Crush

Then why would he cut the lights?

Unless he knew where I was when he took them out. Move—I have to move. Vail clambered to her left, attempting to be quiet, but the scrape of her shoes against the cement flooring, the fine gravel and detritus from the people who’d walked through here today made stealth difficult. But that worked both ways.

She continued left, bumped into a wall—brought up her right hand and felt around—barrels. Took a step forward to move around them—and stopped. Someone was coming. Noise in the distance.

Vail rose, backed up behind the barrels and brought her Glock in close to her body, holding it low, so it couldn’t be easily knocked from her hands.

Waited. Footsteps.

BRIX HELD HIS SIG-SAUER out in front of him, the Maglite alongside the barrel, illuminating the area in front of him. In such narrow quarters, Dixon had to follow single file behind him. She was a good five feet back, giving adequate spacing.

Up ahead, she saw the mouth to another, larger room. Brix stopped. Dixon stopped.

VAIL LISTENED. Moved forward slightly, peeked around the edge of the barrel. Saw the flicker of a light. Then it went out.

Her heartbeat accelerated. She felt it pounding, an aching in her head, a pulsing in her ears. She backed up a step away from the edge and listened.

“WHAT?” DIXON WHISPERED.

Brix shut his light. “A room up ahead.”

“Could be the one Karen’s in.”

“If so, Mayfield could be in there, too.”

“Split up?”

Brix nodded, leaned in close to her ear. “I’ll take the light. If he goes after someone, it’ll be me because he’ll know where I am.”

Dixon gave a thumbs up. Brix lit up his Maglite and pressed forward. The room ahead appeared to be large, with curvilinear brick ceilings, like multiple gazebos launching from thick square columns.

As Brix disappeared into the room, Dixon started ahead herself, wanting to shout into the dark, “Karen, you in here?” But she knew that was the absolute wrong thing to do. She didn’t even dare open her phone in the darkness, as that would surely give away her position.

But just as she’d gone about fifteen paces into the large room, she saw Brix’s flashlight go flying from his hand. He let out a sickening thump and, in the twirling and carnival-like swirl of his light as it spun on the ground, he appeared to drop to the floor with an even louder thud.

Dixon started to rush forward, then stopped. Mayfield was here. She had to get to him before he killed Brix— if he hadn’t already. She had to risk it. “Karen!”

VAIL SAW THE LIGHT advancing into the room, footsteps approaching. She backed up further, Glock out in front of her, taking an angle on the imminent arrival of her guest. The light was moving, bouncing the way it would with someone’s gait. Or if it were held out in front of you against your gun.

But she didn’t dare call out.

A noise—skin on bone—and the light went flying to the ground. A bump. Something hit the cement. A body?

“Karen!”

Vail looked out into the near darkness. Dixon. “Over here!”

And then she saw something dark spring toward her, a mass like a football player plowing into her, a crushing blow that knocked her back into a wall of barrels. Her air left her lungs.

And the Glock flew from her hands.

FIFTY-NINE

In the distant light that was off somewhere in the background, Vail saw John Mayfield in silhouette, his massive hand over her mouth. He had her shoved against the barrels. And she knew what was coming.

Vail swung, struck his meaty shoulder, then

kicked him in his groin—hit something hard,

kneed him again, and

again,

writhing her head from side to side, trying to open her mouth to bite—

reached up and grabbed for his face, got hold of his nose but

he yanked his head back and

she threw her left hand up in time to block a massive thrust into her

neck.

It struck her hand and forced it against her throat and she coughed.

Spasmodic. Coughing—

And then she heard a nauseatingly sick bone-breaking crunch.

“OVER HERE!”

Dixon tried to locate Vail’s voice—but in the chamber, with its uneven and gazebo-rounded ceilings, she couldn’t triangulate on her position. She moved quickly into the large room, using whatever light was being given off by the fallen Maglite, hoping she wouldn’t run into Mayfield. Because right now, she was sure he was here. That’s what had taken down Brix.

She saw barrels to her left and moved toward them, her right hand aiming her SIG and her left feeling the metal rims surrounding the flat oak faces, forward, forward, a few feet at a time.

And then scuffling, struggling, muted yells—off to her right. Karen!

Dixon ran in the direction of the noise. Around the bend, she saw, in the relative darkness, John Mayfield, legs spread, straddling something. She couldn’t see Vail, but Mayfield was easily twice her width.

Given Mayfield’s well-documented MO—which she’d experienced firsthand—she didn’t have to see Vail to know where she was, or what Mayfield was doing to her.

There wasn’t a good angle to take him out with a clean shot—especially in the poor lighting, she couldn’t be sure what she would hit. And a man like this wouldn’t respond to her plea for him to put his hands above his head. Based on what Vail had told her about narcissists, “surrender” is not in their ego-driven vocabulary.

So with Agbayani’s demise in the forefront of her thoughts, Dixon went for the more personal approach. She came up beside him, lifted her right leg, and brought her foot down, with all the force she could muster, against the side of Mayfield’s locked left knee, driving it to the right.