Death Is Not Enough

by Karen Rose

  ‘Gwyn?’ Kathryn called. ‘We know you’re under the dock. I can see you right now.’

  Gwyn looked up at the piling. Sure enough, there was a camera. Dammit.

  ‘You might as well come out,’ Margo added. ‘There’s nowhere to run.’

  Gwyn said nothing. Come down here and get me. She might not make it out alive, but she’d do her damnedest to take one of the bitches with her.

  There was quiet above, and then footsteps along the dock above her head. Gwyn backed up until she was wedged between the top of the dock and the beach. Tavilla wants to use me to hurt Thorne. So they probably won’t shoot me. At least not much.

  Still her heart hammered. Tightening her grip on the knife, she waited.

  There was a loud thump in the boat. One of them had climbed in. Gwyn glimpsed a long blond ponytail. Anne. No, Margo.

  And then a hand grabbed her hair, twisting and yanking. And even though she knew it was Kathryn . . . it wasn’t. Even though she knew Evan was dead . . . it didn’t matter.

  She froze, her heart pounding out of her chest, leaving her lightheaded and dizzy. He’d grabbed her by her hair and . . .

  Bile rose in her throat as she remembered the things he’d done. Again and again. An agonized cry burst from her throat and she struck out, twisting in his grip, the knife in her hand hitting something hard.

  A screech cut through the air, followed by a torrent of curses.

  It was the screech that snapped her back into her mind. It was high. Falsetto. Not deep. Nor were the curses. Not Evan.

  The hand in her hair fell away and she backed up, crablike.

  Kathryn. Not Evan.

  Though it didn’t really matter, because both of them had pointed a gun at her face.

  Gwyn blinked at the barrel as it came closer.

  ‘Get in the fucking boat,’ Kathryn gritted out. ‘Now.’

  Gwyn heard a splash behind her, followed by Margo’s not-French voice. ‘I’ve got her, Kat. Are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah.’ But Kathryn sounded breathless, and there was pain in her voice. The water around her arm was red. She was bleeding profusely.

  I’ve got her. Ha! But Gwyn’s joy was short-lived, because Margo had a gun of her own, this one with a silencer.

  ‘Get in the boat, Kat. I won’t let her get away. Once we have her locked down, I’ll stitch up your wound.’

  Kathryn waded by Gwyn on her way to the boat. ‘Fucking cunt,’ she muttered, and Gwyn felt a blinding pain as the butt of Kathryn’s gun connected with her cheekbone.

  Margo focused on Gwyn. ‘Thorne lives as long as you’re alive. I’m already in trouble with my father-in-law.’

  Wait. What? Margo was Tavilla’s daughter-in-law? We had his daughter-in-law working for us for a whole year? Shit.

  ‘At this point,’ Margo continued coolly, ‘I’ll kill you where you stand rather than risk his anger if you get away again. So do us all a favor. Extend Thorne’s life and your own by getting in the fucking boat.’

  Gwyn’s eyes were watering, both from the pain radiating across her face and the gutting disappointment of losing her chance to help Thorne. But despite her blurred vision she could see that Margo’s gun was a .45 with a shiny silencer. The woman meant business. Gwyn drew a breath, then nodded, ignoring the stars still twinkling in front of her eyes.

  ‘Good choice,’ Margo mocked. She waited until Gwyn had climbed the small ladder into the boat, then followed her in. ‘Can you drive, Kat? I need to watch this bitch.’

  Kathryn nodded. ‘I think so.’ She swallowed hard. ‘This . . . is pretty bad, Margo.’ Weakly she pointed at the yacht. ‘I hope I can get up the ladder.’

  ‘I’ll help you,’ Margo promised. ‘Tide’s just starting to go out, so there aren’t as many rungs to climb.’

  Kathryn gripped the steering wheel, her jaw set in determination, and the launch started out toward the yacht. With its powerful motor, Gwyn could see the trip wouldn’t take long.

  She watched the dock grow smaller and steeled her spine. She’d figure out another way. She’d get help for Thorne and Blake Segal. I will. I have to.

  Once they reached the yacht, she didn’t fight Margo when it was time to climb on board. She’d bide her time, waiting for another opportunity to run. She’d expected it to happen before the launch left the dock, as soon as Margo put down her gun to apply a tourniquet to her sister’s arm, because Kathryn was still gushing blood. But Margo didn’t do that. Nor did she tend to her sister when they got to the yacht. After forcing Gwyn up the ladder, she climbed up herself, then extended her arm over the side, hauling Kathryn up.

  Kathryn collapsed on the deck, her face whiter than snow. ‘What the fuck, Margo? That hurt like hell. You were supposed to help me, not drag me.’

  Margo rose to her feet gracefully. Then casually shot her sister between the eyes.

  Gwyn froze, gaping. ‘What the . . . Oh my God,’ she whispered. She lifted her eyes to Margo, shocked. ‘Why?’

  ‘Not your business,’ Margo snapped. ‘Now get down the stairs or I’ll do the same to you.’

  Twenty-nine

  Annapolis, Maryland,

  Thursday 16 June, 6.05 P.M.

  ‘Go,’ Margo commanded, nudging Gwyn down the stairs into the hold and along a hall to an open door. Gwyn gasped. Thorne.

  He was on his knees, his hands covered in blood. His face was pale, his blood-soaked shirt hanging open, displaying a half-dozen knife wounds. The wounds were deep enough to bleed but not deep enough to gush.

  Deep enough to torture. Tavilla tortured Thorne. The bastard himself stood behind him, his gun to Thorne’s head.

  Gwyn started to run to him, but Margo grabbed a handful of her hair to stop her. ‘Stay,’ she commanded, like Gwyn was a dog.

  Thorne looked up and met her eyes, and Gwyn wanted to weep. He was in pain, so much pain. But fear mixed with the pain when he saw her, and he suddenly seemed defeated.

  No. No, Thorne. It’s not over yet. She thought the words as hard as she could, hoping he’d somehow understand.

  ‘Ah, Margo,’ Tavilla said smoothly. ‘What do you have for me?’

  ‘I found her trying to escape. Kathryn didn’t do a very good job watching her.’

  Tavilla frowned. ‘Where is Kathryn? She said she was bringing you back.’

  ‘She’s dead,’ Margo informed him conversationally, as if she were telling him that it was raining outside.

  Tavilla’s mouth fell open. ‘What?’ he asked quietly.

  She shrugged. ‘Bullet right between the eyes. She’s up on deck if you want to check.’

  Tavilla continued to stare, a muscle in his cheek beginning to twitch. ‘Who did this?’

  ‘I did,’ Margo replied.

  Gwyn’s gaze jerked away from Thorne’s in time to see Tavilla grow pale with shock. ‘You . . . I . . . I don’t understand, Margo.’

  ‘I know you don’t. But you need to.’ She shifted the gun away from Gwyn just long enough to shoot Tavilla in his right arm, before calmly returning the barrel to Gwyn’s temple. Tavilla looked down, both shocked and perplexed to see his weapon now on the floor. He fluttered his fingers helplessly, staring at his bleeding arm, then looked up at Margo.

  ‘Why?’ he asked, sounding sadly childlike.

  Her laugh was bitter. ‘Because of Colin. All this time you’ve blamed Thorne for Colin going to prison, for Madeline dying when he was incarcerated, for Colin getting murdered in the prison yard. But it wasn’t Thorne’s fault. It was yours. You couldn’t let him have a normal life. You were going to have a son to carry on your name, your fucking legacy, no matter what Colin wanted. You pushed him to kill his best friend. You pushed him to do the thing that landed him in jail. And for what? To stir up trouble with another gang. Well, guess what. You’re going away. Forever. And I’ll carry on your damn legacy.
’

  ‘I would have let you have it all,’ he said mournfully.

  ‘No, you wouldn’t. You’d have given it to Kathryn. You know, at the beginning, I didn’t want it. I just wanted Colin.’ Her voice broke. ‘I just wanted the two of us to have a normal life with our son. But you wouldn’t let Colin go. So now I’m taking it all.’

  Gwyn locked eyes with Thorne. Then she looked at the gun Tavilla had dropped on the floor, about eight inches behind Thorne’s left foot. Thorne was fading fast, but he managed a slight nod.

  Margo must have noticed it, because a sudden vicious pull on Gwyn’s hair made her cry out, her eyes watering once again. This time, however, she didn’t flash back to Evan. Keeping her gaze on Thorne’s, she blinked the moisture away as the barrel of the gun ground into her temple.

  ‘Kick the gun away,’ Margo commanded, maneuvering Gwyn by her hair until she was inches from Tavilla’s dropped gun. ‘Over there against the wall.’

  No, no, no, Gwyn thought, mentally scrambling for a Plan B but coming up with nothing. She could only obey, kicking the gun where Margo had commanded.

  ‘Good girl,’ Margo said sarcastically. ‘Now, on the floor. On your face.’

  ‘Let go of my hair, and I will,’ Gwyn snapped, sucking in a gasp when Margo yanked it once more before shoving her away. She fell hard, landing on her stomach, able only to see Margo’s face and Tavilla’s back.

  Thorne was all but hidden from her.

  ‘You,’ Tavilla breathed quietly to Margo. ‘You lied to me. You said that Brandenberg was dead, but you knew he wasn’t, didn’t you? You knew he’d come back. And the Brown woman. Bernice. You knew she wasn’t dead before using her name to lure Thorne out of his house.’

  ‘Brandenberg, yes. I knew about that. Ramirez never went after him and nobody died a fiery death. But the Brown woman really was a mistake. We knew that if she lived, she could be part of Thorne’s alibi – that he was rushing to save her when he was abducted. She really was supposed to be dead, because I knew her denying making the call would get all Thorne’s friends whipped up and searching for clues.’ She shook her head. ‘Patton simply fucked up and torched the wrong trailer.’

  Margo leaned to one side, glancing into the room where Gwyn and Thorne had been held. ‘But it looks like Patton isn’t a problem any longer. I’d planned to kill him, but Mr Thorne saved me the trouble. In fact, all of your upper ranks are gone, Papa. You could thank Kathryn for that, pulling six of your top men off duty to go after these two. But you can’t, because she’s dead.’ Tavilla’s back went rigid, his right hand clenching into a fist at his side. ‘Now four of your top moneymakers are dead, one’s in custody, and the only one left is . . .’ She looked around, frowning. ‘Where is Brickman?’

  Gwyn ground her teeth. Thorne was bleeding out and Tavilla and Margo were bickering like an old married couple. Do something. She readied her body to spring, but Tavilla seemed to relax, his rigidity simply melting away.

  ‘He’ll be happy to know you planned to get rid of everyone in my upper ranks when you took over,’ he said, a smile in his voice. ‘Won’t you, Detective?’

  From where she lay, Gwyn could see Margo tense, even though there was no one behind her. It was a child’s ruse, but it looked like the woman just might fall for it.

  ‘I never said that,’ Margo replied, looking from the corner of each eye uncomfortably.

  Tavilla’s stance grew more confident as Margo seemed to shrink, finally giving in to quickly check over her shoulder.

  Which was when he leaped at her, going for the gun in her hand. The pair of them fought for it, giving Gwyn the opportunity she’d been waiting for. Crawling across the floor on her belly, she reached the weapon she’d kicked to the wall a moment after a cry of pain was followed by the loud thump of a body hitting the floor.

  Thorne lay on the floor on his side, one arm stretched toward Tavilla, who was sinking to his knees, a short hilt sticking from his back. Margo still held the gun with the silencer, her arm outstretched. She seemed to be uninjured, but Tavilla had a hole in his head.

  Good.

  Margo’s gaze fell to the gun in her hand, and for a second Gwyn thought she’d drop it, but she simply aimed at Thorne and—

  Gwyn gripped the gun she’d retrieved from the floor and fired at Margo’s chest. Margo staggered back, falling on her ass. But there was no bloodstain blooming on Margo’s blouse, no cry of pain. Kevlar. The bitch.

  Struggling to her knees, Margo aimed again, but this time at Gwyn.

  On autopilot, Gwyn raised the gun once more, this time aiming higher. Squeezing the trigger, she controlled her breathing, keeping her hands steady.

  Just as she’d practiced over the last four years. So many times. This time the bullet found its target, and Margo’s head snapped back as the bullet hit her squarely between the eyes. She toppled sideways, the gun in her hand falling to the hardwood.

  Gwyn let out a sobbing breath. ‘Thorne. Thorne!’ She crawled to him, dropping the gun on the floor and pressing her fingers to his throat. Feeling for his pulse. Then shrieking when someone grabbed her shoulder.

  She looked up to see a very pale Blake Segal looking down, a phone in one hand, towels in the other. ‘Is he alive?’ the kid was asking, but Gwyn could only see his mouth moving. The gun’s report had fucked with her hearing.

  She grabbed at the towels and began pressing them to the knife wound in Thorne’s back. ‘Yes. But barely. Whose phone is that?’

  Blake crouched beside her and pointed behind them to the room where they’d been held. ‘It belonged to the guy with the knife in his throat – the big one who brought you and Thorne in. I’ve been on the phone with 911. They’re almost here.’

  Gwyn’s muscles threatened to turn to jelly with relief. ‘Tell them to send a helicopter. He’s lost so much blood. Tell them!’ she insisted when he said nothing into the phone.

  ‘They can hear you,’ he shouted. ‘You’re yelling.’

  She winced. ‘Sorry.’

  Thorne stirred, reaching behind him to grab at her arm. ‘Hey.’

  Lightheaded with relief, she leaned over him, putting her mouth against his ear. ‘You better not die, Thomas Thorne. Do you understand me?’

  His mouth quirked in a small but smug smile. ‘Yes. Love you.’

  Her eyes began to burn and she blinked the tears away. ‘I love you too.’ She looked over to see Blake bringing more towels. The kid dropped to his knees and pulled the blood-soaked ones away, replacing them with new ones. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ He glanced up and she realized how young he was. Just a year younger than Aidan. ‘I have a message for you from someone named Carter,’ he said.

  She stiffened. ‘Yes?’

  ‘He said to tell you “he’s okay”.’

  A new wave of relief had the tears coming in earnest. Aidan. ‘Oh God,’ she whispered, and Thorne squeezed her hand. But so damn weakly. She focused on keeping him calm and comfortable while Blake put steady pressure on the wound.

  Saving him. Just like Thorne did for Richard. Blake’s father. It was a circle that Thorne would find ironic when he woke up. Because he would wake up. Roughly she cleared her throat. ‘Look, Blake, if you need anything when we get out of here . . . just ask, okay?’

  He swallowed hard. ‘I will. Thank you.’

  Thorne gestured weakly at the phone Blake had set aside, still connected to 911. ‘How did you know our location?’

  Blake shrugged. ‘Used Patton’s fingerprint to unlock it and checked our GPS coordinates on Google Maps.’

  Thorne rolled his eyes. ‘Smart. Should have thought of that. Where were you hiding?’

  ‘I hid in the closet, under a blanket. He was in too big a hurry to check.’ Blake’s throat worked as he tried to swallow. ‘I was lucky,’ he tried to say lightly, but the effect was ruined when h
is voice broke.

  ‘Smart,’ Thorne said again.

  Gwyn pressed her fingers to his mouth and her mouth to his ear. ‘Be quiet now.’

  He kissed her fingers, opening his eyes enough to meet hers. ‘Don’t leave me.’

  ‘Never.’

  Baltimore, Maryland,

  Monday 20 June, 11.45 A.M.

  Thorne woke from his umpteenth nap that day and smelled lavender. ‘We’ve got to stop meeting like this,’ he murmured, and was rewarded by Gwyn’s watery chuckle. She’d kept her promise, not leaving his side for more than a few minutes at a time since he’d been airlifted to the trauma center.

  She reached out to stroke his arm, which she’d been doing approximately fifteen times an hour, but he wasn’t complaining. Apparently he’d nearly died, and her constant touches were her way of assuring herself that he was still alive.

  And she wasn’t the only one. Jamie squeezed his ankle briefly. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Fit as a fiddle,’ Thorne told him.

  Jamie snorted. ‘A beat-up fiddle.’ Between Thorne and Phil, who’d been moved from the high-security hospital to the cardiac rehab unit in the same hospital as Thorne’s, Jamie was constantly on the go. At the moment, he looked worn out, but the lines of worry were finally easing from his face, and that gave Thorne peace of mind.

  They’d moved Thorne from ICU to a regular room that morning, so he was preparing himself for visitors. Gwyn had shaved him after his trembling hand had nearly slit his own throat. The doctors assured him the shakiness would fade.

  Which would be good, but there’d been an intimacy to being shaved by the woman he’d loved for so long. When he’d whispered that to her, she’d blushed and promised to do it whenever he wanted.

  Something to look forward to.

  He adjusted the bed so that he could sit up, and patted the space next to him, wordlessly asking Gwyn to cuddle up against him. He was worried about her. She was pale and looked like she’d lost weight in the few days that he’d been out of it. But she’d be okay because he was okay. And vice versa.