''This doesn't feel right." He cast an uneasy look over his shoulder.
Adrenaline danced through her midsection. She'd spent enough time with him in the last few days to realize he was overprotective, but he wasn't paranoid. "We can go back to the hotel if you prefer," she said.
"We're here. Let's see what he's got, then we'll leave and get dinner later."
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Clint at a table near the back of the room. "There's Clint."
Randall looked at her with an intensity that stopped her breath. "We won't stay long," he said, giving her a quick, hard kiss.
Addison clearly felt the anxiety pouring off him, and she was reacting to it. Uneasiness pressed down on her like a lead weight. By the time they reached, the table, she was trembling.
Clint rose. "Any trouble finding the place?"
"No problems." Randall slid into the chair at the end of the table. Addison sat across from Clint with her back to the door.
"I took the liberty of ordering wine." Reaching for the open bottle, Clint toppled his glass. Red wine soaked into the white tablecloth. His hand shook when he pressed his napkin over the spill. Addison looked at Randall and realized he'd noticed the shaking as well.
"Why are you shaking, Clint?" Randall asked. "What the fuck's going on?"
"Like I said, partner, I got news for you."
Addison held her breath, suddenly aware that something beyond her perceptivity was happening between the two men. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. She resisted the urge to look over her shoulder.
"What are you talking about?" Randall took the bottle from him and lowered it to the table without pouring. His eyes were dark with anger and another emotion Addison couldn't put a name to.
Clint's eyes flicked toward the front door.
Inexplicably, her heart began to hammer.
"You son of a bitch." Randall rose, grasping Addison's arm. Roughly, he jerked her to her feet. His eyes were wild with knowledge and terror when they fell upon her. "Run out the back door and go to the bar next door. Call the police."
Shoving the cell phone into her hands, he pushed her toward a set of swinging doors that opened to the kitchen. Stunned, she stumbled away from the table.
"Go!" Randall shouted.
The look on his face sent a shock wave crashing through her. She moved toward the swinging doors. She sensed danger. It pressed into her with an almost physical force. She wanted to obey him. She trusted him. But a sudden, encompassing fear for his life made her stop and turn to him.
He'd taken Clint by the collar, his face contorted with rage.
He never saw the men come through the front door.
They were like phantoms out of her worst nightmare. Two men wearing long, dark coats, faces obscured by ski masks, hands covered with black leather, boots thudding heavily on the wood floor.
Terror pounded through her as the two men drew sleek, black weapons from beneath their coats.
"Randall!" Her scream pierced the air. Oblivious to the danger, she lunged toward him.
It was as though she were moving in slow motion. She watched as Randall swung around to face the two men. His right hand moved to his weapon. She saw fear on his face, realization in his eyes as the muzzles rose, leveled.
His eyes met hers. "Run!" he shouted.
The blast deafened her. She screamed his name, then watched in shock as the concussion sent him reeling back.
"No!" Denial ripped through her. Screaming his name, she lunged toward him, knowing what she'd just witnessed couldn't be happening. God wouldn't do that to her. He wouldn't take another loved one.
A second blast rocked her brain. She looked up to see Clint fall. Blood spattered the wall behind him.
Nausea crashed through her. Her legs buckled. She fell to her hands and knees, the cell phone clattering away. A few feet away Randall lay twisted and motionless. "Randall!" Panic sent her crawling toward his prone form. She had to see him. Had to touch him. Had to know he was alive.
Shoving a chair out of the way, she crawled toward him. The floor around her was slippery with blood. For all she knew it could have been her own. It was on her hands, like warm syrup, sticky between her fingers, soaking into her clothing.
An instant before she reached him, two strong hands clamped around her shoulders and pulled her to her feet. "No!"
Pain seared through her right shoulder. Enraged, she twisted and lashed out with her feet. An instant later, the realization that she'd been injected slammed into her. A minute to react, she thought. She had to reach Randall. God, she didn't want to die alone.
She struggled, but the hands dragged her toward the front door. She was aware of the stunning silence around her, punctuated by the sound of her boots scraping across the floor. In the darkness, someone sobbed. A telephone rang in another room. Sirens howled in the distance.
The police, she thought vaguely. She tried to free herself from the man's grip, but her body, had gone numb. Her mind waned; thoughts floated in and out. By the time they dragged her outside, she was unable to feel the cold.
Chapter 23
He struggled toward the light. The darkness terrified him. Darkness was death. He knew death intimately. He'd seen it. Smelled it. Feared it. He didn't want to die.
The pain was blinding in its intensity. As if someone had taken a shovel to his chest and shattered his sternum. He was aware of noise around him. The keening of sirens. Unintelligible shouting. A man barking out commands. Someone touched his chest. Something smooth and hard cupped his face. Oxygen. He tried to draw a breath. Pain clenched his chest like a steel trap.
The memory of what had happened rushed back. He remembered the gunmen. Shotguns. Blasts so close they'd left him temporarily deaf.
His heart stopped when he thought of Addison.
He opened his eyes, struggled to sit up. Pain ripped through him, sending him back down. He shoved the oxygen cup aside. "Addison!"
"Easy, buddy. Take it easy."
Randall focused on the young woman kneeling over him. She was wearing a navy jacket and rubber exam gloves. A paramedic, he realized. Firmly, she replaced the oxygen cup over his nose and mouth. "This will help you breathe," she said.
"Where is she?" He shoved the cup away from his face.
"Shhh, don't try to talk. I'm a paramedic. I'm going to stabilize you, then we're going to transport you to the hospital. Just try to relax, okay?" She gave him an everything's peachy smile and slipped the cup over his face. "Now, take a few easy breaths for me, not too deep."
Fighting a rising tide of panic, Randall did as he was told, mentally tallying his injuries. At best, his ribs were broken.
Maybe a collapsed lung. Christ, he was in bad shape. If it hadn't been for the vest ...
The paramedic reached for his wrist and began taking his pulse.
With his free hand, he ripped the cup from his face. "Where the hell is she?" His voice sounded desperate and weak. "The woman who was with me—is she here? Is she hurt?"
Before she could answer, a man approached and gazed down at him. "How is he?" he asked the paramedic.
"No external trauma. Kevlar vest protected him from the bullet. He's probably got a few broken ribs. We'll need to take X rays."
The man's eyebrows rose. "Body armor, huh?" He shot a hard look at Randall. "Expecting a shoot-out, cowboy?"
"You a cop?"
"Detective Murphy, Georgetown PD. What happened here?"
Randall struggled to a sitting position, closing his eyes against the dizziness. Swallowing panic, feeling the seconds ticking away, he recounted the shooting, ending with a recommendation that Murphy contact Van-Dyne in Denver. He knew if the police detained him for questioning he could be tied up for hours. He couldn't let that happen. His only concern was for Addison.
"I'm a private detective," he said. "My I.D.'s in my wallet." Wincing with pain, he reached into the rear pocket of his jeans, and passed the wallet to the detective. "There was a woman with m
e. Where is she?"
The detective studied his identification. "Bartender says the two men forced her into a car."
Randall felt the words like a physical blow. "I've got to find her. Jesus Christ."
"Easy, partner."
"They'll kill her."
"Who?"
"I don't know ... hired thugs."
"Give me a description."
"Two men. Black face masks, long coats. They were packing sawed-off shotguns."
The detective's eyes sharpened. "You're making this sound like some kind of a professional job."
Randall knew better than to name names. No one would believe him, and he would risk turning the event into a media feeding frenzy. Van-Dyne could take care of the details. Right now, his single priority was to find Addison.
He wanted to trust the detective. He wanted to tell him everything; he desperately needed help. But there was no time. If he was detained for questioning, it would be hours before they released him. Addison didn't have that kind of time. "That's all I know."
"Your friend's in bad shape." Murphy frowned. "You're not helping matters by clamming up."
Randall watched two paramedics frantically working on Clint. Blood glistened on their gloves. Don't die, you bastard, he thought bitterly. Clint was his only link to Tate. As far as Randall was concerned, the man had been served his just reward. He only hoped the son of a bitch lived long enough to talk.
Grinding his teeth against the ice-pick jabs of pain, Randall struggled to his feet. The room tilted. Nausea roiled in his gut. He clutched the table and leaned heavily against it. Spotting Clint's .cell phone a few feet away, he bent and picked it up.
Two paramedics rolled a gurney into the restaurant and parked it beside Clint's form. A third bagged oxygen. They lifted Clint on a count of three and laid him on the gurney.
Randall watched, sweating, nauseous, and waited for his senses to return. "Any idea where they took her?"
"No."
"What about the vehicle?"
"We don't know yet." The detective gave Randall a sage look. "I'd like for you to come downtown with me, Mr. Talbot. I need a statement, and I'd like for you to answer a few more questions."
Panic swirled in his gut. "I'm in a lot of pain. I think I've got some broken ribs. Maybe a collapsed lung. I need to go to the hospital first, get myself checked out."
"I'd be happy to drive you over to Columbia afterward. A statement shouldn't hold you up but an hour or so."
. As if on cue, the young .paramedic strode up to them, clutching a medical case at her side. Despite her age, she managed to look official in her navy jacket and severe-fitting trousers. She looked at Randall. "I'm required to ask you if you'd like medical aid or if you're refusing."
"I'd like to be transported to the hospital," he said. "With my friend there." He looked at Clint.
"You family?" she asked.
"I'm all he's got." Randall felt the detective's eyes on him as he headed for the front door.
"We'll send someone over to the hospital for a statement, Talbot," Murphy shouted.
Randall had already forgotten Detective Murphy by the time he climbed into the ambulance.
* * *
Sound drifted in and out of her consciousness like a lazy, meandering tide. The rhythmic thud of her heart beat. The ticking of a clock somewhere nearby. An occasional creak.
She was lying on her side with her knees drawn up to her chest. Softness cradled her body. The air around her was too cool for comfort and held the distinct smell of dampness. Her mouth felt gritty and dry, as though someone had filled it with sand, then hastily emptied it. A gentle throbbing emanated from the base of her skull.
Her thoughts floated to Randall. Broken pieces of memory hovered just out of reach. She remembered the restaurant. Two shadows moving through the front door. Guns being raised. Deafening blasts.
The memory struck her like an electrical shock. Vivid images of the shooting flew at her like jagged shards. She bolted upright, a cry escaping her. Terror hammered through her. Nausea hit her like a fist to the stomach.
Randall.
She whispered his name: Involuntary. Instinctive. Clutching the bedpost, Addison sat up and blinked at her surroundings.
She was in an oddly shaped bedroom with unusually low ceilings. The lighting was muted, giving the wood paneling a rich, coffee brown patina. A vase of fresh-cut roses sat on the black marble surface of the built-in bureau. Opposite, a flat-screen television was recessed into the wall. Full darkness had fallen beyond tiny round windows.
Despite the opulent furnishings, the room was as stark and austere as a funeral parlor. It was an oppressive room, filled with all the extravagances of a lush hotel, soured by the smell of her own fear. She felt claustrophobic, as though the intricately carved panels were closing in on her. Where in God's name was she?
It was the slight rocking motion that finally conveyed she was onboard some kind of boat or ship. A glance at her watch told her she'd been unconscious for just over an hour. Despair settled over her like a dark cloud. For the first time in her life, Addison felt utterly and completely vulnerable. Helpless. For several minutes, she sat on the edge of the bed and trembled, trying to absorb what had happened, struggling valiantly to maintain control. To lose control now would mean to accept defeat. She vowed never to surrender, especially to Garrison Tate.
She knew firsthand what he was capable of. He'd murdered four innocent people. He'd almost killed Jack. She'd watched his thugs gun down Clint Holsapple.
Oh, dear God, she'd watched them gun down Randall.
She squeezed her eyes shut against the images, steeling herself against the sight of him jerking and crumbling. She raised her hands and looked at the dried blood caked around her fingernails and the creases of her palms. She wondered if it was his. A wave of hysteria bubbled inside her. Had his vest protected him? Or had the bullet struck his head or neck where an injury would mean instant death? Feeling her own vest press uncomfortably against her breasts, she felt only minutely reassured.
Holding her knuckles to her mouth, she told herself she hadn't lost him. He wasn't dead; he couldn't be. He was too strong. Their love was too strong. There was no way love could simply cease to exist. The world wasn't that cruel. God wasn't that cruel.
Refusing to give in to the doubts, she took a quick mental tally of her physical condition. Except for the throbbing in her head and badly skinned knees, she was uninjured. Her coat had been removed and draped across her, but she was shivering with cold. She glanced down at her clothes, appalled by the sight of bloodstains on her slacks.
"Oh, God." She pressed her hands against her cheeks.
"Take it easy," she whispered, determined to stay in control. "Just ... take it easy. Don't lose it."
Abruptly, the thought struck her that she'd been spared. Why hadn't he killed her when he'd had the chance? Why was she here? She knew he wouldn't let her live. Not now. Not when she could tell the world what she knew. What could Tate possibly have in mind for her?
The question made her shiver.
* * *
"Clint." Randall was so close he could smell blood. "Dammit, Clint, talk to me."
From the paramedic's seat next to the gurney, the young woman monitored Clint's vital signs. Outside, the siren blared like a banshee.
Randall watched as she inserted a needle into the I.V. line and depressed the plunger. "How's he doing?" he asked.
Shaking her head, she adjusted the amount of fluid dripping through the line. "He's pretty critical," she said with a grimace. ''There's a trauma team on standby at the hospital."
When he turned back to Clint, he was surprised to see the other man's eyes open. "Jesus, Clint."
Clint's eyes were glassy and strangely unfocused.
"Where is she?" Randall asked.
The dying man opened his mouth. Flecks of blood splattered against the oxygen cup.
Randall leaned forward, lifted the cup from his mouth. ''They double
-crossed you, my man. Don't sell what's left of your soul for those bastards."
His eyes rolled back in their sockets.
"Where's Addison? Goddammit, they're going to kill her, Clint. I need to know where she is."
The bloody mouth formed a word, the voice came, a crude gurgling, unintelligible.
Randall cursed in frustration. "Damn you, Clint, don't you die on me. You owe me this. You owe it to yourself. Now, dammit, talk to me."
The Perfect Victim Page 28
