“What I’m doing,” the killer said. “Ijust wanted to tell you that before I do it. I know you have me now. There’s noway I’ll get away. But you have to listen to me before I do it.”
“You don’t need to do it,” Shelley said.“We have snipers around the building. We knew you were coming here. They’reready to fire right now.”
“That’s a lie.” The killer spoke softlybut confidently. His eyes flashed constantly between Zoe and Shelley, his feetshifted to keep up with the shaking running through Chrissie’s body, but he wascalm. He knew what he was doing. He was going to cut her throat open, and theywouldn’t even have time to blink.
“It’s not a lie,” Shelley said, herwords measured and careful, matching his tone. “They have their sights on youright now. Look at your chest. You’ll see the red dot.”
The killer hesitated, mulling her wordsover, and then he glanced down.
In a shot, Zoe’s hand flew to her hip,drawing the gun and getting it raised in his direction. In her peripheralvision, she saw Shelley’s gun rise in the air at the same time.
“Oh,” the killer said, looking back upand taking in the new reality. “Very clever.”
“Thank you,” Shelley said. “See how niceit is when we’re all being civil? You hurt her now and you’ll be dead beforeshe is.”
Chrissie made a strangled noise, but thekiller’s composure did not seem to waver.
“On the other hand,” he said, “you can’tshoot me until I make a move. She’s right in front of me. You can’t risk it.”
He was right. There was only a sliver ofhis face visible behind Chrissie, who must have been just an inch shy of six feetherself. She could have been a model, Zoe thought with a momentary flash ofenvy.
“What do you propose we do, then?”Shelley asked. She was giving him the power. Seeing if he would help them cometo a peaceful resolution on his own.
“I think what we’ll do is this,” hesaid. His words were slow, as if he was figuring it out as he went along. “I’mgoing to walk backward down this hall and go into the kitchen. You’ll followme, I suppose. And we’re going to go right to the back door and outside, andyou won’t stop me. When I’m out, I’ll let her go.”
“Why should we believe that?” Shelleyasked.
Zoe didn’t believe it. Didn’t believe itfor a second. He was focused on one thing, and one thing only. His mission. Forwhatever reason his twisted mind had invented, he thought that ChrissieRosenhart needed to die.
He was right when he said that they hadhim. There was no way out from here. Even if he ran, they could shoot him dead.And if he escaped that, there would always be a manhunt, and no one escapedthose for long.
“She doesn’t have the mark yet,” thekiller said, his eyes sliding momentarily along the side of Chrissie’s exposedneck. “I can let her go. Just like you can let me go. We all give our word.”
“The mark?” Shelley asked. Playing fortime. They all knew what he was talking about.
“The numbers,” the killer hissed, hisvoice low and hateful. “She’s carrying a curse. But if she agrees not to getthe mark, maybe we can all just go our separate ways.”
“I won’t,” Chrissie choked out, hervoice restricted by tears. “I promise I won’t!”
“There you go,” Shelley said. “She won’t.Why don’t you put the knife down and let Chrissie come over to us? Then we cantalk without anyone getting scared.”
The killer smiled at that, dark andtwisted. There was something wrong with him. Even if she hadn’t known that, Zoewould have seen it now. It was the look of an obsessive. Someone who would putthat obsession in front of anything—even his own life.
Their threats weren’t working. He wasn’tscared of dying. He was scared of not finishing the job. He was stalling fortime, waiting for the moment when he was sure he could get the blade all theway across her throat. She needed to be dead—really dead. Not just cut enoughthat the FBI could keep her alive until the ambulance came.
There was no clean shot. If Zoe took aimnow, she would only hurt Chrissie. There had to be something she could do,something that would save the girl’s life instead of ending it.
Her eyes flashed along the corridor.There was a photograph on the wall, printed onto shiny metal, an interestingprint technique that made the beach scene dreamy and unrealistic. The metal wasthick. She did a quick calculation in her mind. It was thick enough that the bulletwouldn’t just tear right through. From this position, it would likely ping offat a shallow twenty-degree angle.
The angle would have to be right, or theshot would end in disaster. As they all stood, it wasn’t going to work. Thatshot would bury itself in the wall on the opposite side, missing the killerentirely. Zoe knew she was going to have to bide her time. The killer tookanother step backward, dragging Chrissie with him, and every muscle in her bodytensed.
Calculations were whirring through hermind. It was not just about his position relative to the metal plate, but alsoher own position. She tried to figure it all out without staring at the wall,giving her intentions away. She kept her eyes fixed on him and used herperipheral vision only, thinking as fast as she could. He had stepped back toofar. Now the twenty-degree angle for the shot would land a bullet in Chrissie,not him.
What if she took a step backward? Thatwould create an even shallower angle for the bullet’s approach from the gun,resulting in a shallower exit, too. She could bring it down to ten degrees. Butthen the demarcation wasn’t clear enough. The bullet might still hit Chrissiebefore it went on through to him. In her mind’s eye the lines flew betweenthem, straight trajectories that showed her where the bullet was most likely togo.
Most likely. Because when all was saidand done, she knew she could not control for unknown factors. Perhaps the metalhad a particularly shock-absorbent quality, or
