“Actually, Catherine,” interrupted my mother’s voice. Again, I was stunned by the difference in the sound of my mother’s personality. In the past few days, I had only heard Natasha speak in soft, dulcet tones, but she addressed Flynn with a salty bite. It didn’t occur to me that she had such potency in her repertoire, and I couldn’t help but grin as she continued on. “You lost everything due to your inability to look past your own desires.”
“I did what was necessary to uphold the values set upon our society by the original—”
“You did what was necessary to get what you wanted,” retorted Natasha. “You were so determined to do so that you sacrificed the Raptors’ ideals and any shred of decency you had left. Anthony saw that in you. That’s why you lost everything. That’s why you’re so obsessed with this petty attempt at revenge, not because of me.”
“Christ, you really haven’t changed, Natasha,” said Flynn. Her voice had risen an octave. “I’m really going to savor this moment. Wickes, is our cover in place?”
“Yes, ma’am. Brooks pulled the car up out back. As soon as you finish, we can, um, escort her out of here.”
“You mean bury her dead body,” corrected Lauren.
“Lauren, if you’re so concerned, perhaps you should head upstairs,” said Flynn. “I wouldn’t want to upset you.”
“Too late.”
“Fine. Stay then. Wickes? Let’s get this over with.”
Olivia motioned us forward, and like a swarm of ants, we rushed into the basement. Natasha sat in an aluminum folding chair, one leg crossed comfortably over the other. Surprisingly, she wasn’t restrained. Apparently, Flynn didn’t expect her to make an escape attempt.
Wes and Henry leveled their guns at Flynn and Wickes respectively, but Flynn’s line of sight remained fixed between them. On Harrison.
“It can’t be,” she breathed.
“Hello, Catherine.”
“You—you’re meant to be dead!”
“Everything would have been so much easier for you had Natasha actually managed to kill me, would it not?” asked Harrison. He touched his forehead in a brief salute to acknowledge Natasha’s presence. “Natasha, let me preface what is sure to be an enlightening conversation with an apology to you. I am truly sorry for my part in your strife. I do hope you will forgive me. Perhaps, together, we can put an end to Catherine’s tyranny. What do you say?”
Natasha gaped at Harrison before attempting to collect herself. “I… you… yes?”
“Good enough for me,” said Harrison with a nod. “Now, Catherine. I hate to embody such a terrible cliché, but we can do this the easy way or the hard way. Turn yourself into the authorities. I’m sure you can work out a deal with the courts and weasel your way out of excessive jail time. You are, after all, quite accomplished in that respect.”
“Go to hell, Harrison.”
“The hard way it is,” he replied. “Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but there are two trained officers in the room with guns pointed at your head. I suggest you go with them quietly.”
Without warning, a gun fired. I clasped my hands to my ears as the bang echoed off the concrete walls, but when I looked up, I discovered it wasn’t Wes or Henry who had pulled the trigger. It was Logan Wickes who had drawn a handgun from the waistband of his slacks, aimed for Harrison’s kneecap, and fired. In the resulting chaos, as Harrison dropped to the floor and Natasha let out a horrified scream, Wickes took Flynn by the hand and dragged her between a stack of empty cardboard boxes, disappearing from view. I vaulted over a stray folding chair, barreling through another door on the opposite side of the basement that opened to a set of outdoor steps. I took them two at a time, but when I reached the street, the Raptors’ familiar black SUV had already peeled out of the church’s side lot, taking Flynn along with it.
“Shit!” I skidded to a stop to catch my breath.
Henry approached me from behind, taking my arm. He and Wes had followed me up from the basement. Olivia and Lauren quickly joined us.
“Come on,” said Henry, jogging around to the front of the church where Harrison’s car was parked. “If we want to catch them, we’ll have to be quick.”
“What about Harrison?” I asked.
“Natasha’s with him. She called 911.”
As Wes and I piled into Harrison’s crossover and Henry took the driver’s seat, Olivia patted the window. I rolled it down.
“My guess is Flynn’s heading for the airport,” she said. “She’s panicking. I can tell. And she always had a contingency plan in case something like this happened.”
“Private jet on call,” added Lauren.
“Let’s move then,” ordered Henry.
“Right behind you,” said Olivia.
She stepped away from the car, hugging Lauren close to her. As Henry pulled away from the curb, I watched Olivia and Lauren hop into a shiny blue BMW to follow behind us. Henry accelerated, heading for the highway. We had already lost the Raptors’ SUV, but traffic near Waverly was relatively light as we followed signs for the airport.
“There!” I called, pointing ahead as we merged on to the larger road. It was easy to spot the black SUV. It careened from lane to lane like a drunken sailor, cutting off other cars in order to get ahead.
Henry stomped on the accelerator, zooming past an elderly lady in an Oldsmobile before cutting in front of a slow semi-truck. But when we had nearly closed the gap between us and the Raptors, Henry let off the gas.
“What are you doing?” I demanded, watching as the SUV swerved into the right lane. “We’re going to lose them!”
“He wants them to think so,” said Wes. “That way, they won’t lead us into a trap.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed, discreetly guiding the car into the right lane several vehicles behind the Raptors. I checked behind us. Olivia’s blue BMW was a car length away. Lauren gave me a thumbs-up through the windshield.
In the passenger seat, Wes craned his neck to get a look around a tall delivery truck in front of us. “They’re getting off at the airport exit.”
Henry followed Wes’s directions, making sure to keep a safe distance, but when the SUV turned off the main road and onto a private one, it became more difficult to go unnoticed. Suddenly, three more black SUVs merged onto the same road, boxing us in.
“Shit,” muttered Henry. “This is not good.”
The SUV on our left moved in close. The back window rolled down, and a Raptor aimed a gun at Henry.
“Hit the gas, Henry!” I ordered.
We lurched forward just in time. The first bullet shattered the driver’s side window but missed Henry. The second and third bullets took out the back passenger window. I ducked below the line of fire, mindlessly yelling obscenities. In the front seat, Henry steered with one hand and fired blindly through his demolished window with the others, and Wes had taken off his seatbelt to address the second SUV on our right side.
“There’s another one behind us,” I called up to the front seat, peeking out the rear windshield. Suddenly, the SUV at our six o’clock blew out a tire, veering off of the road and into a run-off ditch. Its absence revealed the blue BMW catching up to our unfortunate party. Olivia’s left hand rested on the side view mirror, aiming a gun at the vehicle still trying to put Henry out of commission. She fired twice.
The second SUV lurched away from our car, taken out by Olivia’s handgun. Olivia sped up, covering our left side, but the last of the Raptors’ attack squad fell back. They withdrew their guns, rolled up their windows, and rode our bumper as we tailed Flynn’s vehicle. We tore through a side street, jumping a couple curbs to catch up with the first SUV, before careening around a corner and into a wide open flightline, at the end of which a small private plane waited to be boarded. Wes boosted himself out of the window, aimed his Glock, and taking a cue from Olivia, shot out the back tires of Flynn’s SUV. It skidded off course, slowing as the ruined tires screeched against the pavement. Before the vehicle stopped, Flynn kicked open the passenger door,
leapt out, and sprinted toward the private jet. Wickes and Brooks flanked her either side, firing random shots at us over their shoulders. Then the last black SUV sped up, cut in front of us, and turned sideways.
“Oh, God,” I said, bracing my feet against the back of Wes’s seat.
Henry stomped on the brakes but not soon enough. We crashed into the Raptors and the airbags in the front seat went off with a bang, cushioning Wes and Henry’s forward motion. I jerked against my seatbelt, the rough fabric tearing into the skin at my collarbone, then slammed into my seat.
My ears roared with white noise as everything settled. Both cars were totaled, and it looked like the Raptors’ high G-force maneuver had cost them. The side door had caved in during the impact, and a motionless hand was visible through the broken window. I unbuckled my seatbelt to check on Henry and Wes. To my relief, they were both conscious, if a little dazed. Wes shouldered open his door and stumbled out, falling to his hands and knees on the flightline. Henry, unfortunately, had been pinned by the steering wheel.
“Go,” he rasped, shoving my hands away as I attempted to unbuckle his seatbelt for him. “I’ll be fine. Don’t let Flynn get away.”
I slid out of the back seat and sprinted flat out toward the private plane. Flynn and the other Raptors had gotten a heavy lead, but the blue BMW roared past me. Olivia traded bullets with Wickes and Brooks until the windshield splintered, obscuring her line of vision. The BMW slowed, and Lauren jumped out, now wielding a gun of her own. Olivia followed suit.
Wickes and Brooks continued to fire at Olivia and Lauren as they took cover behind the BMW. I put on a burst of speed, trying to ignore the thunder of gunfire. In my peripheral, I saw that Wes had managed to catch up with me. He had a small cut on his forehead. Otherwise, he seemed relatively unharmed. We shared a long look.
“Love you, Nic,” he huffed.
My breath came in short gasps, but I said, “Tell me after Flynn is in handcuffs.”
Up ahead, Flynn had nearly reached the steps of her private jet, but we were closing in on them. In a flash, Wickes reloaded his gun, but when he raised it again, he pointed it straight at me. I zigzagged off to one side, hoping Wickes wasn’t great with moving targets, even at a twenty-foot radius. His first shot zipped by my ear. The second grazed my shoulder.
It was as though I had been punched with a white-hot fire iron. I stumbled, the wind knocked out of me as my skin burned. Blood soaked through my long-sleeved shirt and jacket within seconds, dripping into the palm of my hand. I had no time to think about it. Wickes was mere feet from me, his gun angled directly at my head. There was a flash of triumph in his eyes as his finger neared the trigger once more.
I flinched as a gun fired, but it wasn’t the one in Wickes’s hand. It was Wes’s. With a bullet in his chest, Wickes went down, and only Brooks remained in my path to Flynn. Brooks was less practiced with his firearm. It clicked uselessly. He’d run out of ammo. I faked left and dodged around to his right. As I passed, Wes tackled Brooks with a grunt.
Flynn bolted up the airstairs, but I reached under the handrail, wrapped a hand around her ankle, and jerked it out from under her. She sprawled forward, her chin slamming into the top stair. The private jet’s pilot and a horrified flight attendant backed into the belly of the plane. Apparently, they weren’t aware of their employer’s love of violence.
I rounded the airstairs, tugging at Flynn’s heeled boots. As she landed on the flightline, she flipped over and kicked me in the stomach. I doubled over, trying not to retch. Flynn got to her feet and scrambled away from me. As she looked over her shoulder, I saw that for once, she was not the height of perfection. Her face was red and inflamed, her sleek black hair had escaped from its tight bun, and her designer coat was torn and dirty. For some reason, those details gave me strength. I lurched forward, seizing the belt of her coat and spinning her toward me. There were no other Raptors to protect her. Catherine Flynn was mine.
And then her manicured fingers dug into the exposed flesh of my shoulder.
My vision flared white as pain radiated all the way down to my toes. A fierce yell made its way out of my throat, and before I had a chance to recover, Flynn trapped me against her with an arm around my neck. I struggled through my distress, bucking against Flynn’s hold.
“Nicole, stop!” called Wes.
I looked up, fighting against my hazy eyesight. Wes had dispatched Brooks. He, Olivia, and Lauren remained the only other upright people on the flightline. That alone should have given me hope, but all three of my allies stared at me with various expressions of dread.
“Why?” I croaked out, digging my nails into Flynn’s arm in hopes of dislodging her.
“Because I have a gun to your head, my dear,” replied Flynn.
A gun cocked in my ear, and the cylinder of the revolver that Flynn held rotated into place. Very slowly, I released my hold on Flynn, extending my hand up in a gesture of surrender. My other arm dangled limply, and I thought desperately that if Flynn was going to kill me, I hoped she couldn’t do it without getting bloodstains on her expensive leather boots.
“That’s a good girl,” whispered Flynn, her breath tickling my ear. She raised her voice to address Wes, Lauren, and Olivia. “If anyone so much as blinks, I will send Miss Costello off to meet her father. Are we clear?”
No one moved a muscle. Flynn took this as acquiescence.
“Good,” she said. She took a step toward the aircraft, dragging me with her. “Now, I am getting on this plane, and I’ve decided, for all the trouble you’ve put me through, that Miss Costello is coming with me.”
“The hell she is—” said Wes, moving forward
Flynn rested the barrel of her gun against my temple. “Ah, ah, Officer McAllen. Watch your step.”
Wes froze. Slowly, calmly, Flynn walked me to the airstairs, keeping her gaze locked on Wes, Lauren, and Olivia. They remained still as Flynn guided me up the steps. A trail of blood spattered the flightline, marking our path, and behind us, I heard the frightened squeak of the innocent flight attendant. We reached the top step, but before we retreated into the jet, I looked out at Wes one last time.
“I love you too,” I called across the distance between us.
“How sweet,” simpered Flynn. “And how appropriate. Your mother took my love away from me, and now I have the pleasure of separating you from yours, Miss Costello. It does have a poetic kind of justice, does it not?”
“Go to hell,” I told her through clenched teeth.
“You’re invited too, my dear,” she replied. She brandished the revolver at the stunned pilot and ordered, “Close the door!”
But before the pilot could obey, a shot rang out across the flightline and connected with Catherine Flynn’s midsection, sending a spray of blood across the private jet’s carpeting. I dropped to my knees and covered my head with my uninjured hand. The world spun. Flynn lay flat on the floor of the plane, pressing both palms to the gunshot wound in her abdomen. Through the open door, several unmarked vans pulled up next to the jet. Men dressed in tactical gear and carrying multiple firearms poured out of the vehicles, surrounding the private plane and shouting orders to one another. They stormed the jet, pounding up the airstairs. I pushed myself away, panting and scared, but they ignored me. Instead, they swarmed Flynn, securing her in a pair of handcuffs before escorting her off of the jet.
It happened so quickly that Flynn was gone from my sight before I had even registered the S.W.A.T. patch stamped across the uniforms of each agent. One of the specialists kneeled in front of me and took off his helmet.
“Nicole Costello?” he asked.
I nodded, unable to speak.
“My name is Luke,” the man said, slinging his assault rifle over his shoulder to rest on his back. “I’m a member of the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s Special Weapons and Tactics team. Everything’s going to be all right, ma’am.”
With Luke’s help, I managed to make it down the airstairs and out to the flightline. A
s the rest of the S.W.A.T. team swept the area, a squad of paramedics and other emergency service personnel arrived in several ambulances and a firetruck. They spread out, checking the car wreck and the fallen Raptors. When Wes saw that I had emerged from the plane, he shook off the paramedic that was attempting to take his pulse.
“Nicole!” he called out, running toward me.
Luke relinquished me just in time. Wes locked me in a tight hug, cradling my face to his chest. His heart thumped erratically against my cheek as I wrapped my arms around his waist.
“I’m okay,” I mumbled into his sweat-soaked shirt. “I’m okay.”
Lauren and Olivia approached hesitantly as I let go of Wes.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” said Lauren, squeezing my hand.
“Back at you,” I said. I looked at Olivia. “Have you checked on Henry?”
She nodded. “They’re working on getting him out of the car, but he’s stable. We should have the paramedics look at your arm though. You’ve lost some blood.”
Appropriately, the woozy feeling in my head intensified. I leaned heavily into Wes. “I’m fine,” I insisted. “What about Flynn?”
“Gone,” reported Lauren. “The FBI already hauled her off.”
“How did they know?” I asked. “Did Henry—?”
The door to one of the unmarked vans slid open, and a leather Italian loafer planted itself on the pavement, followed closely by a medical boot.
“No, Miss Costello,” said a familiar voice as the figure unfolded himself from the van and buttoned his suit jacket. “I believe you have me to thank for your timely rescue.”
“Dad?” breathed Lauren.
Orson Lockwood smiled. He looked worse for wear, despite the sharp three-piece suit that he wore. His face was a painting of yellowing bruises and the medical boot slowed him down as he limped toward us, but there was no mistaking him for dead. Lauren slowly approached him. When Orson offered his hand to her, she fell into his arms and hugged him firmly.
“Does no one just stay dead in this damn town?” I grumbled.
Orson grinned wider. “You should be glad I didn’t.” He snapped his fingers at a nearby paramedic. “You. Have a look at her arm. It might be nice if she stayed conscious.”
The Professor Page 39
