Angelina ignored her. “What’s going on?”
“Scotty has a team. Bracco might have them tied up. Maybe Mason. I don’t know. I only know Scotty’s on his way—Croix has him pinned in the stairwell for now. I have to get back. Did you call the police?”
Angelina shook her head. “Mick said not to. He doesn’t want to endanger them or get the staff in trouble—”
Shee huffed. “Well, I think he might feel differently today—”
Angelina shook her head. “No, Mick is—”
“I have to go.”
Shee ran back into the hall. Croix stood at the end with the door propped open, watching her approach. Cough stood behind her.
“Where is he?” she asked as she ran.
“I don’t know,” Croix called back. “I haven’t heard anything for a while.”
Shee stopped.
The light.
She’d seen a light on the elevator panel as she ran out of her father’s room.
The penthouse light.
She turned as the elevator doors slid open.
Scotty stepped out.
He turned and saw her.
He raised his gun.
Shee squeezed the trigger of her forty-five. The blast shook the walls and sent her stumbling back.
Scotty spun back into the elevator. A second later, gunshots echoed from inside.
What is he—?
Her father’s door sat across from the elevator.
He’s shooting the lock from the elevator.
A second later, Scotty bolted across the hall, smashing Mick’s apartment door with his body.
He disappeared inside.
&&&
Chapter Fifty-Eight
“Angelina!”
Shee and Croix sprinted down the hall, Cough somewhere behind them. Gun shots echoed from inside Mick’s apartment.
Fear twisted around Shee’s heart like an Everglades’ python. An invasive species that had made a home.
I took Angelina’s gun. I left them defenseless.
Behind her, she heard Croix closing in, shouting warnings.
“You can’t run right in there—”
The girl didn’t understand.
It’s all my fault.
She’d stolen Mason’s baby. She’d hunted Scotty on her own, behind her father’s back, full of foolish pride. She’d led assassins to her sister’s house and stolen her own daughter’s life a second time. Mick had taken a bullet because of her. In a moment, both he and Angelina would be dead.
I’m a curse.
She’d had years to decipher that Scotty Carson was the assassins’ puppet master and she’d blown it. She’d gotten lazy and settled into her role on the run, happy to be forgotten.
On the road, she didn’t have to look into her father’s eyes. She’d spent a lifetime searching for approval in those eyes. Eyes that never looked at her the same after Grace died.
The bullet was meant for her. Grace had paid the price.
Croix’s fingertips brushed her back.
“Slow down—”
Shee jerked her shoulder away and found another gear, one last burst of speed to put distance between the girl and herself. Only the door frame stopped her momentum. She crashed into it, twisting to hit back-first as she raised her gun.
Inside the apartment, the gunfire had stopped.
They’re dead.
She knew it.
A blur of motion hit the door the same moment Shee did. It stepped on her toe and slammed into her shins. Pulling up, Croix’s gun snapped downward to meet the advancing threat.
Archie, racing in a blind panic.
Croix jerked up her weapon as the dog shot by, running full-tilt down the hall.
The girl swore. “That was close.”
She looked at Shee, who stood frozen, back against the door jamb, gun raised but pointed low.
“You have him?” she asked.
Shee swallowed. The black-clad, still body of Scotty Carson lay on the ground in front of her, face down.
In the bedroom doorway, Mick stood, draped in a hospital gown, gun in his hand. Tiny Harley stood beside him, her bird-chest puffed, yapping at the dead man, daring him to rise.
Mick wobbled and slapped a hand against the jamb to steady himself.
“I’m going to fall now,” he said, his knees beginning to buckle.
Shee tossed her gun onto the sofa as she lunged forward to catch her father. Croix followed inside.
“Get Cough,” said Shee as, from the bedroom, Angelina pointed the way back to Mick’s bed like a helpful crossing guard.
Croix nodded and ran back to the entrance, nearly crashing into Cough as he appeared.
Mick leaned against his bed, his bleary, blue eyes rising to meet Shee’s.
“You’re home.”
Shee threw her arms around her father. He squeezed.
“I’ve missed you so much,” he whispered in her ear.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
Cough moved in. “You should lie down—”
With a sniff, Mick released Shee and wiped his eyes to better glower at the doctor. “Where the hell have you been?”
Cough slapped a hand to his chest. “Me?”
“Yeah, you. Where’s Martisha?”
“Dead,” said Shee.
Mick acknowledged the information with a glance and then returned to Cough. “Where were you while she was poisoning me?”
“Poisoning—?”
“She woke me up every day, and then put me back under—” Mick waved his hand in the air as if motioning down the long road he’d traveled under Martisha’s care.
Cough’s attention swiveled to the I.V. hanging beside the bed. “I gave you one of my bags this time. She must have used something else to induce your coma. Thiopental, maybe. I’d have to—”
Mason burst into the room and everyone jumped. Croix lifted her gun and then lowered it, looking relieved.
“Today’s not the day to enter without knocking,” she muttered.
Mason stood, wide-eyed, weight shifting to his good leg. “Mick?”
Mick’s forehead wrinkled. “Mason? What are you—” He looked at Shee. “Are you two—?”
Shee ignored him. “What’s going on downstairs?” she asked Mason.
“They’re all dead, but Bracco and Trimmer are hit.”
“Trimmer?”
“The gardener.”
Shee nodded and turned to Cough. “The cook, too. He’s stable, hiding in the dining room behind the kitchen.”
“I’m on it,” said Cough.
“Trimmer’s in the back yard.
