New York to Dallas

He took a moment to catch his breath, realized there were tears in his eyes. Tears! Of joy, of course. He blinked them away and scanned the area.

How she’d come up in the world, he thought, just by opening her legs for money. Plush rugs over an exquisite tile floor, the dull gleam of silver chandeliers sparkling over the deep cushions of chairs, sofas in rich jeweled colors.

He wandered a bit, struck with a burning envy, noted the fully stocked bar in the same silver as the lights, a long dining table of genuine ebony, a small kitchen that made the one he’d designed pale.

Yet more exquisite tile in a powder room.

This was what he wanted, this luxury. This was what he deserved. His heart galloped as he walked up the graceful curve of stairs to the second level. He wandered the master bedroom, felt the rage vomit up from his belly to his throat.

She’d lived like this, like this, while he rotted in prison. Killing her hardly seemed payment enough. She’d taken everything, denied him everything. Even now she denied him the pleasure of torturing her, of taking the time he wanted to watch her suffer, to humiliate her.

Making her watch him carve up her meal ticket had to be enough.

He moved to the closet, felt that envy rise again. The man had taste, McQueen thought. The suits, the shirts, the shoes—even if he had none in his choice of wife.

Since the killing would be messy—as messy as he could make it—he’d need a change of clothes. A snug fit, he thought, fingering the material of a jacket. Jacket open, shirt out, it would do well enough. Or perhaps something more casual—snug again—but . . .

He lost time, swimming in indecision, then whirled when something hissed behind him.

He stared at the cat who stared back at him with bicolored eyes.

“Hello, kitty.” He smiled, reached for the knife.

The idea of carving up her cat filled him with delight. When it bolted, he pursued, charging up the stairs to the third level.

“Here, kitty, kitty!”

Laughing now, he walked into Eve’s office.

And forgot about the cat.

The case board fascinated him, brought him a quick, warm rush of pride.

His girls, all his bad girls. And him, so much of him. Just look at how he’d become the center of her world. It was delicious. She’d spent hours—hours and hours and hours—thinking of him, trying so hard to outwit him.

But who was standing right here, right now, just waiting for her? Who had outwitted whom, again and again? She’d had her way for twelve long years. But now, he would have his.

“I was wrong,” he murmured, eyes sparkling on the board, “and I so rarely am. Killing you is enough. Is exactly enough. And right here, right in front of all your hard work. Right in front of all the bad girls. It’s perfect.”

“Heading out now,” Eve told Roarke via ’link. “I’ve done all I can do here. I want to sift through it all, then have Mira take another pass.”

“I’ll be close behind you. We’ve made some progress on the electronics, but it’s slow going. I may do better on my own, with my own. How are you getting back to the hotel?”

Worry, worry, she thought. “I’m about to get into an official vehicle with two strapping uniforms. We found the car he stole, and ditched, damn near halfway to Fort Worth. They’re running any reports of stolen vehicles as he likely boosted another. Might’ve jacked one though, and kept heading west. They’re covering the highways and byways and cow paths.”

She nodded to the uniforms, slid into the backseat. “They’re pumping out the media alerts. They’re already flooded with reports of sightings, and they’ll follow up on all of them. But the downside of that angle is it brings out the crazies and the easily spooked.”

“Why don’t you have your escort bring you here? We’ll go back together.”

“Roarke, I’ll be in the hotel and in the room in ten, drinking a decent cup of coffee and putting my notes together. You know what we found in his dresser? A photo album. Pictures of his mother, then of the partners we knew about—and more we didn’t. Numbered, just like the girls. Mira’s going to love that.”

“He’d started to research shopping centers, vid complexes, arcades, youth clubs, in central London.”

“Well, he won’t be having—what is it—bangers and mash for breakfast anytime soon. I don’t know why anybody’d want to, but I like knowing he won’t. I need to go over the timing again, but I don’t think he had a big enough window to get gone—and I don’t think he’s in the frame of mind to get gone if he had. He’s pissed and panicked.

“We’re pulling in to the hotel. I’ll see you when you get here.”

“I’m leaving now. You might have the cops go up with you.”

“I am a cop,” she reminded him. “Thanks,” she said to the uniforms as she hopped out. “And I’m now walking into the hotel. See you in a few.”

Wound up, she thought. McQueen, the almost-got-hims, her personal bullshit—it had them both too wound up. Time to unwind it, wrap it, and get the hell back to New York. Not that people wouldn’t try to kill her there, too, but at least that was normal.

Nothing about this felt normal.

She scanned the lobby, the lobby bar, the shops as she passed through, alert for signs, for tingles. He couldn’t know where she and Roarke were staying, but she supposed he could make an educated guess.

She walked to the elevator by the security post, nodded to the man on duty as she accessed it.

“Good evening, Lieutenant. I’ll clear you up.”

“Thanks.”

She stepped in, leaned back against the wall. Coffee, she thought, and a couple minutes to let it settle in, loosen up. She got off on the bedroom level. What she craved was a long, hot shower to wash away the hours spent at McQueen’s, the faint scent of chemicals clinging to her clothes from the sweepers’ tools. She settled on pulling off her jacket, and after removing her weapon harness, changed to a fresh shirt.

Better, she decided, and got the coffee from the bedroom AutoChef. She drank the first sip where she stood, then decided, since he hadn’t come to greet her, to hunt up the cat. Coffee and Galahad, her case board—almost like home.

She’d put her feet up on her desk, grab some thinking time before Roarke got in, then dive in. Since he wasn’t sprawled on the bed, she expected she’d find Galahad on the sleep chair in her office—and expected he’d act as if he’d been starved as they’d left him alone all day.

She turned into her office, surprised not to see the cat. Probably sulking. She shrugged, started toward her board. Nearly smiled when Galahad poked his head out from under the chair. Would’ve smiled, ragged on him, but he bared his teeth in a hiss.

For the second time in their acquaintance, Galahad saved her life.

She spun around, led with a stiffened forearm. The knife bit a shallow stream down her arm, but missed carving into her back. She followed the block with a punch, and as McQueen dodged, she reached for her weapon.

Remembered tossing it and her jacket on the bed.

He came at her again, the knife arcing through the air. She leaped back, managed to kick his knife arm, but without enough juice to dislodge the weapon.

Clutch piece, she thought as she dodged another swipe. She still had her clutch piece on her ankle. But didn’t have the room to get it.

Devolving, she thought. So push.

“You’re losing it, Isaac.” She crouched, fighting stance. “You’ll never get out of here.”

“I got in, didn’t I? Luck’s on my side this time around. It’s just too bad Roarke’s not with you. But I can wait. Maybe I won’t kill you—yet. I’ll let you watch me slice him, piece by piece, first.”

“He’ll take you apart. You have no idea.” She dodged the knife again, spun around, got a boot in his gut. The blade grazed her hip on the follow-through.

“I’m going to put so many holes in you.”