It took every ounce of her being to stop her fists, to stop the beating.
Taking back all that energy was a near impossibility at this point. She staggered four feet away, bent over to catch her breath. After a moment she stood up, and pulled the Winchester hollow point round from her jeans pocket. Two strides and she was on top of him again, legs straddling his body, teeth gritted with the effort it took not to smash her boot into his face. He wouldn’t look up, just stared at the ground. He was defeated.
Walk away, Taylor. Walk away. He’s beaten.
It just didn’t feel like enough to her.
She couldn’t help herself-she snarled at him, holding the bullet in her left hand. “You see this, you son of a bitch? This is the one you sent me. I’ve been carrying it with me, just waiting for a chance to put it in your brain. And here’s the moment I’ve been waiting for. The great big bad Pretender, whimpering on a dusty attic floor in the house of the man who made him. You couldn’t even become a killer on your own. You had to use the people around you. You are nothing. And this is the end of your story. Some end, huh?”
Taylor ejected the bullet already in the chamber and dropped the magazine into her hand. Inserted the Winchester. Popped the magazine back in. Pulled the slide and smiled as the bullet slid into the chamber. Troy, Barclay, Ewan-whatever the hell his name was-wouldn’t meet her eyes, just cowered on the cold floor.
The window was closing. They were still alone, just for a moment. There was no one to see. No one would know. He had lunged at her. She had been fighting for her life, the gun between them. It went off in the struggle. She could do it.
Jesus, God, she could pull the trigger and end his life. She wanted it so bad, she could taste it. Death was metallic on her tongue.
The gun never wavered.
“Get on your feet,” she said.
He crawled to a sitting position, then pulled himself up the wall until he was upright.
She watched carefully, there was still some fight left in him. He eyed her, listing to one side, favoring the broken leg.
He finally spoke, his voice strong, mocking, despite the obvious pain. “After all we’ve been through, you’re just going to kill me.”
“Do you have another suggestion?”
“You could let me go. I hate for our dance to come to an end. You’ve been a worthy adversary. It’s always been you. If I can’t have you, I’d take death quite willingly.”
“You will never have me. But tell me one thing.”
“Anything.”
“What were the copycats about?”
“Oh, them. I like an audience. I promised them I’d kill you using their copycat’s MO. And the Boston Strangler was by far the front-runner. He would have gotten the reward of a lifetime, watching me fuck you and strangle you. Too bad. Such a shame that we couldn’t see this to its proper end.”
She curved her finger into the trigger. Eased the pad of her finger into the metal. Just needed a bit more pressure.
“Yes,” she said. “It’s too bad he’s not here to watch me end your miserable existence. I only need to pull the trigger once. That bullet is either yours or mine. And I’ve got a few things left on my to-do list.”
Point at the heart, critical mass, center shot.
“Goodbye, Ewan.”
More pressure. The trigger started to cave. The voice spoke to her again.
This is murder. It’s murder, and you know it. What are you doing, Taylor? This isn’t you.
Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up. This is justice.
How many more pieces of your soul can you shear away and still be capable of living, Taylor? Every bullet, every life, chips away at your soul. He’s helpless. He can’t run. This is wrong. This isn’t the way to do it. It’s not the way.
“What are you waiting for?” Ewan asked. “Do it already. I’m tired of this. Do it, Taylor. Do it!”
She felt the anger building in her, the fevered pitch of desire to end this, to end him. To stop all the worry, the pain and the suffering he’d caused, not just for her, but for Fitz and Susie, for Sam, for her unborn child, for the strangers who’d died at this man’s hands.
An eye for an eye.
She caught the movement almost before it began. He lunged at her, but she coolly stepped aside and let him lose his balance. He fell to the hard cement floor with a crash, groaning, holding his leg.
“Do it, you bitch,” he snarled at her. “Just get it over with.”
She eased the pressure back off the trigger.
Felt a calm steal over her.
“No. You’re not worth it,” she said, then holstered the Glock. She heard a noise and turned her head toward the stairs.
“That was the last mistake you’ll ever make, Lieutenant.”
She heard the click, spun back just as Baldwin came crashing through the door. Saw Ewan rise on one arm. Her weapon was back in her hand instantly, and the bullets began to fly.
She started to move to her left, but her legs wouldn’t work.
Pain. Pain beyond comprehension. Burning. She reached for her head, her hand didn’t move.
Tears, now, she was crying, the cement hard and cold beneath her cheek.
And then there was nothing.
Fifty-Eight
“S he’s hit, she’s hit. Taylor’s hit!” He heard the words screaming from his mouth.
It happened too quickly. He’d gotten into that room as fast as he could. They’d found Sam, bloody and crying, in the garden, all her strength gone. She’d told him where Taylor was.
Taylor had turned, saw him enter the room full speed, the look on her face not exactly a smile, more like satisfaction, and relief, as if she were saying, “See, I didn’t do it. I couldn’t go through with it.”
But Copeland was moving behind her. Sitting up fast. The glint of metal in his hand. He had a gun. Taylor must have seen or heard the movement, she turned back to Copeland, her mouth a grim line of fury, her gun moving fast. But not fast enough. Baldwin’s logical mind proceeded with the proper response-start shooting. He started to squeeze the trigger. He wasn’t quick enough. He saw Taylor go down, collapsed in a heap, not graceful or slowly, just all of a piece, on the floor. Blood pooled beneath her head, and his heart froze.
Baldwin had only a fraction of a second to decide, the space between the heartbeats-go to Taylor, or put this dog down. His finger never left the trigger. He pointed the gun and squeezed, four times, in quick succession, a tracking line from Copeland’s sternum to his forehead. A fine mist of blood, the thump of the body hitting the floor, and he knew it was over.
Marcus came into the room yelling, “Officer down, officer down.” He dropped to the floor on the other side of Taylor, frantically feeling for a pulse.
Baldwin couldn’t catch his breath. He couldn’t breathe-was he shot? No. Too hyped. Adrenaline. A ragged breath finally entered his lungs and the scene in front of him grew clear.
Taylor.
He threw his gun down and knelt at her side.
The entry wound was an angry red hole above her right temple, a little left of center. He felt the back of her head, there was no exit. The gun Copeland had used was four feet away, lying quietly on the cement floor. She mustn’t have frisked him, or she would have found the weapon. Sloppy. But the gun was a. 22. Small caliber. There was a chance.
“Taylor Jackson, you are not allowed to be dead. Goddamn it, woman, respond. Open your eyes, Taylor. Open your eyes! ”
Someone pulled his arm, forced him away and held him back while they started working on Taylor.
