun flies up. I hit her arm and the gun snaps backward, but she doesn’t drop it. I strike again, and this time, I’m off-target. I barely hit her. But her hand opens, eyes widening, and I realize I’ve struck her ulnar nerve.

  The gun falls.

  It clacks to the hardwood floor, but I barely hear it over the footsteps thundering up the stairs. The thugs have heard us fall, and they’re coming.

  I knock her gun away and yank out my own. Beneath me, she’s struggling, bucking with formidable strength. But I have her pinned. Then I have the gun, pointed at her forehead, just as the basement door flies open.

  “Stop!” I shout. “Guns down, or I pull this trigger.”

  The first man through the door hesitates. I press the gun into Mama Zima’s head. She glowers at me and doesn’t even flinch. But the thug notices. He sees my expression. And he holsters his gun.

  “No,” I say. “You’re going to drop that. Then you’ll go outside. Get your comrades. They’ll toss their guns through the front door. Then you’ll let us leave. All three of us.”

  “Do you really think they’ll let you leave?” Mama Zima says.

  “They will if I take you with me,” I say.

  “Then you’ll need t
o deal with me.”

  “I guess I will.” I look at the man. “Outside. Now.”

  He goes, and the other thug follows. Neither looks over at Mama Zima, who’s shooting them death glares and cursing in Russian.

  “Hey, they’re saving your life,” I say.

  “If they think so, they are mistaken.” She raises her voice so they can hear. “You see that girl on the floor? That will be you.”

  “Maybe,” I say. “But this gives them a chance to plead their case with your husband. Otherwise, if you don’t survive this, I suspect they’ll have more to worry about than a bullet in the back of the head.”

  “My husband is not the Zima they should worry about. They should know that. I am the one here for my grandson. You are here with me, and I see no sign of your husband.”

  “Maybe so,” I say as the door closes behind the two men, “but apparently, they don’t dare go home without you. Now, you’re going to roll over and put your hands—”

  She bucks. I’m ready for it—I’ve been ready the whole time she’s been talking—but when I go to shove her down, she kicks up instead, and that does catch me off-guard. When I teeter, she goes for the gun. I swing it against the side of her skull. It hits with a thwack, her head snapping sideways, but she only snarls and grabs my ponytail.

  She yanks my head back. I let out a gasp and try to jerk free, but she’s got my hair wrapped around her hand. Her other hand goes for the gun. I swing it up, out of her reach. At the last second, her hand chops downward instead, smacking me in the ribs.

  I fall to the side. I’m focused on keeping the gun. That’s all I care about. She never goes for it, though. She rolls from under me and lunges for her gun, lying on the floor.

  I hear the thud of footsteps. I glance over just in time to see Paul running for her. He’s going for the gun, to kick it away, but he’s not close enough. Her fingers wrap around it, and she swings it up, barrel heading his way. I throw myself on her. The gun fires. With both hands, I grab her gun arm and wrench it back, thudding into the floor.

  Mama Zima fights with everything she has, kicking and scratching. Paul has the gun, and he’s staying far from the barrel as he pries her fingers away. She fires again. The shot goes wild, but the sound startles Paul. He relaxes his hold just enough for her to turn the gun his way—

  I slam her arm into the floor. Paul wrenches the gun from her hand. Outside, there’s a commotion. Shouting. Running footfalls. I scramble for my dropped gun, and I swing it up just as the door opens—

  “Police!” Laila Jackson shouts. “Drop your weapons.”

  More officers push in behind her, and I still hear more outside, handling the thugs. I lift my hands and drop to my knees as the police rush in.

  Laila gets Paul and me away from our guns. Then she focuses on Mama Zima and the thugs, letting us slip off to the side.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” she says.

  I nod. When I turn to Paul, I say, “You did call them.”

  “Actually, no.” His voice wavers. He takes a deep breath and shakes it off. “I couldn’t. When I realized I didn’t have cell service, I found a spot to hide Brandon and snuck to the steps to make sure you were okay. You weren’t, so I came down armed with . . .” He points at a broken chair leg, dropped by the fight scene, and gives me a wry smile.

  “Thank you.” I put my arms around his neck and kiss him. Then I pull back fast. “Sorry. I—”

  He cuts me off with a deep kiss. A moment later, a throat clears behind us. We turn to see Laila.

  “Mind if I interrupt?” she says.

  “Yes,” I say.

  She gives me a hard look and waves for us to follow her.

  “Brandon,” Paul says. “He’s hiding in the attic. May we get him? With an officer escort, of course.”

  Laila agrees and sends Paul to do it. I’m not going anywhere, apparently. Once he’s gone, she leads me outside. Paramedics are loading Hugh Orbec into an ambulance.

  “Is he . . . ?” I begin.

  “Alive. For now.” She turns her back on the paramedics and faces me. “Before you ask, it was Ellie Milano. She finally contacted me, and only because she was worried about you. Took me a while to get permission to track your cell to its last location. I’d like to say you’re lucky we showed up but . . .” She glances back at the house and then says, grudgingly, “You seemed to be doing okay.”

  “No, trust me, I’m still glad you showed up.”

  “I could have helped a whole lot sooner,” she says. “And I’d love to give you hell for that, but . . .” She sighs as she scans the yard, the officers taking the thugs into custody. “We got off to a bad start. I just didn’t want you getting caught up in something dangerous. Glad to see that didn’t happen.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She shakes her head and keeps surveying the situation. “Helluva mess. Didn’t know what you got yourself into, did you?”

  “Nope, but I’m guessing you didn’t either. No one’s ever really prepared for gun-toting, mobster grannies.”

  She snorts at that. “I’ve heard stories about Mama Zima, but I’d almost be impressed . . . if she wasn’t such a cold-blooded bitch.”

  Laila’s about to speak again when Brandon appears at the doorway, clutching Paul’s hand.

  “And there’s the cause of all this commotion,” she says. “Looks pretty good for an imaginary boy. Poor kid. His aunt should be here—”

  A police car rolls into the drive, the passenger door opening before it even stops. Ellie leaps out, and Laila says, “Perfect timing.”

  Paul lets go of Brandon, and he runs for his aunt, who scoops him up in a bear hug. As we watch, another car appears, this one a BMW roaring into the drive. Laila swears. Before she can move, Cooper appears at a jog, shouting orders. Officers train their weapons on the vehicle as Cooper yells for the driver to get out of it. He already is, and seeing him, Laila curses again.

  It’s Denis Zima. He has his hands on his head, but he’s stepping away from the car. Cooper shouts for him to stop.

  “He’s okay,” I say. “Or I think he is. Oh, hell, at this point, I’m not even sure.”

  “I just want to see my—” Zima begins. Then he spots Brandon. He stops and stares, and he wobbles, just a little. There’s a moment of absolute silence. Then he turns to Cooper. “I was speaking to my father. He had no idea what I was talking about. That’s when I realized he wasn’t the one behind this.”

  Zima’s gaze shoots to the front door as it opens, his mother coming out in handcuffs. Zima surges forward, fists clenched, but Cooper gets in his path. Zima rocks back. Then his gaze goes to Brandon.

  “May I see . . . ?” he begins.

  Ellie picks Brandon up again and heads toward Zima. I turn away and glance at Paul, who passes me a smile and starts for me.

  “Go on,” Laila says, jerking her chin toward Brandon. “Join the reunion. You’re the one who made it possible.”

  I shake my head. “I’m done. This part’s for them.”

  I walk to Paul instead, and he takes my hand as I collapse against his shoulder.

  We don’t just get to walk away after this. We have to give statements at the station, and it’s hours before I’m released.

  As I’m leaving, Laila comes jogging after me.

  “You still owe me,” she says.

  I turn. “What?”

  “You owe me a link to that sword-fighting class. You probably also owe me a lift to it. The least you can do, really, since I saved your ass.”

  “You saved my ass about as much as I solved your case, which is, I believe, about fifty-fifty of each. We’re taking turns driving to class.”

  She gives me her personal email address, and we talk for another minute, and as I walk away, I think back to that moment in the park with Kim, when I thought she was someone I could talk to, someone I could relate to. I may have actually found that, just not in the place I expected.

  I walk out to find Paul waiting. He says nothing
, just takes my hand, fingers interlocking with mine, and leads me to the parking lot, where the officers let us bring our car earlier

  “How are you doing?” he asks when we reach the car.

  “I’m glad it worked out but . . .” I shake my head and climb in the passenger side.

  When he’s in, I say, “I’m sorry. Yes, it all worked out, but I could have gotten you killed. I was in over my head. Way over my head.”

  He manages a smile. “Seems like you were swimming just fine. You didn’t drag me in, Bree. We both underestimated the situation, but neither of us went in with our eyes closed. I’m a lawyer. I knew I was getting involved in something potentially dangerous, and I chose to do so.”

  I nod and say nothing, just turn to stare out the window.

  He backs the car out. “I’m fine. Charlie’s fine. You’re fine. And so is Brandon.”

  I nod again.

  He drives from the lot. A couple of minutes pass, and then he starts to say something, but I’m already speaking, saying, “Does this change anything?”

  His fingers tighten on the wheel.

  “I don’t mean with us,” I say. “You stuck by me, and you can’t imagine how much I appreciated that, but I know it doesn’t mean things have changed. I’m talking about Charlie. You knew what I was . . . and now you’ve seen what I can be. What I’m capable of. Does that change anything with her? With the custody? I know that after what’s happened, you might not think I’m the most responsible parent, but I swear, I would never have done any of this with her around.”

  He nods. That’s all he does. He nods, and my heart hammers.

  “Paul—”

  “We’ll discuss that later.” He makes a sharp right. “First, I want to show you something.”

  As we ride in silence, I can barely breathe. When I asked if this changed his opinion of me as a mother, I was hoping he’d say of course not, that he’d acknowledge that I’d looked after Charlotte first, that he’d say he knows I’m a good mother, Instead, he’s made that sharp—angry?—turn and ended the conversation.

  He takes us to a new subdivision on the edge of Oxford. It’s one I’ve never seen before. He drives onto a street of duplexes, a few inhabited, some still under construction. He pulls into the drive of a finished one with darkened windows. Then he gets out.