“Bobby, you must want forgiveness. You have to be repentant.”
Again, that wild laugh. “You want me to be
Rowan finally felt something solid. Metal. Glancing to her right, she saw she was holding a fireplace poker. She tightened her grasp. She had only one chance.
The two men she loved-John and Peter-would die if she didn’t succeed.
She couldn’t let Bobby win.
Through her failing vision she noticed John moving carefully away from Peter, away from her. She could attack without Bobby’s full attention. And keep his gun away from Peter.
She inched forward.
“Bobby, the FBI has surrounded the house,” John said. “You won’t get away.”
“I have hostages,” he said mockingly. “Worked with your sister, eh? Sorry she had to be blown up, she was kind of cute. Too bad I didn’t have time to screw her.”
Anger spread across John’s face. “She didn’t die,” he said. “She made it. I disarmed your amateur attempt at making a bomb. You failed.”
“You lie!” Bobby pointed the gun straight at John’s head.
Rowan screamed and lunged at Bobby, the poker in her hand.
A gun went off. Bobby’s? Then another shot. A third explosion. Rowan didn’t know where the sounds were coming from; they seemed to be coming from everywhere.
Bobby turned, eyes wide in rage and pain, and fired as she ran straight at him with the poker. A hot flash of pain hit her left shoulder but she kept moving forward. If she failed, John and Peter would die.
The sick sound of the poker cutting into Bobby’s flesh was followed by an inhuman scream. She stumbled and fell on top of him. Each breath hurt her chest.
Large hands pulled her off. She looked up through the haze. “Peter,” she whispered. “Run. I couldn’t…” she coughed and sputtered.
“Shh,” he told her and laid her down gently. His lips moved in silent prayer, but Rowan didn’t know if he was really quiet or if she just couldn’t hear him. He turned to Bobby and made the sign of the cross.
John interrupted Peter. “Don’t you dare pray for him,” he said as he knelt at Rowan’s side.
“He’s dying,” Peter said simply.
“I hope he burns in hell,” John said.
Bobby tried to speak as he clutched the poker sticking out of his stomach. Nothing came out but a gurgle and blood. He sputtered, convulsed, then lay still, his eyes open and fixed.
“John,” Rowan murmured, eyes closed.
“I’m here. Open your eyes.”
“You’re-you’re alive.” Her eyes fluttered open, then closed again.
“Yes. So are you. Peter, call an ambulance.”
“Why-Peter?”
“Roger called him to come out. We didn’t know where you were. Tess is safe. You bought us enough time.” He leaned over and kissed her, his tears falling on her face. He took off his shirt, wincing as the material pulled out of his wound, and pressed it against the gushing hole in her left shoulder.
“I-I thought you were dead. The bomb.” She coughed, her voice weak.
“Stay with me, Rowan. Don’t let him win.”
“I-I-” She coughed again.
“Shh. Don’t talk.”
“The ambulance is on the way,” Peter said as he squatted and handed John towels. John quickly tossed his shirt aside and held the towels to Rowan’s bleeding wound.
Agent Thorne and two other Feds John didn’t recognize were searching the place. One knelt beside Bobby and confirmed he was dead.
“How is she?” Thorne asked, worried.
“She’ll make it,” John said through clenched teeth.
“John.” Rowan’s voice was weak, her breathing shallow.
“Shh. Save your strength.”
“I-I love you.”
Tears rolled down his cheeks. “Rowan, you know I love you. Stay with me.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t talk.” Her blood spread under his fingers, but he kept firm pressure on her shoulder. “Don’t you dare die on me.”
She closed her eyes and gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. She coughed.
“It’s over, Rowan,” John said. “It’s over.”
CHAPTER 29
Rowan woke up numb and burning at the same time. Her mind was foggy. She tried to open her eyes, but failed. Everything seemed fuzzy and gray. She had to be dead.
Sounds.
She tried to speak, but it came out a hollow squeak.
“Rowan?”
His voice sounded far away, down a long tunnel. She tried to answer, but her throat was raw and dry. She’d give anything for water. Was this hell? An eternal thirst…
“Rowan, it’s John.”
Suddenly she was back in the beach house, the smell of death surrounding her. Everything came back. The videotape of all the people Bobby killed. The whip. Peter. The gunshots. Stabbing Bobby with the poker. Pain. Intense pain in her shoulder. She’d been shot before, but nothing felt as awful as this. It was as if her arm had been severed and reattached to befit Frankenstein’s monster.
John. John had been shot. “J-John.” Had she spoken? She couldn’t tell; her ears throbbed.
“Shh, honey. It’s me. It’s me. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay now.” He sounded greatly relieved. Worried and tired, but relieved.
She felt him grasp her hand. She was alive. And John was alive.
Bobby was dead. She’d killed him.
Maybe there was a God after all.
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop. There’s nothing for you to be sorry about. Bobby’s gone. And you’re okay.”
She started coughing. “Wa-ter.”
Something touched her lips. A straw. She sucked as hard as she could and managed to bring up a sip of water. It coated her throat and she was grateful for its coolness.
“Tess is okay?” She vaguely remembered John telling her Tess was alive, but she had to hear it again.
“Yes, she’s fine. Broken arm. Both Roger and Quinn are going to make it, too.”
“But-how-?” Then she remembered John saying that she’d bought them enough time. Enough time to get away from the bomb.
She felt tension leaving her body, as if the uncertainty had kept her worried even while she’d been unconscious.
“How long-?” How long had she been here? A day? Two? Longer?
“Shh. Don’t talk, sweetheart.” She felt a feather of a kiss on her hand.
“Rowan, I want you to listen to me. Don’t talk, just listen. You had nothing to do with Bobby’s crimes. Nothing. I know you, I know the guilt is eating at you. But you must not blame yourself.”
