“A Sampson Kinnier just reported his all-terrain stolen out of the first-level visitors’ lot. A red ’fifty-nine Marathon,” Bree continued, “Texas plates, Charlie-Tango-Zulu-one-five-one. BOLO’s issued.”
“Roarke thinks he’s closing in on a location. I’m taking another couple minutes here. If he hits, I’ll relay on the way.”
“Don’t bloody hell think,” Roarke muttered. “Bloody hell know.”
She went with instinct. “It’s going to hit. Advise your lieutenant we’ll need SWAT, tactical, crisis negotiator —all the bells and whistles, Detective—on alert.”
“Yes, sir. Dallas, if he runs—Melinda.”
“The best thing we can do for her is the job. Now go.”
She shoved the ’link away. “Roarke—”
He shot up a hand, clearly telling her to be quiet again.
Do the job, do the job, she told herself, rolling to the balls of her feet and back. When doing the job meant waiting, it could tear pieces off the guts.
“Got him, buggering bastard. Copy location to vehicle navvy,” Roarke ordered. “And get the bloody vehicle out front now.”
As the computer acknowledged, he picked up a holstered weapon—one he’d had no business transporting over state lines—strapped it on as he moved.
“Where?” she demanded as she jumped into the elevator with him. “Where?”
He rattled off an address as he shrugged his jacket over the weapon. “It’s only minutes from here according to the computer.”
“She’s already there.” Eve relayed the address to Ricchio.
The adrenaline and whatever mild blocker they’d given her at the hospital burned off before she sped into the parking garage. The way pain radiated from her ribs she feared she’d snapped the fused bone. Her heart beat so hard she could barely get her breath as she headed toward the elevator in a limping run.
They’d said something about a hairline fracture in her ankle. Hairline, my ass, she thought. She could feel it puff out like a pus balloon over the nurse’s ugly shoes.
She just needed to get to Isaac, just needed to get some candy. Oh God, yes. Needed him to take care of her, like he promised, like nobody else ever had.
He’d give her what she needed—the drugs, the drugs—and buy her flowers.
Tears of pain, rage, withdrawal leaked from her eyes as she stumbled into the building. Sweat poured down her face.
A couple of days, she thought, just needed a couple of days to heal up. Then they’d go after Dallas. God, she couldn’t wait to get her hands on that bitch. She wouldn’t look so fucking tough when they got through with her.
And she wanted to go first, wanted to pay the bitch cop back for the pain, for the fear.
Her breath came in wheezes as she limped into the elevator.
“Hold the elevator!” someone sang out.
“Fuck off!” she snarled at the woman and her snot-nosed kid when the doors shut in their faces.
She only had to ride one floor, but every second was its own separate agony. Teeth clamped, she dragged herself down the hall.
“Isaac.” Voice hoarse, she punched at the security plate. She couldn’t remember the code; everything jumbled together in her head.
She needed a hit. God, God, she needed a hit.
Needed Isaac.
When he answered, she wept out his name, fell into his arms. “I’m hurt. She hurt me.”
“Aw, baby doll.”
He rubbed her back.
She stank, he thought, stank of sweat and hospital. Stank of stupidity and age. Even her hair stank, the tangled, matted mess of it.
Her face was pinched, white—old again.
“You didn’t answer. You didn’t answer.”
“I was . . . involved. I didn’t hear the signal, and I didn’t want to tag you back in case. How did you get here, sweetheart?”
“I stole a car, right out of the hospital lot. Right under the cops’ noses. They were waiting for me, Isaac, waiting for me outside the duplex. But I got away. Fix me up, Isaac. They wouldn’t give me anything.”
“Fix you right up.” He helped her to the sofa where he’d already prepared a pressure syringe. “Quick and good,” he told her. “Poor baby doll.”
Her hands shook as she snatched at it, and he watched her jab it in the crook of her elbow, as he’d watched his mother countless times.
Like his mother, she let out a harsh, guttural grunt—almost sexual—as the drug punched into her bloodstream.
“Gonna be better now.” Eyes glazed with pleasure, she smiled at him. “Gonna be better.”
“Absolutely. What did you tell her?”
“Tell who?”
“Dallas.”
“Didn’t tell her shit. She tried to turn me against you. Lying whore. I spit in her face, told her you were going to pay her back good. You pay her back, Isaac.”
“Of course.”
“I want to cut her.” Cruising now, Sylvia leaned back, face going slack. “I want to cut her first. She looked at me—you know how she looked at me? Like I made her sick. Tried to tell me she didn’t need me anyway ’cause they were close to finding you. Lying cunt.”
“Said that, did she?”
He rose, wandered.
All the work, he thought, the time, the money, the preparation. And worse, all the hours he’d spent with this dried up,
He wanted to beat her face to pulp with his fists. Saw himself doing just that. Caught himself turning toward her with his fists bunched, his breath coming fast.
She sat, glassy-eyed, smiling, unaware.
Bringing himself under control made him shudder.
“How did they find you, sweetheart?”
“I dunno. They were just there. Want more candy.”
“In a minute.”
The van, he decided. They’d managed to track the van. He’d really thought he’d had at least another week there. He
Ah, well, on to Plan B.
“Suitcase,” she muttered.
“Hmm?”
“We going? We packing up, and going somewhere nice?”
He followed her stare. He hadn’t meant to leave the suitcase out in plain sight. He’d just been so rushed. Had so many things to think of, to decide on.
“Mmm,” he murmured, strolling behind the sofa.
“Get a nice new place, and when we get that Dallas bitch, you’ll let me have her first. Bleed her good. Make some money off her, right, Rich? Make a whole lot of money off her.”
He lifted his brows at the name she called him. That was women for you, he supposed, couldn’t keep their men straight.
“I’m going to have to disappoint you there.”
He yanked her head back, slit her throat with quick, almost surgical precision.
Good, he thought. Good. Now he felt
