No One Left To Tell

sensation. It empowered him.

Even now, blood churned in his groin. His body hardened with his imaginings. His need to experience the intimacy of death up close compelled him to use a knife for the kill. He had no choice. It was an aspect of his nature he refused to ignore.

His thoughts fixed on Raven. The smell of her blood already teased his fertile imagination. He pictured her body writhing in death, thrashing against his grip. The flesh of his cheeks grew warm. Without the ability to control his impulse, he quit stroking his knife, a poor substitute. He shoved his hand into his pants, unable to wait for the release that only the kill delivered.

He focused on his need, his breathing urgent and shallow. Then she appeared. Raven being the smaller figure in front, she led the priest to the end of the corridor, then stopped. He would take her first, making the priest an easy target. Two kills nearly sent him over the edge. His efforts grew more frenzied until—

A motion to his right deprived him of gratification.

'Shit!' he cursed under his breath.

Someone else had joined the party—unannounced. Who the hell came without an invitation? And how had they gained access from that location? The intrusion fueled a slow, burning rage. Reluctantly, he pulled his hand free. A sneer warped his face. Whoever it was, they'd have to wait their turn to die.

He heard the paintball rounds slamming below, his men already launching an assault. But given the location of the intruders, the pellets would do no good. The meddlers had too much of an advantage. And to complicate matters, Raven and the priest had moved into the maze, with two of his men focused on them.

Switching to predator mode, he moved out of his bunker, howling like an animal into the void, his unique signal. The eyes of his men were on him. With a motion of his right hand, he gave the signal. Time to play in earnest. Time for Plan B.

Raven heard the paint gun blasts erupting from above, the sound reverberating through the hollow cavern.

What the hell were they shooting at?

Father Antonio gripped her shoulder, giving it a tug. Adhering to her rules about not talking, the man gave her the only sign possible. He wanted to know what was happening. And so did she. To reassure him, she fumbled for his hand. The token gesture would have to do, for now.

A barrage of paintball pellets hurled to the floor, McBride's men obviously targeting a spot across the room. That meant only one thing. Someone else had joined the fray, maybe providing a diversion for her and the priest to escape. Hands out in front of her, she left the security of the wall. She crouched low and moved right with the priest in tow, away from the altercation.

Thud! Smack! Two rounds struck her in the arm and back, splattering liquid over her face and clothes. And by the way her companion reacted, he'd been hit, too. The smell familiar, she remembered her investigation at the church and her meeting with the ME. The odor of isopropyl alcohol choked her. Its vapor stung her eyes. She wiped her face, trying to relieve the burn.

Keep moving! Don't make an easy target.

As she picked up her pace, the toe of her boot clipped something heavy. She fell to the floor, dragging Father Antonio with her. The weight of his body knocked the wind out of her. Her throat raw, she heaved to fill her lungs, taking a moment to recover.

Thwack! She shielded her head with an arm, then rolled to her knees. Inching her way forward, she crawled on all fours, feeling along the cement with Father Antonio right behind her. Eventually, she found cover against some kind of barricade. She extended her arm across the priest to protect and reassure him.

Zing! Splat! Dodging pellets, she kept her head down, shoving a shoulder into a wall of damp burlap, judging by the smell and the coarse weave. The moldy odor was tainted by the toxic vapor of the chemical.

From her investigation of the Blair murder site, she knew this point started the death maze. A cold reality hit. In his ordeal, Mickey Blair had no way out of his trap. McBride made sure of that. Why would her chances be any better? He dangled the carrot of hope, telling her a way out existed.

Raven knew now—the bastard lied.

Not knowing what was happening on the other side of the room, she took a chance. To find another way out, she'd have to risk exposure. Do the unexpected. And with the diversion across the room, this might be the only time to do it.

'You stay here,' she whispered to the priest, her voice raspy. 'But when I call, you follow my voice. I'm gonna try to crawl over the top. Give you a hand up.'

She stood and drew fire. Pellets whizzed by her head and pummeled her back. She ignored the painful bruising of the attack and held her breath from the fumes. One foot wedged into a niche in the burlap sacks. She raised her hand above her head and dug into the barricade for a grip. The structure felt sturdy enough to support her weight, but situated at an odd slant, the wall made it difficult to hoist herself up.

Finally, she took a step up, clinging to the burlap. Her arm wedged into it. But as she reached to pull herself over, her hand recoiled in pain.

'Aarrrggh!'

A chill shot across her skin. In her shock, stars spi-raled through the darkness, assaulting her eyes. Something sharp had pierced her hand, shredding flesh as she slid away. Blood drained warm down her arm, the cuts deep.

Thud! Another round struck the back of her neck, dousing her. She fell to the cement floor, hard. Her hand stung as the alcohol mixed with blood, the wound swollen and throbbing.

'Damn it!' She groaned, tucking her hand against her waist, applying pressure to the cut with her other arm. 'Oh. God. Won't do that again.'

'What happened?' The priest knelt by her side.

'Nails, glass, something up top. It'll cut us to pieces if we try to scramble over.'

'Are you hurt?'

'Not much, Father,' she lied. 'Come on. We gotta move.' She gestured for the priest to follow.

Now, no other choice remained. She had to pool her resources with whoever else was involved in the fight. By sheer numbers, they might muscle their way through the labyrinth. But she knew the risk. In the heat of battle, would the other target of McBride's men allow her to get close enough to explain—or would they kill her on the spot as the enemy? In her mind, there was only one way to find out.

Another pellet whizzed by Christian's head as he ducked against a small barricade. Without having a clear shot, the men above had curtailed their steady barrage, for now. He and his strange companion had already taken out two men. They lay unconscious at their feet. He felt the obstacle of their body mass, even in the dark.

'The advantage I spoke of earlier?' The mysterious Asian woman whispered and tugged at his sleeve, pulling him toward a more massive obstruction. She placed his hand onto it. 'We are on the back side of the barricade. We shall have full access to the scaffolding above .. . and to his men.' With another gesture, she indicated the stairway to the left. 'I will take the other side. Do not keep track of me; I will stay clear of you.'

She drew a hand to his cheek. He hadn't expected it. Never saw it coming. Christian flinched at her familiarity. Apparently, his reticence amused her.

'May we both live to fight another day.' After a soft chuckle, she added, 'And I do hope we meet again. I believe you will find we have much more in common.'

What the hell did that mean? The woman had a fondness for being cryptic. Christian said nothing in return. He suspected sentimentality would appear trite to this woman. She left his side to hunt on her own. He preferred it that way, too.

From the sound of it, she drew fire. The pellets pumme led the floor to his left. But soon after, he became a target again, hearing the chemical-loaded ammo zip by his head. He evaded much of it. But the alcohol vapors grew stronger, screwing with his sense of smell. Much more of this, and he wouldn't be able to trust his