Gabriel hustled me along the hall. At the first door, I reached for the handle. Gabriel struck me in the back and I stumbled as a gun fired. I turned to see Mrs. Evans. Gabriel was falling, twisting, his injured leg buckling, blood blossoming. He hit the floor. I fired. I reacted too fast, no time to aim, probably for the best, the bullet hitting Mrs. Evans in the hip, just enough to send her to the floor.
I started to drop beside Gabriel, but he was already rising, pushing me toward that door. I yanked it open, took a step into darkness, and almost tumbled down a flight of stairs. The basement. I started to back out, but Gabriel was at my shoulder, prodding me, whispering, “Go!” between clenched teeth.
I went. He followed.
Chapter Sixty-five
I felt my way down the stairs, shoulder blazing. By the time I made it to the bottom, my eyes had adjusted to the dim light, and I turned to see Gabriel still near the top, leaning on the rail, slowly descending, hand pressed to his thigh, grimacing with every move.
I started back for him, but he waved me off, emphatically gesturing for me to get into the next room. I stayed where I was but did look around, taking in our surroundings. A basement. Unfinished. Bare walls. Concrete floor.
Light filtered in through distant windows. I jogged to the nearest lit doorway and peered through. It was a laundry room with one window, near the ceiling. I checked the other two rooms—both storage, similar windows.
“Hide,” Gabriel said as he hobbled over. “Before—”
I raced back to the stairs. He let out an oath and tried to grab me, but I’d already passed. I wiped blood drops off the steps. Then I hurried back to Gabriel and prodded him into the laundry room. I closed the door most of the way—all the way would seem a clear sign we were in there.
I tried to nudge Gabriel to sit on a pile of sheets, but he caught me instead to get a look at my shoulder. Blood had seeped through and it hurt like hell, but there wasn’t a bullet hole, just a shredded line of blood-soaked fabric.
“It’s a graze,” I whispered. “I’m fine.”
I tried to move away, but he caught me again, by the chin this time, lifting my face up to his and studying me. I knocked his hand aside.
“I’m not going into shock, Gabriel.”
I looked at him, his hand on the washing machine, his weight all on his right leg. His left one was bleeding at the thigh, where there was a bullet hole, and at the calf, where the spade had sliced clean through his trousers.
“You need—” I began.
“Later. Now, the window. You have to—” He looked at the dryer. “Perfect.”
“I know. I checked the options. Can you get up on that?”
“I’m not—”
“I’ll help you if you can’t, but you’re going first. You’re hurt worse than me.”
“I’m not going—”
“Yes, you are. Now move before—”
“Olivia. Stop. I won’t fit through that window.”
I looked up at it, my heart pounding as I realized he was right. I would barely get through.
I took a deep breath. “Okay, plan B.” I fumbled my cell phone from my pocket. “Call for help.”
His hand shot out to stop me.
I moved back out of his reach. “I’m not going to be the idiot who lets you bleed out rather than phone 911. It’ll be fine. You haven’t done anything wrong.”
I put a little too much emphasis on “you” and he said, “Neither have you. It was self-defense. Now, get your ass outside. Then call 911.”
I dialed my phone.
“Olivia…”
I backed up and placed the call, keeping my voice low, in case Chandler’s bodyguard picked that moment to open the basement door.
When I hung up, Gabriel said, “Now you’re going out that—”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“Don’t be stupid. I have a gun.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the .45.
“Which will knock you on your ass if you try firing with a bad leg. Sit down before you fall.”
“I’m—”
“Sit down.”
I walked to the door and peered out. If I strained, I could hear footsteps above. Anderson would search the other rooms first. Then he’d come down here.
When I returned, Gabriel was still standing, leaning against the washing machine. Stubborn bastard.
“So you’re staying with me?” he said.
“Yep.”
“You may not want to do that.”
“Too bad.”
“I wouldn’t stay for you.”
“Probably not.”
His mouth opened, as if he’d been prepared for me to disagree. He paused and then said, “I wouldn’t. You know I wouldn’t.”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re my partner. I watch your back.”
He paused. Then he cleared his throat. “What if I’ve done something that I’m quite certain would make you change your mind about that?”
“About what?”
“Whether we are, indeed, partners. Whether you should stay to watch my back.”
I checked out the door again. “If you mean about your mother, I already know.”
Silence. I was still peering out the door, listening. After a moment, I backed in and closed it a little more.
“Evans told me,” I said, not turning. “He called me here for that. He’d done a background check when you first tried to interview him. An extensive one.”
More silence. When I turned, his face was taut, blank.
“You said something about my mother,” he said finally. “He told you that she left, I presume?”
“And the rest.”
“The rest?”
I backed into the room, flexed my arm, shoulder still aching.
“Evans told me that the police found her body; they just never made the connection. Evans tried to say you gave her the overdose. I think you just moved her, so you wouldn’t get sent to children’s services. Maybe I’m wrong. Frankly, I don’t care. Whatever you did, I’m not leaving you behind.”
“Found her body…?”
His tone made me look over, and when I saw his expression, I knew without a doubt that he had not moved Seanna Walsh’s body. That he had not killed her. That he’d had no idea his mother was dead.
Shit.
His gaze lifted to mine. “What exactly did Evans say?”
“Nothing. Never mind. I shouldn’t have opened my mouth. He was just trying to throw me off the trail.”
“What did he say?”
“Never—”
“Olivia.”
I met his eyes and saw not anger, but shock. Dread.
“He said they found her body a couple of months after she disappeared. He had photos. Maybe they were doctored. I just … I thought that’s what you meant. I’m sorry. But I’m not leaving, okay? We need to wait here until the cops arrive.”
He was quiet for a moment before shaking his head. “No. We can’t do that.”
“Yes, it’s not the most heroic conclusion but—”
“If we lose Chandler, we lose our explanation for all this. If the police show up, he’ll bolt.” He moved his leg and grimaced. “Damn it.”
A line of sweat trickled down the side of his face. He was in extreme pain. Enough to distract him from any plan except getting me out of here. And having me tell him his mother was dead really hadn’t helped.
“Would you sit down?” I said. “Please.”
He hesitated, then lowered himself to the sheets. “We need Chandler. He’s out there.”
“Out where?”
A wave, curt, almost annoyed. “Out there. Watching.”
I shook my head. “He phoned in his instructions to Maria. I saw the call display. He’s sitting at home, orchestrating all this.”
“It was a cell phone. He’s here. Keeping his distance but keeping control.”
“How do you know that?”
Another flash of annoyance. Or maybe just pain. “Because
I know what kind of man he is. He’s here, and I would like you to get the hell out that window, so I can go find him.”
I cast a pointed look at his leg. “Really?”
He grabbed a sheet and tore off a strip to bind it. “I’ll be fine.”
“Okay, so if I won’t leave, I’m being stupid. If you insist on taking down Chandler when you can barely stand, you’re being brave?”
“Olivia…”
“How about we call him. See what’s what.” I lifted my phone.
“I have his home number, not his cell.”
“I saw it on the call display.”
“And you remember it?”
“Of course. I’m playing detective. The area code was 817. Is that his home number?”
He checked. “No.”
I started to dial.
“No,” he said, rising. “Let me—”
I shook my head. “I’m the client, remember?”
“I thought you were my partner.”
“It varies depending on which best suits my needs.”
“As either your lawyer or your partner, I believe I should be privy to your plan.”
I told him. He adjusted it. I would have argued on one point, but there wasn’t time.
When I called, Chandler’s cell rang a few times—I didn’t expect him to answer an unknown number. Then it went to voice mail.
“Hello, Dr. Chandler,” I said. “This is…” I paused. Considered. “Eden Larsen. We need to talk.”
Guinea Pig
Chandler listened to the message. Then he smiled. He could hear the desperation in the girl’s voice, in the way she’d hesitated, barely able to get the words out. She’d kept her tone clear, trying to be brave, but she was trapped and she knew it. She wanted to negotiate. How quaint.
He summoned Anderson first. Then he phoned the girl back. She answered on the first ring.
“Miss Larsen,” he said. “Is that the name you use now?”
“It is.”
He gave a soft chuckle. “All right. Let’s talk. By that, I presume you mean negotiate.”
“I might.”
He strained to pick up noise that might suggest where she was hiding. “Admirable, but under the circumstances I don’t think you have anything to negotiate with.”
“Then you wouldn’t have returned my call. Technology is amazing, isn’t it? We don’t have to play cat and mouse, blindly groping around unable to communicate. Likewise, I don’t need to play that old ruse where I say I have details of your crimes locked in a safe, to be opened in the event of my death. I can just tell you that I have it right here, in an e-mail, complete with photos of what happened in this house.”
He tried not to pause. He wasn’t concerned, of course. He’d cleaned up worse messes than this. Still, it annoyed him that he hadn’t considered this possibility. He’d been out of the game too long.
He glanced at Anderson, coming out into the yard now. That reminded him what he was supposed to be doing—not chatting with the girl, but using background noise to pinpoint her location. Just keep her talking. She seemed willing enough.
“And Mr. Walsh himself?” Chandler asked.
“Dead, I think. Or dying. Your bodyguard shot him in the thigh. He seemed all right, but after running through the house, I think that bullet nicked the femoral artery. There’s a lot of blood. He might still be alive. I can’t tell. But if he is, I’d suggest you fix that when you get a chance. Otherwise, you’ll need to bargain with both of us, and he’s a much tougher negotiator.”
“So I’ve heard.”
By God, she was a cold one. Last night, she’d been ready to shoot him to save Walsh. But the moment her lawyer became more burden than help, she’d let him die. Not surprising, given where she came from. He understood now why the Huntsmen had forbidden him to simply remove her from the equation. The restriction rankled, but he dared not defy them. That was beyond dangerous.
The girl continued, “I’m sure your plan isn’t to leave me alive, either. Actually, I’m surprised you let me live this long. You knew I was digging for answers. You could have killed me. Instead, you had brainwashed assassins kill Niles Gunderson and Joshua Gray before I could get to them. That seems … complicated.”
She paused. When she did, he heard the faint sound of a furnace turning on, warming the cool morning. Furnace meant basement.
He motioned to Anderson and mouthed “basement.” The bodyguard lumbered off.
Chandler realized the line had stayed quiet. “Miss Larsen?”
“You’re not even going to pretend you have no idea who I’m talking about?”
Chandler inwardly cursed. He’d been paying too much attention to that furnace to react properly to her accusation about Gunderson and Gray. He should deny it, and yet … Well, he hadn’t gotten to where he was by doing what he should. Especially when that instinct to deny was really just his old CIA training. It worked most times, but a smart and independent man also had to know when to give a little. Just a little.
“I know who Mr. Gunderson is,” he said carefully. “And I know that Mr. Gray contacted Will, who called me about it. He was concerned. I told him to take care of it. Naturally, I only meant for him to speak to Mr. Gray, and if he did more, that’s regrettable, but hardly my fault.”
“It was Evans who wanted to get close to me, wasn’t it? You disagreed—like when you disagreed with how he wanted to handle Peter’s discovery.”
“That was unfortunate.” Chandler paused. Play the string out a little and then stop it short. Keep the fish on the line while the shark moved in. “I didn’t kill Peter, though. Again, I merely told Will to take care of it. When I learned of the deaths, I confronted Will. I knew what had happened. They’d argued and there was an accident. The girl came in. Will panicked and killed her. He denied it, but the fact that he staged the scene to look like the work of your parents sealed the matter.”
“How?”
“My dear girl. You do know his field of expertise, do you not? Sociopaths. He followed the murders very closely. Even discussed it with friends on the police force, which is how he knew details that were never made public. He was fascinated by sociopathy. Which is why he was fascinated by you.”
A moment of silence as she worked it out. “Because I could, potentially, be what MKULTRA was searching for. The perfect assassin. I have the genes but not the experience. I’m a blank slate for his experiments. And I’m not currently serving a life sentence.”
“That is an advantage.”
“You let him build a relationship with me, because you were intrigued by his theories. You still are.”
“Possibly. Is that what you’re offering Miss Larsen? Yourself as a guinea pig?”
“Not sure I have much choice.” She went quiet for a moment. “You said Evans denied it. But he ultimately confessed?”
Chandler hesitated only a split-second before smoothly lying. “Yes, he confessed. To me, acting as his doctor, not his friend, though, which meant I wasn’t at liberty to reveal it. With his death, that changes. I have proof—”
A gunshot sounded in the basement.
“What the—?” She shrieked. “You—you bastard!”
Chandler smiled. “Calm down, Miss Larsen.”
“I’m negotiating with you in good faith, you son of a bitch, and you sent your lackey down here to shoot me. All I have to do is hit the send button. It only takes one second.”
“It was a mistake,” he said smoothly. “I told him—”
“Call him off! If I see his face, I will send this e-mail. I swear it.”
The line went dead.
Chapter Sixty-six
I hung up. Then I opened the door and peered out. Gabriel was crouched by the foot of the stairs. He waved me over.
As I headed to the steps, a phone started to ring. It came from the body sprawled at the bottom of the stairs. Anderson. Unconscious. Blood seeped from the back of his head. Judging by the way his hair stuck up on one side, I guessed Gabri
el had grabbed him by it and cracked his head against the concrete. There was more blood on the steps. Bits of shoe, too. And flesh.
I looked over at Anderson’s foot. It was a bloody mess, half of it blown off.
“How’d you manage that?” I whispered to Gabriel.
“I waited behind the stairs and shot his foot through the risers as he came down.”
“Smart.” I looked around. “Messy, though.”
“It’s a big gun.”
Anderson’s phone had stopped ringing. Mine started.
I answered and said to Chandler, “You’ve called him off?”
A hesitation, then, “Yes, of course. I’m sorry about that, Miss Larsen. I—”
“Whatever. Now, let’s negotiate. I want— What the hell? I thought you said you—”
On cue, Gabriel fired his gun. I dropped the phone and fired my own gun, aiming somewhere across the basement. Then I hit the floor, groaning.
“Miss Larsen?” Chandler called from the fallen phone.
I stopped groaning.
“Anderson?”
Silence. Then a curse. I could still hear Chandler’s breathing, quickening now, as buttons clicked. He hung up. Anderson’s phone began to ring.
I winced as I rubbed my shoulder. “I need to work on my pratfalls.”
Gabriel motioned for me to save the commentary and play dead. I did, lying on my back, gun gripped in my hand. Gabriel crossed the room, his left foot dragging now, breath coming ragged. How badly was he hurt? Too badly to play this game much longer.
Too badly to finish it? I hoped not. Really hoped not.
A few minutes later, the basement door creaked open. A long pause. I imagined Chandler peering through. A curse as he saw Anderson’s fallen body. Then a louder one as he saw me lying several feet away. He started down the steps. I counted them off.
Four, five, six…
“Stop,” Gabriel said. He didn’t bark it. Barely even raised his voice. Just a calm and steady, “Stop.”
I sat up, gun aimed.
“You know the routine,” I said. “Drop the gun. Don’t bother backing away this time. Just drop it over the side of the steps.”
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