Ryan felt for Jennifer’s pulse, and he dipped his head with relief. Her pulse was slow but regular, and her eyelids fluttered at his touch. She was alive.
“Sure you do, Meagan,” he said, watching Jennifer slowly regain consciousness. She had sustained head injuries in the attack as well. She shook her head, scrunching her pale face up in pain, and he made a soothing sound as he brushed a curl from the woman’s head.
They’d underestimated the Maxwells. The couple weren’t here as guests. All of the others were accounted for, having been in the guest lounge while he questioned Kurt. So whoever had attacked these women wasn’t on the guest list.
They had to be hiding as staff. But all the staff had been evacuated. He surveyed the bloodied bathroom. Apparently not all of the staff, from the looks of things. Somewhere the Maxwells were hiding, and one by one, they were killing the guests.
“What’s the last thing you remember?” He asked Meagan, turning to her briefly.
She was trembling. Shock was setting in. “I don’t know,” she said, and a tear rolled down her cheek. “One minute we were looking after Margie, and then the next thing I know, BAM! It went black.”
Jennifer’s hand rose to her forehead, covering her eyes, and she tried to lift herself up. Ryan quickly braced his arm around the back of her shoulders and helped her.
“Oh, God, what happened?” Jennifer said as she held her head as though trying to stop it from splitting open. It took her a moment to notice Margie lying on the floor before her.
“Oh, no! Oh, heavens, what happened?” She rocked forward a little, covering her face as she started to cry.
Ryan shook his head. These women had been put through hell. He glanced briefly at Margie. She’d died from having her head bashed in. The other two had both been knocked unconscious. That was cold. Cold, violent and just plain mean.
He pulled a square of linen from his breast pocket and held it to Meagan’s forehead, applying pressure to the wound. “Did you see anyone?” He asked her.
Jennifer tried to shake her head, and cried out at the movement. “No,” she sobbed. Her eyes, dark with pain, met his. “Where’s Elliot? I want Elliot.”
Ryan looked to the door, only Elliot wasn’t there. He frowned. Where is he? And where is Vicky?
* * *
Vicky watched as Ryan, Jeffrey, Hank, Paula and Deborah raced out of the room. She hung back. Someone had to keep an eye on Kurt. Neil had stayed, Elliot, too, and she wondered briefly why he hadn’t moved to follow. His wife was out there.
Not an action kind of guy, maybe. Not like Ryan.
She walked over to the window, and stared into a whiteout. Snowflakes and ice whipped against the double-paned glass. She tapped the cold panel lightly.
She could barely believe it. Kurt—or Mike, or whatever his name was——had assaulted Jade all those years ago, and his actions had started a series of events that were panning out with fatal consequences, several years later.
The Maxwells must have worked several cons, more than was first suspected, in order for them to afford the operation that had changed their appearance. That took a whole lot of shored-up hate to fuel such a sustained plot for revenge. The operation, coordinating all of their victims into the one spot at the one time...
She peered outside, angling her head one way, then another. She couldn’t even see where the horizon met the sky. No trees were visible, either—had the Maxwells factored the weather in also?
No. That would mean that they’d thought of everything. She frowned. Except for her and Ryan. Luke had coordinated their attendance at the last minute. She and Ryan would have been a surprise, something they hadn’t planned for. No wonder the Maxwells had tried to run them off the road. A nice accident to get rid of the complications.
She frowned. But what about Gavin? How did he play into this? She thought of his recordings. Ugh. The guy really was a sleazebag. He’d slept with married clients and eavesdropped on conversations, trolling relationships for weak spots to exploit and blackmail. She shook her head. That type of guy would have a lot of people wanting him dead. But why would the Maxwells kill him? Had he overheard something he shouldn’t have? Something that had ended up killing him?
“All those years, Mike. Did you ever wonder about the guy you sent to prison?” Neil asked conversationally as he wondered around the lounge. He stopped at one of the brass-based leadlight lamps on the end table near the sofa Kurt sat on. Vicky turned from the window as she watched the counselor finger the edge of the lamp. For once, his friendly demeanor was replaced with a coolness that struck her as being out of character. But then, they’d all heard information that was hardly heartwarming.
Kurt looked down at his shoes. “Every day, Neil.”
Neil nodded. “I see. Yet you never did anything to address it...”
Elliot slumped into the lounge opposite, ignoring the conversation. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, and Vicky noticed the faint tremor in the man’s fingers.
“Are you okay, Elliot?” she asked from her position at the window.
“Yeah, fine.” He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, effectively shutting everyone out.
“It really was very poor form, what you did,” Neil commented, resting both hands on the end table. He stretched his back, flexing his hips.
Kurt nodded. “I know. I’ve regretted it, ever since. I’ve had to live with it, day in, day out, hating myself. You get that, right, Neil?” He leaned forward, staring up at the counselor. Vicky frowned. Was he really looking for support from the life coach? She turned back to the window, shaking her head. The guy had knowingly sent a man to rot in prison.
She heard Neil suck in a breath. “Yeah. I understand how you can hate yourself for not doing something, for not standing up to the monster. But there are ways of dealing with it.”
The sofa cushions rustled as Kurt adjusted his position. “Like how?”
“Well, you could do everyone a favor and die.”
Vicky gaped. Had he just said that? She turned around, just in time to see Neil bring the heavy lamp down on Kurt’s head.
“No!” she screamed, but it was too late. Kurt’s head snapped back as Neil struck him with the brass lamp. Glass crunched, and the brass lampshade crumpled, bits of colored glass dangling from the twisted leadlight framework.
Elliot opened his eyes, and his jaw dropped at what he saw. “God, man, stop!”
“Neil, no!” Vicky cried as he raised his hand again, bringing the lamp down in full swing. She ran, but the weapon connected again with a sickening crunch. Kurt slumped over and fell forward on to the carpet, where he lay motionless.
Elliot rose and took a shaky step forward. “My God, Neil. What have you done? You should have left the police to deal with him.”
Vicky knelt by the fallen man and felt for a pulse. It was faint and thready. She shrugged out of her cashmere shawl, wadded it up and pressed it to stem the flow of blood from the wound on his head, cringing as her hand pressed against sunken skull.
Neil turned on Elliot, his face twisted in a snarl. “Like they dealt with him in the past?”
“You can’t play judge, jury and executioner, Neil.”
Neil straightened, pulling a long shard of glass out of the warped lampshade. “No, because you’d be guilty, too, wouldn’t you, Elliot?”
“Huh?” Elliot frowned in confusion and backed away as Neil advanced. Vicky briefly glanced up. What the hell is going on? She quickly turned her attention back to the injured Kurt.
“You cheated on your college entrance exams,” Neil growled.
Oh, for the love of— Vicky shook her head, then halted. Oh, God. She had just found Simon Maxwell.
“How did you know?” Elliot gasped as he took another step backward, his leg knocking against the back of the sofa, sending him off-bal
ance.
“Because you took my scholarship, you stupid, worthless, arrogant imbecile,” Neil snarled. “I went to prison, and they gave you my scholarship—and you had to cheat to keep it. You got the degree I wanted, you got the job that was supposed to be mine. You didn’t deserve it, though, did you?” He pointed to Kurt. “He stole my freedom, but you stole my life.” He raised his arm, the green-stained glass in his hand catching the muted light from the wall lamps. “No, Simon! Don’t!” Vicky shouted. Simon/Neil turned for a moment, distracted, and Elliot launched himself at the man, grappling with the glass. They struggled, and Vicky called for help, shielding the unconscious Kurt as the two men fought.
Elliot cried out in pain as Simon Maxwell slashed his arm with the glass. He tried to block, but Simon was frenzied, slicing and slashing with the strength of years of pent-up rage. Simon struck out, and Elliot’s scream was cut short as he fell back, stunned, holding the glass shard in his neck.
Vicky screamed, and bolted for the door. Simon flung himself after her. He grabbed her around the knees and tackled her to the floor. Vicky went down yelling, twisting to face him. She shuffled back on her hands and hips, trying to free her legs. She managed to get one free, while Simon bared his teeth at her, clutching the denim of her other leg.
She kicked him. Hard. His head jerked to the side, and she kicked again, pounding with both legs as though she was running a sprint race. He tried to grab her, but she twisted, jerked and flicked her leg out in a low roundhouse kick. Her left leg connected with his cheek with a crack. The ankle holster.
Simon fell back, dazed, and Vicky scooted to her feet and pounded out of the room, hearing Simon swear as he stumbled to his feet and lurched after her. She grabbed hold of the doorframe and used it like a slingshot to turn tightly and run.
The staff door. She bolted toward it, heart hammering, as Simon’s thudding footsteps on the carpet sounded behind her.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Ryan jerked his head up when he heard the screams.
Vicky.
“Take everyone back to the office suite and lock the door. Don’t let anyone in or out,” he told Hank, and raced out of the bathroom.
“Vicky,” Ryan shouted, but heard no response.
A shadow crossed the floor of the carpet, and Ryan twisted to find the source. A dark figure stood outside the main doors, rattling them to try to gain entrance. The doors were locked. The figure stood back, pulled a gun from his jacket and aimed it at the glass. Ryan ducked and shielded his face and head. Two shots fired, and both the exterior swing doors and the interior sliding doors shattered. The man stepped through the now-open doorway, kicking glass out of his way as he threw his hood back.
Drew.
His colleague held his hands out. “You started without me,” he said, his tone half accusing, half amused.
Ryan jerked his head toward the guest lounge. “C’mon, I think I heard Vicky screaming.” His heart was racing. If anything happened to Vic...He quashed that line of thought. He wouldn’t let anything happen to Vic.
Drew’s expression changed to stone-cold sober as he followed him into the lounge.
Ryan swore. Kurt lay on the floor, and he recognized Vicky’s shawl wrapped around his head.
Elliot, on the other hand, lay on his back, his wide eyes staring up at the ceiling, clutching a shard of glass that stuck out of his throat. Ryan thought he was dead, until the man’s eyes blinked, and he raised a trembling finger.
Ryan and Drew raced over to him. Elliot tried to talk, but only a gargling sound emerged from his throat. His face was pale, his eyes terrified.
“Shh,” Ryan said.
Drew gingerly inspected the wound, wincing. “Don’t move, whatever you do. Don’t try to take this out.” He turned to Ryan. “It looks like the weapon is filling the puncture. If he takes it out, he’ll bleed out.”
Ryan grimaced. That wound was vicious. A cruel and debased attack.
Where the hell is Vicky?
“Come on, let’s go find your girl,” Drew said. He held a finger up to Elliot. “Don’t move. We’ll get you help.”
Both men rose and ran out of the room. “I’ll take the staff hall, you take the public areas,” Ryan said, and they split. They had to find Vicky, and splitting up was the fastest way to do it. He ignored the sick coil of lead in his gut and slammed through the staff door.
* * *
Jade tagged along behind Hank as they emerged from the bathroom area, just in time to see one of the guests racing into the staff area. She frowned. That had to be the guy Simon had told her about. And where was Simon? She’d heard the screams. Hopefully he’d followed the plan and taken care of business.
Jade slowed down, ambling behind the group as they made their way toward the management suite. She’d already shaken off a concerned Deborah. Her injury wasn’t as bad as she’d made out. She slowly edged toward the staff corridor, silently putting more distance between her and the group, until she could gently push the swing door open and disappear. Simon and she were a team. If he needed help, she’d give it to him, just like he’d helped her. On the streets. With that doctor. This time it was her turn to be there for him.
Together, there was no stopping them.
* * *
Vicky pounded down the concrete corridor. Where the hell was she? Where could she go? She rounded a bend and skidded to a stop at an intersection in the corridors. Left or right? Hell, left or right? She could hear Simon’s footsteps, pounding closer and closer behind her.
She ran left, hoping there was some place to hide, someplace to take cover. Please, please let there be someplace to hide. She ran on her toes, trying to run on silent feet.
She ran past a door, then halted, ran back and darted inside, closing the door with a quiet snick. She braced herself against the door and glanced around. She was in some sort of kitchen.
She gaped at the pots hanging from the racks above the workbenches, the sharp knives that were clipped to railings along the wall. Oh, crap. Wall-to-wall weapons for a psycho.
She ran and jumped up to grab a large fry pan. Maybe she could knock him unconscious before either of them got hurt badly. She quickly hid behind the door, trying to control her panting. She gripped the fry pan with two hands, feeling the slide of steel between her sweaty palms. She eyed the knives. They looked really, really sharp. Lethal. She quickly raced to the bench, leaned over and grabbed one. May as well stack the odds in my favor, not his.
She was running back to her hiding spot when the door flung open. It hit her in the side and sent her stumbling back against a bench full of dishes. Plates and bowls went skittering across the bench and crashing on to the floor—along with her knife. Ow, damn it.
She turned and came back swinging with the pan. Simon dodged her first hit. She swung again. He ducked and grabbed her from behind, picking her up and running against the bench. She cried as her hip hit the metal edge. She lifted the pan back over her head and felt the satisfying clunk as it hit him on the head.
He bellowed with rage, his arms tightening around her. It was like having a steel band around her stomach that was intent on crushing her.
She screamed as she raised her arms again, lifting the heavy pan. This time she did it with enough force that had Simon reeling back, loosening his arms. She grabbed a bowl and turned, bringing it against the side of his head. He staggered back. She’d seen what he could do. She couldn’t let him hurt her, or get her down on the ground. He was bigger, he was stronger, and he was meaner.
But I’ve got two older brothers.
She brought the pan around in a low arc and whacked him between the legs.
He jerked, eyes wide, clutching his groin as he fell to his knees, the veins standing out against his neck and temple as his face turned red, then purple. He fell, twisting, his arm reaching for something.
Her blood ran cold when she saw what he was going for. She tried to kick his hand, but he managed to grab the knife she’d dropped.
He snarled as he whipped around. She used the bench to pull herself up and out of the way, but she wasn’t quite quick enough. The blade sliced through denim and skin, cutting her across the back of her calf. She bellowed, not so much from the pain, but from violence of the action.
She dragged her arm across the bench, sending piles of pots and pans raining down on him, then jumped down and started to run down the aisle. The sound of crashing crockery behind her spurred her on. She rounded a preparation island in the middle of the kitchen and faced him, keeping the long slab of bench between them. He glared at her, blood and sweat trickling down his forehead.
He darted one way.
She darted the other way.
He halted.
She halted.
He faked to one side.
So did she.
His eyes narrowed. Her heart rate sped from pounding to freak-out frenzy as he placed his hands on the bench and heaved, vaulting over it. She screamed and ran.
The door flung open again, and Ryan caught Simon in a flying tackle.
“Run, Vicky!” Ryan shouted as he wrestled with the knife-wielding Simon. She hesitated, wanting to help.
“Run, damn it!” His voice was deep as he bellowed at her.
She ran.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Vicky ran through the kitchen, hair streaming behind her. She barreled through the door at the opposite end and found herself in another corridor. She sobbed. She felt like Alice in the Queen of Hearts maze. Trapped. She kept running, her leg burning, rounding one bend after another. She saw a door and ran to it, throwing it open.
It looked like a smaller kitchen, with cheap tables and single chairs. Must be the staff lunch room. She glanced around wildly. No, no, no. It was a small room, and the doorway she stood in was the only entrance—and the only exit. If she hid in here, she’d be trapped.
For Her Eyes Only (McCormack Security Agency) Page 28