The phone rang twice more. Steph’s finger hovered over the device, fear hovering in her eyes. “He’s going to be mad.”
“Does he hit you?” Bree asked.
Steph’s gaze drifted to the floor. “Yes.”
The phone rang again.
“Don’t go home to him,” Bree said. “You deserve better.”
“That’s what Erin said.” Steph sniffed. “She didn’t want me to go back to him, and he hadn’t even hit me then. She said he would. She just knew.”
The phone stopped ringing. Steph’s hands trembled harder. “You don’t know what he’s been like lately. Me being pregnant set him off. He’s become possessive—no, obsessive. He doesn’t like to let me out of his sight. He calls me every hour or two and insists I answer. He tracks my diet and exercise. He checks my phone and online activity.” She swallowed. “I don’t want to go home. I can’t live with him—with the fear—any longer. I packed a few things in a bag this morning. I’m not going home. I’m leaving him.”
“Where will you go?”
“I don’t know. A hotel, I guess. I have cash.” Steph’s phone vibrated. “He’s texting. He says, ‘Call me right now.’”
“Ignore him.”
“I can’t. I have to talk to him, or he’ll know something’s up. He’ll know I’m leaving him. He has a gun.” The little color in Steph’s face drained away.
Bree took Steph by the shoulders. “Why would he have called Erin Tuesday night?”
“I don’t know.”
Bree didn’t like the hunch swirling in her gut. “Would Zack have any reason to kill Erin?”
Panic scurried in Steph’s eyes. “No. He couldn’t have.”
She didn’t say wouldn’t have.
The phone rang again.
Steph answered, her voice artificially high. “Hey, babe.”
“You didn’t answer my call.” Zack’s voice was loud enough for Bree to hear him. “I told you what would happen if you ignored me.”
“I’m sorry. I just saw your call. I was in the bathroom. You know I have to pee all the time these days.” Steph spoke too fast, her words stumbling over each other.
“That’s bullshit.” His tone was angry-cold. “Who are you with?”
“A client.”
“Who?”
Steph’s eyes went helplessly wide, and she looked as if she was going to break down. “No one you know.”
“You’re lying. Who. Are. You. With?” Zack screamed the last word.
Bree wanted to rip the phone away and yell back at the bastard.
“Her name is Dana.” Tears poured from Steph’s eyes. “You don’t know her.”
“I know you’re lying. I saw Erin’s sister go into the salon, and I know you packed some of your stuff this morning. I told you I’d never let you go.” The line went dead.
Steph stared at the phone. She lifted her gaze to Bree’s. The shaking started in her hands and spread through her body until she could barely stand. Her already-pale face turned the color of old snow. Her knees buckled.
Bree ripped off the plastic cape and steered Steph into the chair. “Take a deep breath and hold it. That’s it. Now exhale, nice and slow.”
She coached her through a few more breaths, not speaking again until she was sure Steph wasn’t going to hyperventilate or faint.
“It’s going to be all right,” Bree said.
“It isn’t. It really isn’t. You don’t know him.” Steph leaned forward, her hands curled protectively around her belly, shaking her head over and over.
“It doesn’t matter.” Bree crouched to her level. “Look at me.”
Steph lifted her eyes.
Bree said, “I’m going to protect you—”
Steph’s phone beeped three times in rapid succession. They both looked at the screen. Three messages from Zack appeared.
I warned you.
all your fault.
U R dead.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Matt jerked straight. Through the windshield he watched a car pull up to the curb in front of the salon. Zack Wallace stepped out of the driver’s side. Dressed in jeans, a red-and-black flannel shirt, and a hunting vest, he stood next to his car for a few seconds, staring at the salon. Then he closed the door and walked around the front of his vehicle. His gait was shaky, and he was so focused on the building that he stumbled over the curb.
His presence shouldn’t have raised any flags. Zack’s wife worked inside. He could be stopping for any reason. She could have called him. She could have left something at home that she needed. Maybe he just wanted to see her for another reason.
But Zack’s posture, his stiffness, sent Matt’s balls crawling into his body. Instinct pulled him out of his SUV.
As Zack turned to open the door to the salon, Matt spotted two guns tucked into the waistband of his pants.
Matt reached back inside his vehicle and collected Bree’s handgun from the glove compartment. Running toward the building, he pulled out his phone and pressed buttons. He sent Bree a quick text—Zack coming in armed—then called 911.
“What is your emergency?” the dispatcher asked.
“An armed man just walked into Halo Salon and Spa.” Matt jogged toward the door as he gave the address and Zack’s description.
“Have any shots been fired?” the dispatcher asked.
Matt hit the cement just shy of the door. The pop pop pop of gunshots sounded from inside the building, followed by screaming. Fear gripped his belly and squeezed hard.
He breathed. “Three shots have been fired. The shooter has at least two weapons. Handguns.”
“Officers are en route. ETA three minutes. Are there any injuries?”
“I don’t know. I’m outside the building.” Matt checked the magazine on Bree’s pistol. The subcompact Glock 26 held ten rounds in the magazine plus one in the chamber. The gun was fully loaded, which gave him eleven shots. Bree, wherever she was, carried a Glock 19. Standard magazine capacity was fifteen rounds.
Who knew how many bullets Zack had brought? His hunting vest was designed to carry extra ammunition. Matt and Bree could be outgunned. Every shot had to count, which meant Matt would have to get close.
“I’m going in. Advise responding officers that a former deputy is on site and armed.” Matt gave a description of his own clothing. “And that an off-duty detective is currently inside the building, also armed.” He added a description of Bree. “I’ll update when possible.”
Matt ended the call before he was told to remain outside and wait for law enforcement. He lowered his phone. Bree had not responded to his text. Most active shooter incidents were over in four minutes. Every second that passed could result in another innocent victim. There was no way Matt was waiting, letting people get shot when he could potentially intervene.
Even if he could be shot, by Zack or friendly fire.
His hand ached as he remembered the bullet piercing it. He made a fist and released it. His heart shifted into high gear as he approached the building.
He cupped a hand over his eyes and peered through the glass. Zack wasn’t in sight. Matt tried the door, but it was locked. People were on the floor in the lobby, huddling together and crying. Matt knocked on the door, but no one could hear him over the screaming.
He ran around the corner of the building and along the side wall toward the employee entrance. He hoped the door wasn’t locked from the inside. The door flew open, and a woman burst out, her eyes wide with panic. Matt caught the door before it closed and quietly slipped inside. Cracking the interior door, he paused for three breaths to listen.
Two more gunshots sounded from inside. People screamed. A man shouted, “Get down! On the floor. Do it now!” He yelled something else, but Matt couldn’t make out the words.
Matt went into the hallway. A woman ran, sobbing, toward him. He grabbed her by the arm and pushed her toward the exit. As she ran to safety, he walked toward the gunfire.
Two out, but how many people ar
e inside?
Matt’s pulse scrambled as he moved down the hall. He passed the room with the big chairs and footbaths. Three women crouched behind a partial wall. One screamed as she caught sight of Matt with his pistol. He put a finger on his lips and pointed them toward the side exit, but he couldn’t stop to make sure they got out. Realizing he wasn’t the shooter, the women ran down the hall toward the door where Matt had come in. Two of them were barefoot.
More screaming. Two more gunshots from the main salon area.
“Do it!” the man yelled.
A woman sobbed, “No. No. No. Please.”
Two more shots rang out.
“Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Ohmygod,” a woman cried.
Matt smelled smoke. The fire alarm went off, screeching like a billion cicadas playing through concert speakers. At the end of the hallway, Matt paused, but there was no way to hear the shooter now. The fire alarms blocked out all other sounds. In the main salon and nail area, the fire sprinklers turned on. After an initial sputter, water rained down.
He peered around the corner. Smoke hovered over the nail stations, above a pile of smoldering debris, the fire the sprinklers had extinguished. His gaze swept over a dozen women crouching on the floor behind the shampoo sinks. Matt could only see 80 percent of the main room. The tall mirrors facing each chair blocked his view. But if Zack was behind one of the stations, the women would be focused on him. Instead, they were hiding under counters and behind wheeled carts—as if that would help them. Above their heads, water poured down, landing on live electrical appliances. Electrical cords trailed into the puddling water. He hoped a breaker tripped before someone was electrocuted.
He looked for Bree. She’d been scheduled for a haircut and should have been at Steph’s station in the rear of the salon area. But he didn’t see her, nor did he see Steph.
Matt reviewed the floor plan of the salon in his head. He’d been inside the building only once, when he and Bree had interviewed Jack Halo. Most of the first floor was comprised of the hairstyling section. To the left, about twenty stations were lined up in front of a row of sinks. The fingernail area was off to the right, along with the semiprivate room for doing toenails that he’d already passed.
In the back of the salon were private rooms for other treatments. Upstairs held office space and more private rooms. In addition to the spiral staircase, stairwells flanked the building on each side at the rear corners.
Crouching, Matt eased around the corner and crept along the wall until he could see the lobby. Salon employees were dressed in all black. Behind the reception desk, one female employee lay on her back, bleeding heavily from an abdominal wound. Matt recognized her as the receptionist who had greeted him and Bree when they’d interviewed Jack. Another employee knelt next to her, trying to staunch her wound with a folded towel.
A few feet away, a female client sprawled on the floor, arms and legs akimbo. Matt didn’t need to check her pulse to know she was dead. Red bloomed across her white sweater. Her eyes stared right at Matt, but she didn’t see him. A young man in a black logo T-shirt and black skinny jeans held her hand. His own hands were covered in blood, as if he’d tried to stop the bleeding. Around him, the accumulating water turned pink as it mixed with the blood.
Matt wanted to stop and help. He’d been trained in advanced first aid, but he needed to keep going. He needed to find Zack and stop him before more people were hurt or killed.
And he needed to find Bree. Where was she?
His gaze snapped back to the woman with the belly wound. She was going to bleed to death too, if she didn’t get medical help quickly.
Damn it.
The woman staunching her wound wasn’t big enough to carry her outside, but she and the man crying over the dead woman could do it together. Matt eyed the glass door on the other side of the lobby. The key was still in the lock.
If Matt could help them get her to the door, they could drag her outside. If the salon employees weren’t in shock, they would have thought of it already. But people didn’t always react logically in these types of situations. People hid right next to exits. They froze from fright.
He squinted through the glass. Two sheriff’s department vehicles were parked fifty feet in front of the salon. He couldn’t see if the deputies were in their vehicles, but someone must be watching the front door. At the back of the parking lot across the street, Matt could see swirling lights reflecting on glass. First responders would set up a command center somewhere nearby but out of the gunman’s line of sight.
He started texting Todd details.
Matt: I’m inside the salon. The shooter is Zack Wallace.
Todd responded in seconds. where is he?
Matt: don’t know. wounded woman near front entrance. bringing her out. don’t shoot us.
Todd: OK. entry teams organizing now.
Then Matt sent one more quick text, to Bree, because she hadn’t responded to his earlier message. whr r u?
Matt analyzed the lobby. The open spiral staircase created a tactical nightmare. If Zack was on the second floor, he could pick off anyone who tried to go up the steps or cross the lobby.
Including Matt.
Boom!
Matt dropped flat to the floor and covered his head with his arms.
The noise had come from the main salon area and had sounded like a shotgun blast, but Matt hadn’t seen a shotgun on Zack. Nor had he been wearing anything long enough to conceal one.
With one eye on the open area above the spiral staircase, Matt ran in a crouch across the lobby. He touched the male employee on the shoulder and pointed to the wounded woman. The man blinked at him, then scrambled to his feet.
Matt paused next to the wounded woman.
No time for first aid. Just get her out.
Hooking his hand around one of her arms, he began dragging her across the tile. The woman who’d been trying to stop the bleeding ran for the door, unlocked it, and opened it. The man grabbed the victim’s other arm and helped Matt.
At the door, Matt nodded for the woman to take his place. She stepped in and helped the man drag the bleeding woman through the doorway and out onto the concrete toward the sheriff’s department vehicles.
Shots erupted from deeper in the building.
Dread balled up in Matt’s chest. How many people had been shot so far?
He turned and ran back through the lobby, getting away from the spiral staircase opening as quickly as possible. Zack was not in the main rooms. He was either in the back of the first floor or upstairs. Matt raced for the side staircase.
Toward the gunfire.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Water from the sprinklers poured down Bree’s face. The alarm was deafening and filled her head like massive congestion. She pushed Steph and the other women, a mix of employees and clients, out of the main salon and into the hall. At the end of the corridor, an EXIT sign glowed in the dimness. A dozen doorways lined the passage.
“He wants me,” Steph cried into Bree’s ear over the screech of the alarm. “I don’t want anyone to die because of me.”
Steph would be Zack’s primary target. The first gunshots had sounded two minutes after he’d texted. Zack must have been close by, maybe watching the building, ready to strike, his rage already triggered, when he’d called. After the first burst of gunfire, Bree had collected the women around her and moved them toward the back hall—away from the shots. She hadn’t seen Zack yet, only heard him shooting. But one glance toward the lobby had been enough to know he’d hit at least two people with his initial shots.
Bree’s mind was on two things: Where was Zack now? And what had he set on fire? She scanned the room. Smoke and the noxious fumes of burned plastic and toxic chemicals fouled her nose. They passed a treatment room. Bree glanced through the doorway. Her gaze swept over the furniture. The treatment table was made of wood, with fat, square legs and drawers underneath a padded top. It looked heavy. The women could barricade themselves inside a room if necessary. B
ullets would cut right through the wallboard and hollow door, but at least they wouldn’t be visible targets.
Bree leaned close to Steph’s ear and shouted, “Head for the exit. If he cuts you off and you can’t get out, barricade yourselves in a room.”
Gun in hand, Bree headed in the opposite direction—toward the last gunshots she’d heard.
“But—” Steph protested.
Bree pointed at her. “Do it.”
The fewer people inside the building, the better. They couldn’t help, and their presence would give Zack leverage. He could take hostages, and he’d already shown he was in a killing mood.
Bree glanced back. Steph stared, her hands clenched at her sides as the other women began pulling her toward the exit. Bree turned away before Steph could argue. The salon had been busy. There were more women still in the building, no doubt hiding. Bree needed to find and stop Zack.
As she moved down the hall, the lights flickered, and the power went out. The hallway went dark. The corridor was an interior one, with no windows. Bree could barely see. The sprinklers hadn’t been triggered in this part of the building, but water ran from the main salon into the hall. She slid on the slippery tile and went down on one knee. She dropped her gun, and it slid a few feet away.
No.
She put a hand to the wall, her pulse scrambling as she regained her footing and picked up her weapon. The piercing alarm ripped at her jagged nerves and amplified the sense of complete chaos.
Where is Zack?
And where was law enforcement? She checked her phone, lowering the brightness to the bare minimum to reduce the chance that the light would make her more visible. She’d received Matt’s text six minutes before. Surely, he—and others—had called 911. The sheriff’s department would be the first responders, followed by cars from surrounding communities and state police. Law enforcement should be outside the building, organizing their entry. Would they wait to set up a command center, call in a nearby SWAT unit? More current protocols in active shooter situations recommended immediate entry for first responders to confront and stop the shooter and minimize casualties. But Bree didn’t know this sheriff’s department’s policies. They were running on half staff. Had they received recent training? Were they operating on alternative protocols?
CROSS HER HEART Page 25
