Escape (Last Chance Series, Book 3.5)

by Davis, Dee

  Damn the man.

  She started toward the elevator, but a sound stopped her mid-step. It was low. A moan. Someone was in pain. She spun around, her mind trying to identify the location of the sound. There were four doors on the corridor. Eliminating the lab where she’d just been, that left three, two leading to additional autopsy labs and one a small room holding cleaning equipment.

  Wanting nothing more than to head for the relative safety of the elevator to her apartment, Tracy pushed aside her fear. If someone was hurt, she needed to help them. Especially if it was Charlie. And if she were imagining the noise, better to face her fears head on. It had been a very long day—and night—and now she just needed to make sure there was nothing amiss.

  She waited for another beat, but with no more sounds to guide her, she picked the closest door and after slowing inching it open, swung into the room. Like the lab she’d just vacated, tables were spread across the room and a row of drawers stretched along the back wall. Smaller than the previous lab, it was clear once the lights were turned on that the lab was empty.

  Unless somebody was hiding in a drawer, which even for Tracy was too creepy to contemplate. She checked the second lab, finding nothing more than empty tables and equipment. Ever the optimist, she tried both the phones and the computers, but as before there was nothing. Connectivity clearly interrupted.

  Without allowing herself to think about the action, she grabbed a scalpel off an autopsy tray. Better something than nothing. Then she flipped the lights off again and moved back into the hall. The only noise now was the continual hum from the florescent lights overhead.

  She quickened her pace, heading for the third autopsy lab. But as she passed the storage closet another low moan echoed through the hallway. She shivered, then turned slowly, her gaze darting around the corridor, scalpel raised defensively as she watched for danger.

  But the hall was empty. And the sound evaporating.

  Sucking in a breath, she turned back to the closet, reaching for the knob, then froze as she spotted a splash of crimson against the antiseptic white of the tile floor.

  “Blood,” she whispered to the empty hall, her mind scrambling as she opened the closet door, still brandishing her makeshift weapon.

  For a moment she thought she was in the clear, the space filled only with mops and buckets and brooms. But then the groan emanated again. And she dropped to her knees as a shadow separated from the darkness of the closet.

  “Charlie. Oh my God, is that you?” She reached out to grab the man’s wrist, searching for a pulse, her doctor’s instincts kicking in. Although her patients were usually already dead, that didn’t mean she wasn’t capable of caring for the living. “Where are you hurt?”

  The older man moaned softly and tried to move, but he was too weak. Using gentle hands, she managed to roll him over, her stomach clenching as she saw the blood soaking the front of his shirt, the metallic stench filling her nose.

  “What happened?” she asked, leaning close, trying to find the source of his bleeding.

  “Ambush,” he said, his breathing coming in gasps. “Caught me from…behind. Forced me to let them up here.” He reached out for her hand, his blue eyes fading. “So sorry.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she assured him. “I’m sure you did everything you could. Right now we need to get you some help.” She pressed against the pulsing wound, praying for a miracle, her physician’s mind already accepting the futility.

  “No…time,” Charlie whispered, his voice barely audible now. “You need to go.”

  Tracy shook her head, still pressing against the wound. “I’m not leaving you.” Charlie was like family. He’d started with Braxton shortly after she’d founded the company. And until tonight, he’d always had her back.

  “Go,” he whispered again, his tone urgent now. “Go. They’re still here.”

  “Who, Charlie? Who did this?”

  “Don’t know.” He shook his head and then opened his mouth to say more, but it was too late. On a soft exhale, Charlie died. Tears filled Tracy’s eyes, but she knew he was right. She had to get the hell out of here.

  She pushed to her feet, realizing too late that the scalpel was still on the floor beside Charlie. She bent to retrieve it, but before she could close her fingers around the little knife she felt something hard and cold pressed against her side.

  “Move one more inch and you’re dead.” The voice was cold and dispassionate, the barrel of his gun pressing into her skin. And in that moment Tracy’s only thought was of Seth. Funny how when push came to shove the truth had a way of hitting you like a two-by-four.

  *****

  It was fucking cold outside. Seth pulled the collar of his tux jacket closer, wishing he had an overcoat. Springtime in New York was always a roll of the dice. But now, with the icy wind whipping down the street, he wondered if he was doing the right thing.

  Maybe the smart thing would be to head for home and his own bed. He’d sleep it off and in the morning consider his options. But a part of him knew that if he gave himself time to think, he’d let rationale win. Ignoring his heart in favor of his head. But then he’d lose Tracy.

  Forever.

  So it came down to which mattered more. His pride or his need for her. And at the moment, still slightly buzzed from all the whiskey, need was winning the day. Besides, her building was just ahead. If nothing else he’d at least have a chance to get warm before dragging his rejected ass back to his apartment.

  The darkened building rose out of the lamplight, a swirling of mist adding dramatic effect to the pale light. On the top floor he could see a glow coming from Tracy’s window. Which meant that she was still up. Hell, maybe she’d been rethinking things too.

  Yeah, and pigs were circling overhead.

  He slowed his steps, the last remaining shred of his dignity screaming that he should turn around and go home. He’d offered her the moon and she’d thrown it right back in his face. He sucked in a breath, the cold air racing through his lungs, and then walked up the steps leading to the building’s entrance. Tracy believed in low key. And so from the outside one would never guess the high tech labs the building housed. But looks were deceiving and the security at Braxton Labs was state of the art. Fortunately, unless she’d changed it, he knew the access code.

  After lifting the plaque that covered the keypad, he tapped in the required sequence of numbers and letters, the keypad protesting as the signal light stayed stubbornly red.

  Hell, she had changed the code. Not a good sign. He blew out a frustrated breath, trying to figure out his next move. Logically he figured he should call, but the idea of giving her warning didn’t seem to fit his plan to surprise and conquer. Still, it appeared to be the only option, so he slipped his hand into his pocket, surprised when he found it empty.

  Son of a bitch. In his hurry to get back here, he’d left the phone on the bar. Probably a sign. He blew out another breath, and started to go, but then stopped, and lifted the cover again, carefully typing in the code. His heart hammered as the machine whirred and the keypad beeped acceptance. Then as the light turned green, he heard the lock in the door click as it opened.

  Moving quickly before either his brain or the machine could change its mind, he pushed through the door and into the building lobby. The fluted iron columns had been restored to their former glory, soaring up into the vaulted ceiling. It was this room that had decided Tracy on the building. A feeling of history that balanced somehow in her mind with the high tech nature of her labs.

  The desk in the center was empty. Not surprising at this time of night. Charlie Baker, the building’s night watchman, preferred checking on the building himself to watching it through the many security monitors. Many a night he’d walked past to find Charlie missing and the monitors dark. But Tracy insisted he was good at his job. And besides, she’d always laughed, who the hell wanted to steal from the dead?

  Seth had always worried that Charlie was a little too old school to provide any
real protection, but arguing with Tracy was pointless, and besides there were numerous other failsafes within the building. Including fingerprint identification for all the labs and security keypads like the one at the door for all the administrative floors.

  Striding through the empty lobby, he passed the main elevators, moving behind a wall at the back that divided the rest of the lobby from the access to Tracy’s private elevator. The one that went straight to her apartment.

  Again he flipped open a cover to reveal a keypad, and typed in the access code. The elevator door slid open silently in response, and he stepped inside, his gut churning as he tried to figure out what it was exactly he wanted to say. Somehow ‘I can’t live without you’ seemed a bit much considering how the last attempt to tell her how much he loved her had gone over.

  Unfortunately, subtlety had never been his strong point. The elevator doors closed and the car rose with a slight lurch, humming as it sped toward the topmost floor, its only destination. Once there, the doors slid open, the hallway lights beckoning. Again Seth considered running, but pushed the thought aside. He’d made it this far. And besides his Dutch courage was starting to wane.

  It was now or never.

  The hallway had never seemed so short, and in what felt like only a step or two, he was standing at the door. He raised his hand to knock, then paused, his brows drawing together as he realized that it was slightly ajar. Automatically, he reached for his gun, his fingers hitting only the soft cotton of his shirt.

  Slowly he pushed the door wider, then after a silent count of three swung into the room. It looked a hell of a lot like it had when he’d left it. One of Tracy’s shoes lay on the rug, her silk panties on the floor near the credenza.

  His heart rate slowed as he realized that everything else seemed to be in order. He’d warned her before about leaving her door open, but she’d never believed it mattered. As far as she was concerned the hallway was just an extension of the apartment. And in some ways, he could see her point.

  “Tracy?” he called. “It’s me. Baby? Are you here?” All the lights were on. He walked through the living room, past the other shoe, and the remnants of his bow tie thrown across a chair. His body clenched with the memory. At least the night had started out on a high note.

  But then it had ended at the other end of the spectrum. He stopped in the bedroom doorway, the tray with the rose petals still sitting on the bed, the ring box beside it, the diamond winking knowingly in the light.

  Frowning, he turned around slowly, taking in the apartment again. Tracy’s dress was pooled on the floor by the bed. And the rumpled sheets still bore signs of their recent endeavors. So where the hell was she?

  He turned around, eyes falling to her cell phone on the bureau next to her purse and her keys. She wouldn’t have left without her wallet and phone. His gaze moved to the bedside table. Except for the lamp it was empty. With a smile, he nodded, his brain presenting the answer, as relief mixed with frustration. The ever-present stack of file folders was missing. In the space of like fifteen minutes he’d proposed, been rejected and they’d ended their relationship—he’d buried his sorrows in a glass of whiskey, or two—and Tracy had gone to work.

  He walked back out the apartment door, turning away from the lobby elevator, heading instead for the private one Tracy used to reach the labs. If she thought she could forget about him that easily, she had another think coming.

  Chapter 4

  “Move.” The guy with the gun shoved it into the small of Tracy’s back propelling her forward into the lab at the far end of the corridor. She stumbled as she stepped into the room, fighting to keep her balance.

  Across the way, a second man straightened from the back of the room where he was inspecting the body bays.

  “Who the hell is this?” he barked, his eyes narrowing, his lecherous gaze moving along the curves of her t-shirt and sweats, his lips twitching slightly as he reached her bare feet. His hand rested on the butt of a gun protruding from the waistband of his pants, his fingers stroking it in a way that made Tracy’s skin crawl.

  “Does it matter?” the other man responded, his fingers closing around the tender skin above her elbow as he pulled her farther into the room. “The point is that she’s here. And that she knows we killed the guard.”

  “I take it you didn’t find anyone else?” the second guy asked, his gaze shifting to his friend.

  “Jesus, Marshall, I told you I checked the security feed. The corridors were empty.”

  “Well, you didn’t see her now did you?” Marshall shook his head, clearly exasperated with the other man. “Which makes me wonder what the hell else you might have missed, Henry.” He said the name deliberately. Clearly angry with Henry’s use of his name.

  “I didn’t miss anything,” Henry replied, his tone belligerent. “I’m telling you the feeds were clear. I don’t where she came from. But now that we’ve got her, it’s easy enough to make her disappear.” He raised the gun, the muzzle pressed into the back of her neck now.

  Tracy held her breath, frantically trying to figure a way out, but there didn’t seem to be any options, and she could see from the glint in Marshall’s eyes that he was in agreement with his friend.

  “Maybe I can help you,” she said, lifting a hand in supplication. “If you’re trying to find drugs you’ve got the wrong floor. The only things we have worth stealing are two floors down.” They actually didn’t have much of anything with street value. But the men had no way of knowing that.

  Marshall considered her words, his expression contemplative. “We’re not after drugs. We’re actually here to find a friend of ours.”

  “I beg your pardon?” In her confusion Tracy actually forgot to be afraid. “There isn’t anybody here.”

  “Not living.” Marshall shrugged again, reaching out to open another drawer.

  “You’re looking for a body.” It was a statement not a question, but Marshall answered anyway.

  “Yeah. A body. A friend. In this case, it’s one and the same.” He slammed the drawer shut, the sound echoing through the lab. “He’s not here either.”

  “So let me do the girl and we’ll get the hell out of here,” Henry offered, his fingers still biting into her skin.

  “Let’s not get in too big of a hurry,” Marshall said, thumbing through a stack of papers on the desk in the corner. “Looks like she might be of use after all.” He held up the slick front of a brochure. Braxton Labs—with Tracy’s face plastered across the back panel. “Looks like you managed to catch a big fish.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “According to this brochure, you’ve managed to capture Tracy Braxton. This is her lab,” he held up the photo for Henry to see.

  “No fucking way.” In any other situation, Henry’s disdain would have made her laugh, but now, in the moment, it pissed her off, and without thinking, she swung back with an elbow, slamming into the guy’s solar plexus.

  He grunted in pain and then smacked her across the side of the face with the butt of the gun, sending Tracy sprawling across the floor. A glass dish, dislodged as she fell, shattered against the concrete. Stars shot across her field of vision, pain exploding in her head.

  “Goddamned bitch,” Henry growled, lifting the weapon, his eyes glittering with anger, one hand clutching his abdomen where she’d hit him.

  At least she’d die knowing she’d inflicted a little damage.

  “Hold on,” Marshall said, waving a hand to call Henry off. “No point in terminating what could be a very beneficial relationship.” He was staring at her breasts again, and Tracy wished to hell she still had the scalpel.

  Henry grunted his protest, but Marshall waved him quiet. “This place is a fucking maze and so far we’ve come up with exactly nothing.” He paused for a minute, his gaze colliding with hers. “So how about it Ms. Braxton? You want to be helpful or you want Henry here to do his thing.”

  It was a no brainer really. Anything that might buy her some time. �
�What is it you need from me?” She rolled to a sitting position, wiping a trickle of blood from her temple. Despite the pain, there didn’t seem to be more than a surface cut.

  “I don’t know,” Henry shook his head, his gun still trained on her. “What if she tries to trick us?”

  “Then she dies.” Marshall pulled his own weapon. A wicked looking little Sig-Sauer. “Are we all clear?”

  “Crystal,” Tracy said, lifting one shoulder in acceptance. “So who are you looking for?”

  Marshall perched on the edge of the desk, still holding the Sig. “Walker Fitzpatrick.”

  For a moment Tracy’s mind went blank. She started to shake her head, then she remembered. The guy at the bottom of the well. The DOD employee. The accident that wasn’t. “So I was right ,” she murmured, “the man was murdered.” She lifted her gaze to meet Marshall’s. “And I’m guessing you were responsible for that?”

  “Right.” Marshall rolled his eyes. “And now I’m breaking into a morgue just to be sure he’s dead. I thought you were supposed to be some kind of big-wig investigator.”

  “I use science to figure out circumstances surrounding a suspicious death. And most times from there I go on to figure out who did it. But I’m not a mind-reader. I just assumed that since you broke in here in the middle of the night and killed my security chief that you’re not one of the good guys.”

  “Well, now that kind of thing is purely subjective, isn’t it?” His smile was hollow. “But you can rest assured I’m not the one who killed Fitzpatrick. Stupid prick. Hell, truth is, the only thing I really care about is the package he was carrying.”

  “Well, if he had anything with him, it’ll be with the police in Minnesota. Not here in my lab.”

  “Why don’t you let us be the judge of that,” Henry said, still rubbing his gut where she’d hit him.