I pause in the doorway, the darkness of the room within reach. “Yes.”
There’s a pause, another torturous, agonizing heartbeat.
“I’m sorry to bother you again, but we’ve been asked by family to take note of visitors. Only immediate relatives and pre-determined friends are allowed to visit.”
The stipulation stinks of my brother. I should’ve known Cole would’ve transformed the hospital ward into a secure location.
I should’ve fucking known. But I didn’t even think about his possible security measures.
My chest hollows.
Richard’s room is here. Right here. And she’s not going to let me step foot inside.
“Please,” I whisper. “I haven’t been able to see him since the accident. I promise I won’t stay long.”
“What’s your name? You might already be on the list.”
I close my eyes and send out a silent prayer. Yes, a fucking prayer…to God… to help me kill someone. The ridiculousness hits me like a violent slap across the face. “I’m not on the list. His family doesn’t know about me.”
My chest restricts. My limbs grow heavy. My heart thunders.
Every part of my body protests, demanding I flee. It takes all my strength to remain in place.
“Are you a friend? A work colleague?”
If I say I’m a colleague and she knows what my uncle does for a living, I’ll never be allowed to step foot inside that room. And being a friend, who isn’t close enough to make the list, seems like a long shot, too.
I need another strategy. Something to pull at her heart strings and worm my way into her trust.
I sniff and pull a handkerchief from my pocket as I delve into the haunted recesses of my mind. I retrieve memories that make my eyes burn. I pull forward images of my mother. I force myself to remember the funeral—the coffin, the flowers, the sobs from family and friends. I bathe myself in devastation and let the pain resurface, all in an effort to sell my story.
Then I glance over my shoulder and meet her gaze through drenched eyes. “I’m his mistress.”
She stares at me with trepidation, her lips parting in shock. She shifts the flowers from one arm to the next, cradling them like a child in her silent contemplation.
She’s older than I am. I guess in her mid-forties. Much closer to my uncle’s age than I am, and I hope like hell she doesn’t notice through my heavy make-up.
“Please.” I blow my nose and force myself to relive the grief of years gone by. I cling tight to the horror, squeezing every inch of torment from those memories until a single tear treks down my cheek. “I only want a few minutes with him. Just in case…”
She winces, reaffirming that his situation is still dire.
“Please.”
She nods, retreating a step, then two. “Okay.” She continues walking backward toward the nurses’ station. “But don’t take too long.”
Gratitude overwhelms me, suffocating me with its giddy tidal wave.
“Thank you.” I dab at the moisture on my cheeks and pretend it takes all my strength to drag my feet forward to face a heartbreaking goodbye. I keep my focus straight ahead, away from the bed. Then I turn and close the door behind me, shoving the handkerchief in my pocket as the darkness of the room inches its way into my marrow.
I cling to the handle for long heartbeats and give myself a mental pep talk.
I’m not going to fail despite the attention I’ve drawn.
I’m not going to get caught even though I can feel the noose tightening around my neck, cutting off my air.
I’m not. I’m not. I’m not.
I switch my mindset, moving from relief to anger. To pain.
I relive Richard’s lingering stare. His compliments. The unwanted touches. I remember that night and all the things he took from me. I shove every ounce of weakness deep down to the pit of my stomach and become my father’s daughter.
The criminal.
A murderer.
I become emboldened. Strong. Un-fucking-beatable. Then I turn and face my demons.
Richard lies lifeless, innumerable tubes and IVs piercing his skin and delving under the covers of the clean, crisp bed. The right side of his face is bandaged, the white stark against the fading blue and purple bruising visible on his left.
His chest rises and falls. Slow and steady.
My feet move of their own accord, bringing me closer to Satan, until I’m stopped at the foot of the bed. I peer down at him and smile at how our positions have changed.
For a long time, he was the one with horror in his belly and violence in his soul, while I lay meek and vulnerable, unable to defend myself.
I gain the briefest insight into his sick perversion as I stand there. I acknowledge the rush of power. The tingle of adrenaline. I breathe in the approaching victory and square my shoulders against the unwanted niggle of building sins.
“Hello, Uncle.” My lips kick as I curl every syllable around my tongue.
The more I stare, the more invigorated I become. My breathing quickens. My nerves tingle.
“It’s been a long time since we last spoke.” I lean over and swipe at the wrinkles in the bedding near his feet. “I’ve learned a lot about you since your accident.”
I watch for the slightest flicker in his features. I’d give anything to know he can hear me. To have just one sign of acknowledgement.
But I get nothing. Not even a twitch.
I sigh and glance around the room, taking in the monitoring equipment, the cards on the bedside table, the Bible.
I roll my eyes.
Whoever thought religion could save this man had delusions beyond my comprehension. Nothing can save him. Not in this life or the next.
I walk around the bed and take a seat on the chair at his side.
Death coats my skin, tickling the back of my neck. I’ve never felt this way before. It’s a strange mix of exhilaration and trepidation.
Good and evil.
Right and wrong.
I have two options. Only two. And both revolve around the syringes taped to my wrist beneath my jacket.
The potassium chloride overdose will mimic a heart attack and end his life. There will be no injuries to investigate or sign of foul play. The only thing left behind will be an elevated level of potassium in his bloodstream—the same elevation that would be present with a legitimate heart attack.
The first option is to inject into the IV line. The results will be fast, and I’ll have mere seconds before the magic begins and the monitors alert nursing staff.
The alternative is to inject into the IV bag and walk away without hearing any bells and whistles. I’d have time to escape the ward before his heart started to react.
I’d also be unsure whether I succeeded or failed. And that success is something I crave.
“I want it to be quick,” I whisper. “Not because you don’t deserve to suffer. It’s because I want to be here when you die.”
But the price of fulfilment could come at the cost of a prison sentence. And I’m not willing to let him affect my future like he has my past.
I stand and grab a pair of disposable gloves from the box on the wall. I quickly cover both hands, then unfasten the syringes from my wrists, placing one in my pocket for easy access.
My heart pounds in my throat. My tongue swells. My fingers tremble.
It’s not fear.
No, that weakness is long gone.
What I feel is euphoria. A strange sense of ecstasy.
I grab the IV bag, twist the syringe onto the attachment, and hold my breath as I depress the plunger. I’m hyperaware of everything—sound, movement, thoughts—as the two liquids blend.
At any moment, the nurse could return.
I could walk from this room and be greeted by a security team.
Oh, God, what if this is a setup?
What if? What it? What if?
I gasp for air and shake away the paranoia, not willing to be taken down by my own mind as I shov
e the used syringe into my pocket and pull out the next.
I repeat my actions, this time pushing the plunger harder. Faster.
Once the last drop of lethal injection is administered, I stagger backward, fighting my building conscience as I shove all the evidence into my pockets.
“See you in hell, Richard.” I don’t recognize my own voice. It’s foreign to my throbbing ears. “I hope you suffer for your sins.”
I rush for the door, gripping the handle with a hand covered by my jacket sleeve. I wipe away my earlier prints in a frenzy of rabid movements and then escape the room.
There’s no relief at the sight of the empty hall, only pure, delirious focus to measure my steps. I shake uncontrollably. My arms, legs, and hands quavering.
I want to run. To sprint.
My instincts beg me to flee. But I hold my pace, keeping my head low as I pull out my handkerchief and cover the lower half of my face while I pass the nurses station.
I’m almost hyperventilating when I reach the elevator. My breaths are short and shallow. Everything moves in slow motion.
Each heartbeat feels like an eternity waiting for the elevator doors to open. And when they do, my relief is so overwhelming I gasp out a breathy laugh.
It’s too good to be true.
The rush of success floods my veins, the sensation ten times more exhilarating than adrenaline alone.
I escape into the confined space, no longer feeling suffocated, and smile at the graying man who enters behind me.
I’m no longer a victim.
Richard can’t torment me anymore.
He can’t hurt anyone else, either.
That part of my life is over, and all I want to do is rush into Sebastian’s arms and start on something new.
I press the button for the ground floor, still smiling, still basking in success. Then something shatters the celebration. Something hard and unyielding that presses gently into the low of my back.
“It’s a gun,” the man murmurs. “Scream and you’re dead.”
26
Decker
“Who, in their right mind, doesn’t have a spare fucking tire?” I don’t know how many times I’ve repeated the rhetorical question over the unending hours on the road. “It’s fucking ridiculous.”
Hunt had used the space where the tire should be and filled it with tactical shit—guns, ammo, knives. There was even equipment to make a fuel bomb.
“Who the hell has fertilizer on standby, yet no fucking spare tire?”
“You seriously need to shut the fuck up before I slam on the brakes and hope your thousand-year-old seatbelt fails.”
The thousand-year-old seatbelt, and my brother’s thousand-year-old Jeep, have seriously slowed the time it should’ve taken to get back to Portland. We found the beat-up pile of metal in his garage, the keys in the ignition, because even my brother is begging for someone to take this piece of crap off his hands. “Slamming on the brakes won’t do shit when you’re driving like a nanna.”
“I’ve got my foot to the fucking floor,” he grates. “It’s the car that’s lagging.”
Frustration gave way to insanity three hundred miles ago, back when I gave up on trying to speak to Keira.
Sarah ignored all my attempts to get in contact. Every fucking one.
The only information we’ve had came half an hour ago.
One fucking phone call to cement my fears by telling us, “She’s finishing this. I’ll call again when it’s over.”
That’s all she said. Two rushed sentences before Hunt snatched the phone away and took over the conversation.
“Head toward the parking lot.” I scan the area surrounding the hospital. “They haven’t been back in contact, so they’ve gotta still be here.”
“They should be gone by now. It doesn’t take this long.”
He’s right, but until we get confirmation, I’m going to assume they haven’t finished the job. I’m also going to assume everything that could go wrong did go wrong. That panic isn’t going to wear off until Keira is safe and sound in my arms.
They’ve rushed into this.
It’s too soon.
“There.” Hunt points toward the back of the half empty parking lot. “That’s the car.”
My stomach plummets as I turn my gaze in the direction of his finger. Sure enough, he’s right. Fuck. What the hell could be taking so long?
“Sarah said she was waiting out here.” Hunt’s hands squeak as he white-knuckles the steering wheel. “Where the fuck is she?”
I lean forward as we pull into a parking space two cars away, glancing through the neighboring vehicle to find the Mercedes empty. “I’ve got a really shitty feeling about this.”
“Well, that’s a bonus.” He cuts the engine and unclasps his belt. “And all that scientific research tried to tell me psychopaths don’t have feelings.”
“Funny.” I scowl. “Are you really cracking jokes right now?”
“I can’t help it.” He attempts to mimic my voice, his face entirely deadpan. “I’m a funny guy.”
“Fucking hilarious.” I shove from the car, slamming the door behind me, before stalking to the Mercedes. I check the back seat as I pass. There’s nothing in there. Not a scrap of paper or a piece of rubbish.
“Stop freaking out.” Hunt comes up behind me, his gait casual. “They might have changed their plan and fled on foot.”
I inch forward, checking out the front. It’s clean, too. Nothing on the seats or along the dash. Nothing but the car keys dangling from the ignition.
“Jesus, Hunt.” My stomach takes a nosedive. “I don’t think their change of plan was deliberate.”
He gets up close and peers over my shoulder.
He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. The sudden surge of panic ebbs off him.
I rush around the car, looking for a hint to tell me what the hell went down. “Something went wrong.”
Something when terribly fucking wrong. But what?
Hunt pulls out his phone and starts dialing. Seconds later he’s dialing again. Then again.
“Fuck.” He massages his forehead. “Why the hell won’t she answer her fucking phone?”
“Maybe because they’ve been caught.” I pinch the bridge of my nose and ignore the bite of pain that comes from my growing headache. “Your woman pushed Keira into something she wasn’t ready for, and now she’s going to spend the rest of her life in prison.”
“Sarah isn’t stupid.”
“Really?” I drop my hand to my side. “Her engagement to you says otherwise.”
His eyes harden.
“You two never should’ve gotten involved.” I focus on the sliding doors of the hospital. I will the glass panels to open and for Keira to walk out. I beg for her to appear before me. I fucking pray. “I’m going in there.”
“Not yet, you won’t.” Hunt rests against the Mercedes. “You’ll only draw attention. We need to wait a little longer.”
“That’s easy for you to say when Sarah’s not the one committing murder.”
“We’re waiting,” he repeats. “Suck it up and deal.”
Oh, I suck it up, all right. I bottle that shit like it’s gold, letting the panic and hysteria build into an uncontrollable force. Each second that ticks by feels like an hour as I pace behind the car. Any minute now, I’m certain I’ll hear a police siren. Or a gunshot. Or Keira screaming for help.
The phantom sounds ring in my ears.
I scrutinize every person who approaches and leaves the hospital. I commit their clothing to memory in case I need the information later. At this point, everyone is the enemy. They all stand between me and the woman I need to protect.
“Is that…” Hunt pushes from the car, his gaze tracking the Porsche pulling into the other side of the parking lot.
“Oh, shit.”
It’s Torian.
I start walking, my pace increasing with every step as two men climb from the sports car. The fear and panic I had moments be
fore is nothing in comparison to the sheer terror I feel now. “If he finds her…”
Christ, I have no idea what he’ll do.
“Torian.” I break into a jog. “Hey, Torian.”
Hunter curses behind me, his footsteps following. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“He can’t find out she’s here.” I keep running, keep bridging the distance, not giving a shit about the consequences. “Torian.”
I catch his attention a few yards from the sliding doors. He stops and turns my way, not showing a hint of surprise at my appearance. What stares back at me is his usual mask of calm indifference.
I slow my pace and relax into a casual stride, inclining my head in greeting. “Hey, Mr. Boss Man.” I switch my attention to the dark scowl of the tank at his side. “Luca. I haven’t seen you in a while, buddy.”
Luca Hart—Layla’s brother-in-law. He’s reckless and equally callous. He’s also an ex-SEAL, and definitely not my buddy. The muscled-up fighting machine is the only guy I’ve met who’s left the armed forces without a shred of national pride intact.
The guy hates everyone.
Especially me.
“What are you doing here?” Torian asks.
I point to my face, then lift my shirt to show my bruises as Hunter stops beside me. “I needed to get the rig checked. I think I’ve got a few fractured ribs.”
“And you?” He turns his scrutiny to my accomplice.
“Decker needed me to hold his hand.”
Torian raises a brow and nods. Slowly. There’s no rush for answers, hint of panic, or twitch of hatred. Even after his conversation with Keira this afternoon, he’s civil, and it’s scary as fuck. “Where’s my sister?”
“Don’t worry, she’s with Sarah.”
It’s the only answer that came to mind. But it’s the wrong one. I don’t realize my mistake until Hunter clears his throat in a subtle reprimand.
If Cole finds out what Keira is up to, Sarah will be accountable.
“Have you forgotten the instructions I gave you at the restaurant? You’re responsible for her safety?” Torian smiles, wearing the expression like a threat.
“She’s safe.” Hunt claps me on the back. Hard. “Sarah has the situation under control.”
Decker Page 28
