“Move your ass, Alex,” he whispered.
Of everyone in that crowded hallway, Tripp didn’t expect the confidence builder that came from Tucker Chase. “He won’t let you down, Agent McClane. Stewart’s a fuckin’ rock.”
Tripp’s head snapped to the big guy’s jet-black eyes. “Step back,” he ordered. None of them had once asked what he and Alex were up to. Not that Tripp would’ve explained. Guess they really were psychic. He fingered the scrap of silky underwear in his pocket. Alex had one damned minute to get his ass in position.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Ashley didn’t know how much longer she should wait to attack again, or if she needed to. The jerk who’d kidnapped her was quiet. Too quiet. She wasn’t sure where he was, if he was even in Tripp’s apartment anymore. She’d hurt him. She knew she had. Maybe not enough to stop him. He’d thought he could just order her to crawl, and she’d fall apart like the weakling she’d been before? Guess again.
She’d fought back. Hard! Yes, she’d crawled, but once he’d slammed Tripp’s door behind her, he’d kicked her ass. That sent her sprawling face first into the carpet, right on top of her club. Thinking fast, she’d rolled to one side and…
WHAM! Up came the sawed-off end of that perch. She punched it straight into the jerk’s face, hit his nose, and dropped him to his knees. She knew now she should’ve beaten the shit out of him once she’d knocked him down. But adrenaline had gotten the best of her, darn it. Like a scared ninny, Ashley had jumped to her feet and run into Tripp’s guest bedroom, instead of back out into the hall and down the fire stairs. Her killer hadn’t followed her yet, but he would. Why else had he moved her out of her place?
To trick Tripp, that was why. He wouldn’t think to look for her here. She knew how he operated. Tripp was emotional and reactive. He’d be frantic to save her. His mind might be firing on all eight cylinders, but his heart would be driving every last one of his decisions.
Ashley worried for Tripp’s mother, for Mrs. Harrison, too. Had this guy already hurt them? Was that why Mrs. Harrison was so quiet? The racket Peewee made had drowned out her screams for help. There was no one coming this time, and she knew it. Tripp was out doing his job. Unless she was injured, Mrs. Harrison was too elderly to be any help. She couldn’t fight a flea anyway. That left everything up to Ashley. If she wanted to live, she’d have to fight for the right.
Her lip and nose were bleeding, and her scalp stung where the creep had jerked patches of her hair out. But nothing was broken. When she’d resisted being dragged up the hall, she’d felt the arsenal of sharp shapes and edges inside this creep’s trench coat. They had to be weapons or tools of his diabolical trade, which was why she hadn’t dropped her club. No way. She didn’t understand why he’d let her keep it. Maybe he’d thought he could easily take it away from her? Use it on her?
His craziness panicked Ashley. Fudge, she was trembling so hard, she could barely breathe. If she wanted to attack first, she’d soon have to give up the safety of this closet and move into the open. To effectively fight back, she needed more space to swing her club. Tripp’s closet was so full of boxes and guy stuff, there was barely room to hide. The man sure had a lot of exercise and weight-lifting equipment. Plus, that monkey-bar thing in his spare room, fastened to two walls and running over the ceiling between them. What was he, a big kid with a secret playground in his apartment?
Her pulse pounded like a thousand hammers through her veins. Noisy hammers that made it hard to think. Harder to hear what her killer was doing out there in Tripp’s living room or kitchen. If he was still there. She’d have to choose her defensive position carefully. Let him come to her. Let him stumble over those barbells and weight sets, those big round things with handles that lay between her and the door.
The jerk had a bloody nose now. What was he up to, treating his wound? Aww, poor creepy asshole baby! Ashley took a perverse twinge of satisfaction in that possibility. She refused to be assaulted without fighting back this time. She had to do something, now, while he thought she was scared and he was safe. Before he came at her with that knife. She had to act!
As quietly as possible, nearly without breathing, she cracked the louvered closet door open and stepped into the cluttered guest bedroom. It was now or never. Whispering Tripp’s second rule and her new mantra, “Never give up. Never give up. Never,” Ashley knotted both hands in a death grip around Peewee’s perch.
It would’ve helped if she’d sounded more like Tripp and less like herself. Because here in his apartment, she would make her last stand. Here, she would fight to the bitter end to live and to save Tripp’s mom. Or die trying.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
It was now afternoon on a godawful Tuesday. Tripp had never worked any ops with Alex Stewart, but he’d heard the office gossip. The man was a fuckin’ god who’d started The TEAM from scratch after he’d left the Corps on a hardship discharge years ago. That must’ve been when he’d lost the child Ashley told him about. Made terrible, tragic sense.
The time left for Alex to be where he needed to be? Ten damned seconds. Then five. Everyone stepped back from the door. Swallowing hard at all the ways this could go wrong, Tripp counted down, “Three, two—”
The
