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She drew her weapon, knowing he could close the distance between them in seconds. “You kill girls like Galina because they’re easy and no one misses them. Veronica would have been a challenge, because sooner or later someone would have missed her.”
He glanced at the gun and then back at her. “I don’t know a Veronica.”
“All the victims look like Hadley and Marsha.”
“We keep coming back to Marsha. You have a one-track mind, Agent Spencer. Is the gun really necessary?”
She ignored the question and held the gun steady. “Marsha was young and pretty and trusting. Was she your first kill? Did you save her bones out of sentiment, or maybe it was proof you were the one behind all the media headlines?”
He reached for his car keys. “You’re good at spinning stories, Agent. I haven’t done any of the stuff you’re talking about. The press would call this harassment.”
She tensed and took a step back but kept pressing with her statements. “I think Veronica was a two for one. She just happened to be your type, and you knew she was Mark’s girlfriend. Maybe Skylar was upset that her daddy was messing around. Maybe you just wanted to hurt Mark.”
“I don’t like Mark. That’s no secret. But I don’t care who he sleeps with. That was between Hadley and him.”
“Galina was convenient and easy. But after her, I’m surprised you went after Kiki. Were you stressed out? Does killing help you feel in control?”
The frown lines around his mouth deepened. “This has been fun, but it’s now boring me. It’s been a long day, and I want to go home.”
She prayed Vaughan was close. “You’re under arrest.”
He laughed. “You’re full of shit. Now, unless you have a warrant, I’m leaving. I been working for ten hours, and I’m beat. And I don’t have time to play cops and robbers with you.”
“Stay right where you are, Mr. Dalton. Detective Vaughan is minutes away, and he wants to talk to you.”
“Minutes away? Shit, that’s a lifetime.” He took a step toward his car, but in the next instant, he stopped and pivoted toward her.
The next few seconds slowed to a crawling pace. She caught the glint of a blade. As she locked him in her sights, he lunged. The blade slashed through the air, slicing through the tendons and muscles on her forearm. Pain cut through her body, and blood soaked the sleeve of her blouse. The fingers in her right hand went numb and were unresponsive.
Adrenaline pumped and dulled the pain in her arm. But she knew that wouldn’t last. Soon, her arm would burn, and what little advantage she still had would vanish.
She had practiced scenarios like this thousands of times, and muscle memory kicked in. She angled her body back a couple of steps, giving herself the space to shift the gun to her left hand and regain her footing. The grip felt slightly awkward in her left hand, but again, countless practice sessions with her nondominant hand kicked in. She tightened her hold and leveled the gun, refusing to allow any thoughts or emotions to dull her focus.
He raised the knife and lunged forward, ready to plunge the blade into her. She tweaked the angle of her sights, caught him in her crosshairs, and fired.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Thursday, August 15, 11:00 p.m.
Sixty-Four Hours after the 911 Call
Zoe stood on the sidewalk, her heart pounding as blood soaked her blouse, pants, and arm. Her breathing was rapid and shallow as she tried to settle herself. Agents went their entire careers without firing their weapons, and she had just fired hers point-blank into a man’s chest.
She heard police sirens in the distance, shoved aside the emotions that were sure to come later, and hurried toward her attacker. He lay on his back, staring up at her, his eyes focused sharply on her. She quickly kicked the knife out of his reach and pointed her weapon at his bloodstained chest should he make any move toward her. She did not have the strength or dexterity now in her right hand to cuff him. “Jason, can you hear me?”
He blinked, but it was a slow, lumbering move that suggested he was slipping.
“Did you kill Marsha?”
He closed his eyes as a slight smile tugged the edge of his lips. The color in his face drained.
“Jason, did you kill Marsha? Don’t come clean for me, but do it for Skylar.”
His eyes opened at the sound of his daughter’s name. He looked at her and then slowly nodded and smiled before he closed his eyes. His breathing quickly grew shallow and faded.
The lights of a cop car flashed around her, and she heard her name. She did not move or look back as she kept her gaze locked on Jason.
“Zoe!” It was Vaughan. “Zoe, are you all right?”
She did not dare look toward him. “I’m fine. You need to check for a pulse. He took a round to the chest.”
He reached for his cuffs, moving past her as he grabbed Jason’s hands and secured them before he pressed his fingertips to the man’s throat. “He’s dead.”
She slowly lowered her weapon and took a step back. “He came at me with that knife.”
Vaughan took Zoe’s weapon from her and then called in the shooting. “You’re bleeding. Did he stab you?”
“He tried. I’m fine.” She dared a glance down at her arm and tried to wiggle her fingers. They did not move.
Flashing blue-and-white lights mingled with the now-screaming police sirens. Two police cruisers barreled toward the garage, one from the south and the other from the north. They came to a stop, nose to nose, in front of the building.
“This is FBI special agent Zoe Spencer,” Vaughan said to the uniformed officer. “She and I have been working a case.”
Her mouth was dry, and the trembling in her hands was seeping through her body. Intellectually, she understood this was the adrenaline dump, her body’s reaction to the attack.
Blowing a breath between her lips, she reached for her badge and held it up. Her right arm burned, and she realized just how badly she was injured.
The paramedics arrived and unloaded a stretcher and supplies. One raced toward Jason as Vaughan led Zoe back toward the ambulance.
The paramedic pulled on fresh gloves and had her sit on the edge of the truck. “You’re going to need stitches, likely surgery,” the paramedic said. “It’s a nasty gash.”
“How deep is it?” She watched as a uniformed cop secured the scene with yellow tape.
“Deep enough,” the paramedic replied.
“Is there tendon damage?”
“Too soon to tell.”
As Vaughan stood beside her, she tried to move the fingers on her right hand again. They remained unresponsive.
“You’ll be fine,” Vaughan said. “They’ll get you patched up.”
“I’ve been down this road before. It doesn’t end well.”
“Don’t borrow trouble,” he said.
She looked up at him, searching for something that would assure her she had come through this, but the look of concern darkening his gaze told her just how much she stood to lose.
The paramedic applied a bandage to her cut, and as he pressed, pain burned through her, and she hissed in a breath. “Easy now.”
Vaughan laid a hand on her knee. It was steady and sure and brought her gaze into focus on the worry etched deep in his face. “Let’s get you to the hospital, and then we’ll figure this out.”
