by Karen Rose
Keys in one hand, the ceramic blade in the other, she was sliding behind the wheel of the Jeep when cold metal burned the skin at the back of her neck. Goddammit.
“You’re good,” DJ murmured in her ear. “I’m better.”
She spun the blade so that it was flat against the inside of her forearm. If she lost it, she’d be defenseless. “You’re nothing.”
“We’ll have to agree to disagree. Get out.” He jabbed the barrel hard against her neck and she winced. “Now.”
“Or what? You’ll kill me? I’m not helping you.”
“I still have my phone. I can still detonate that bomb.”
“I don’t think you ever had one,” Liza said flatly. And even if he had, the FBI would have swept the facility already, just like they’d swept the Sokolovs’ house yesterday. Little Brooklyn and the other innocents wouldn’t be harmed. “I think you’re lying.”
He grabbed the collar of her scrubs and yanked her from the Jeep, dragging her on the ground. “You do not get to disobey me.”
She twisted out of his grip, catching his grimace. She’d hurt him. Good. She’d keep hurting him until either she killed him or he killed her.
“You do not get to tell me what to do,” she fired back, distracting him with her words so that she could deliver a kick to his knees.
He grunted in pain, but he sidestepped out of her reach, his hand clenching the butt of his gun as he pointed it at her head. It was suppressed, just as she’d thought. When he fired, no one would hear. No one would come. She experienced a pang of regret, not that she’d volunteered for this assignment, but that Tom would probably be the one to find her body. He was on his way. She had no doubt of that.
I’m so sorry, Tom.
“Well?” she challenged as she stared up at him. “What are you waiting for?”
It was madness to taunt him. But he’d been raised in a community that viewed women as chattel, where women never talked back. Her best weapon now was his own fury.
He stared down, finger still on the trigger. “I’m imagining you with your very own locket.”
“You’re assuming you’ll even have a community to oppress.” She pointed at Pastor’s body. “Without him, no one will want to stay. No one will follow you. Are you going to kill them all?”
His jaw tightened and she knew she’d hit a nerve. “Maybe. Maybe I’m not going back.”
“I wouldn’t. I’ve heard a lot about Eden’s amenities and they’re not great.”
“Shut up and get up. Now. We’re going for a walk to the ravine.”
This would be it. Her only chance. She focused on his left shoulder, mentally rehearsing what she was going to do. Slowly she rolled to her knees, then rocked back on her heels.
Then she sprang, gripping her blade and thrusting it into his left shoulder, as hard as she could.
He screamed, dropping his pistol.
She scooped it up and backed away, holding him at gunpoint with hands that, miraculously, did not shake. He watched her with eyes filled with hatred. She’d seen those before, too. That day. That day when her friends had died. When Fritz had died.
“Don’t move,” she said quietly. “Or I will kill you.”
“You won’t,” he said, and on the surface he sounded confident. Beneath there was doubt.
“I will. You’re not the first person I’ve pointed a gun at. Nor the first I’ve killed.”
But if you do, you’ll never find Eden. With Pastor gone, no one else knows where it is.
Then shoot to maim.
But he snarled at her, lunging for her, stumbling to his knee, starting to rise again. She had her finger on the trigger, ready to pull—until they both heard it. An engine. A big one, from the sound of it. It was approaching quickly, coming around the bend. DJ froze, still on one knee. She saw the realization in his eyes at the same moment that she processed the sound.
They’re here. They’re finally here. Relief coursed through her and her legs went weak.
She glanced at the black SUV that was screeching to a halt. And that was the opening DJ Belmont had been waiting for. He lurched to his feet, grabbing her wrist and twisting until he could snatch the gun from her hand. In a practiced move, he jabbed the pistol into her temple, one fist clenching the neckline of her scrubs, cutting off her air.
Just as Tom burst from the passenger side of the SUV, gun drawn, screaming, “FBI! Drop your weapon.”
TWAIN, CALIFORNIA
TUESDAY, MAY 30, 4:35 P.M.
Tom’s emotions were a fucking roller coaster. He’d gone from abject fear as they’d approached, to pride and bone-wilting relief when he’d seen her holding a gun on DJ Belmont.
And then he’d seen the moment it had gone wrong. Her relief, her distraction.
DJ had made his move and now held her at gunpoint.
If the situation hadn’t been so serious, Tom might have laughed at the look of frustrated annoyance on her face. At least she wasn’t afraid.
His Liza had a spine of steel.
“Back off,” DJ warned. “I will kill her. I have nothing to lose.”
“What do you want?” Tom asked, grateful to Croft for making him practice the scenarios multiple times as they’d driven like a bat out of hell. She’d taken over the driving midway through so that he could pull out his laptop and check on the status at Sunnyside. Raeburn’s team had everything under control there, and that—and seeing that Kowalski was still on the move, so DJ must have been, too—had helped him remain calm. But then Kowalski’s vehicle had stopped and so had his heart. It hadn’t beaten normally until he’d seen that Liza was still alive.
He could hear Croft getting out of the SUV. She’d been calling their location in to Raeburn, who was coordinating from the field office in Sacramento. Once they’d had Kowalski’s signal to follow, Raeburn had redirected the SWAT team to veer off I-5 and head east.
He’d also put eyes in the air. There was a chopper not too far away.
All of this gave Tom a feeling of control that was just enough—barely enough—to allow him to think past the fear of seeing a gun at Liza’s head.
“I want you to back off,” DJ snarled. “Tell your partner to stop. Not another step forward. There are three bodies on the ground right now. None of them listened. Follow their lead and it’ll be four.”
Liza’s gaze was locked on Tom’s face and the trust in her eyes bolstered his spirit and ripped it apart, all at once.
“I’ve got something you want,” Tom said.
DJ’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
“Eden’s bank account.”
DJ went rigid. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not. How do you think we knew about Sunnyside? I saw the transfers from your account to theirs. I’ve had access to Eden’s bank accounts for almost a month. We were just waiting for you to show up.”
“You’re lying,” DJ said again, but this time he sounded less certain.
“First transfer on Thursday morning, one hundred thousand dollars. Second transfer, two hundred fifty thousand. We have Pastor’s financial advisor in custody, so he can’t take any more.”
“What do you mean, any more?”
“He’s been skimming for years. Just like your father skimmed when he had your job.”
“How do you know about my father?” DJ’s eyes gleamed, his greed apparent.
“Pastor’s wife told us. Your father gave her a million bucks. Did you know that?”
DJ’s face contorted into a scowl. “Of course he did,” he muttered. “Bastard.”
“Which is why you killed him.”
“I killed him because he helped Gideon.”
“I can see how that’d make you upset,” Tom said mildly. “So. What do you want?”
“I want my money.”
“Let her go and we’ll talk.”
“No. You’re getting back in your SUV and driving away. You and your partner. You will transfer all the money to my account and then I’ll let Miss Barkley go.”
“Not gonna happen,” Tom said. “Besides, we know where Eden is now. By the time you got there, you wouldn’t have a home to return to.”
Liza’s eyes widened, her lips curving in a satisfied smile.
It wasn’t true—yet. But it would be soon. Minutes before they’d come upon this scene, Raeburn had informed them that they’d gotten the warrant for Daniel Park’s cell phone records and, sure enough, there were weekly calls from the same number, going back years. They were only interested in the calls over the last month. With any luck, Raeburn would be calling them with a triangulated location within minutes.
“You’re lying!” DJ spat.
“I told you. We have Pastor’s financial advisor. And his phone records.”
DJ paled.
Tom smiled. “I can see you understand where I’m going with this. So what’s it going to be? We can talk money, but I hold the cards. You’re not getting a penny until you let her go.”
He watched the riot of emotions cross DJ’s face, hoping he’d realize that it was time to fold. But, of course, he did not. He backed up a step, dragging Liza with him. She followed, her eyes locked on Tom’s, her hands clenched into fists. She was waiting for instruction.
DJ was not going quietly. Nor was he willing to negotiate.
Tom and Croft hadn’t really discussed this particular scenario, but Tom knew it would only end when DJ was locked away for the rest of his life. Or dead. Tom was okay with either.
Tom knew he should be a mess of nerves right now. But his mind, so accustomed to compartmentalizing, seemed to be doing okay.
From the corner of his eye, Tom saw Croft creeping around a shot-up Jeep. Presumably Kowalski’s. They might not have discussed this scenario, but Tom had confidence in Croft’s instincts. She’d do the right thing.
“Tell her to stop!” DJ shouted. “Your partner needs to back the fuck off.” He yanked Liza back another step and then another until he was at the tail end of a white Ford Explorer. Pastor lay dead on the ground beside it.
Kowalski had to be dead. Pastor was dead. DJ said he’d killed three people here. The third wouldn’t be Coleen, the healer. Her body had been found in her bed at Sunnyside. Best guess was asphyxiation. There was bruising on her neck in the pattern of the chain that held her locket. At some point, DJ had dragged her by it.
Like he was doing with the top of Liza’s scrubs right now. Her mouth was open, her fingers clutching at the fabric pulled tight around her throat. And Tom remembered his mother doing the same as his father dragged her for some imagined infraction. Fury rose, but instead of clouding his mind, it made his focus singularly clear.
You are going to die, motherfucker.
“Back off!” DJ screamed. “I mean it.” He dragged her toward the edge of the ravine, Tom and Croft matching him step for step.
Liza had been fairly docile, but that changed. She began to fight DJ, her gaze darting to her left. To the edge of the ravine, which was too damn close.
She couldn’t breathe. Tom could see that she couldn’t breathe.
She whipped her body to the right, away from the edge, and Tom saw something else. Something he hadn’t seen as he’d driven up. A blade protruded from DJ’s shoulder. Tom recognized it as the ceramic blade Raeburn had provided and now realized that this was how she’d gotten control of DJ’s gun before they’d arrived.
His Liza was one hell of an amazing woman.
Tom moved so that he was in her line of sight and tapped his left shoulder. Twisting her weight that way was counterintuitive because it put her too close to the edge, but it was the only way to get DJ to let her go so they could get a clear shot.
Liza bobbed her head once in acknowledgment, then threw herself backward into DJ’s left shoulder, shoving the protruding blade deeper.
DJ screamed, the sound wild and shrill. Like that of an animal.
His grip on Liza loosened and she dropped and rolled.
Tom’s heart stopped. She’d rolled with the momentum of her leftward motion and was skidding toward the edge of the ravine. “No.”
From there, everything happened so slowly that it felt like a dream and so fast that he struggled to keep up. Tom dove for Liza, grabbing her ankle, stopping her momentum. She hung over the side, her head pointed straight down.
Croft fired and Tom heard DJ stagger and fall.
“Drop the gun,” Croft ordered, but DJ ignored her.
Tom heard the pop of a suppressed bullet the moment that it hit him in the ribs. More correctly, it hit the Kevlar vest he wore beneath his suit.
“Fuck,” he ground out, forcing his hand to grip Liza’s ankle harder when his first reflex had been to let her go.
Behind him, Croft cried out in pain as she hit the ground.
Tom turned his head to see DJ crawling toward him, his expression filled with hate. “You thought you won?” DJ taunted. “You didn’t.” DJ went up on his knees, his gun pointed at Tom’s head.
Liza was squirming, trying to lever herself back onto solid ground.
“Liza, stop.” She immediately stopped struggling. She trusted him that much.
Tom had dropped his gun when he’d reached for her, and it was trapped under his body. He could reach for it, but he’d have to let her go. Which wasn’t going to happen.
He could hear Croft’s quiet groans but didn’t know if she was all right. From where he lay, prone on the ground, all he could see was Liza in front of him and DJ to his left.
And then, finally, the sound of helicopter blades filled the air.
DJ looked up for a second, but it was enough.
Tom rolled right, grabbed his gun with his left hand, and . . . hesitated. He was aiming for DJ’s head, but that . . . That was rage and would deprive DJ’s victims of their justice.
And that’s not me. Adjusting his grip, Tom shot him in the right shoulder instead, firing three bullets in quick succession.
DJ dropped to his knees, screaming. Partly in pain, Tom thought. Mostly in fury. DJ had dropped his gun and dove for it now. When he twisted around, he held the gun in a two-handed grip and pointed it at Tom’s hand, still clutching Liza’s ankle. “She’s going to die and you’re—”
Tom fired again, striking DJ in the chest as another shot came from his right. Croft. DJ fell backward, blood spreading across his torso. And from the hole in his head.
He was finally still.
Tom sagged, letting his forehead rest on the ground for five hard beats of his heart. Then he reached for Liza’s other ankle and began to tug.
Croft crawled to his side. “Let me help.”
Together they pulled Liza back to solid ground and then the three of them collapsed, breathing like they’d each run a marathon.
“Are you all right?” Liza finally asked.
Croft’s laugh was a little manic. “You’re asking us?”
“Well, yeah. I’m the medic.”
“We have vests,” Tom said. “But hell. They tell you that it’ll hurt, but . . .”
“They severely misrepresent the pain,” Croft said, then groaned. “I think I busted a rib.”
“But otherwise, you’re all right?” Liza pressed.
Tom shoved up on his elbows. “You’re covered in blood. Are you all right?” It was smeared on her thighs and he could see vague streaks that might have been from her fingers. Now that she was safe, he could think of everything else.
“It’s Kowalski’s. I’m fine.”
“Good.” Tom rolled to the side that didn’t hurt like hell and pulled her close. She put her arms around his neck and he held her for a long moment while she shuddered against him. “You scared the hell out of me,” he murmured. �
�Don’t ever do that again.”
She laughed, a slightly broken sound. “I wasn’t afraid of heights before, but I am now.”
“You’re entitled.” He tightened his arms, hissing in pain.
She scooted back, frowning. “You said you were all right.”
“I’ve had broken ribs before,” he assured her, “and this isn’t broken. It’s just bruised.”
“But it sucks,” Croft said woefully.
Grabbing her hand, Tom lowered himself back to his stomach, figuring he’d move later. He hadn’t broken a rib, but he hadn’t caught his breath yet, either. He kept seeing her sliding into a ravine and his breath would hitch all over again.
Liza sat up and ran her fingers though his hair. “I think the cavalry is here.”
The helicopter landed behind them, the blades slowing to a stop. Then boots hit the ground. “Anyone need us to call for a medic?” a man called out.
Liza laughed. “No. How are you, ma’am?”
“Better than you,” a familiar voice said dryly.
Tom rolled over to see Special Agent in Charge Molina striding toward them. He sat up, hiding his grimace. It was a point of pride. “Ma’am.”
Croft didn’t even bother, only managing to wave weakly.
“I thought you were recused, ma’am,” Tom said, then winced because it sounded accusatory when he hadn’t meant it to. “But I’m really glad you’re here.”
“Why?” Molina asked dryly. “You seem to have everything under control. Did you leave anything for us to do?”
Croft laughed, then moaned. “Hurts to laugh.”
Molina looked around. “Report, please.”
Tom exhaled. “We only know about Belmont. The others were already dead.”
“Miss Barkley?” Molina asked.
“DJ pulled over, I think to kill me and toss me over the edge. But then Kowalski showed up and he and DJ got into it. Kowalski had come for Pastor’s money.”
“As so many do,” Molina drawled. “Then?”
“I was in the back of the Jeep so I only heard them arguing. I assume DJ killed Kowalski first, then Pastor, but I didn’t witness that myself.”