“You’re crying,” Max told her, and his voice was… odd.
She couldn’t stop the tears. They just trickled down. Why couldn’t she be like Monica? Monica would never cry. She’d look at the killers, she’d rip them apart, and then she’d go right about her business.
Max released her wrists, and his callused fingertips brushed away her tears. Her breath seemed to burn in her lungs.
Slowly, he rose off her and stood. Max reached a hand down for her, and she took it, noticing the tremble in her own fingers. “After the drop-off, a new agent will be assigned to your case.” The words were wooden but she just had nothing left right then. She stood on legs that felt too weak. “I-I’m sorry. There’s no excuse for what I did.”
She exhaled and realized that he still he held her hand. “I’ll report the incident immediately and…” And what? What would she do?
“I was a dick,” Max said, and her gaze snapped up to snag his. “I was furious, and I struck out first.” He inclined his head toward her. “There’s nothing to report.”
She’d attacked him. In her book, that counted as something.
“You didn’t hurt me, baby, and something tells me, if an FBI agent really wanted to take someone down, she could.”
A bitter laugh slipped from her lips. “Maybe she couldn’t.” Because she hadn’t been able to get away before. And she sure hadn’t been smart enough to see the devil coming for her.
Her gaze dropped again.
“Look at me.”
But she didn’t want to. She saw herself reflected in his eyes, and she couldn’t stand that image. Sam pulled her hand away. She grabbed her purse and kept her back straight as she headed for the door.
“I killed him.” His confession fell heavily into the room.
She didn’t look back.
“I picked up that bat and I swung, and Dean went down, and there was blood all over the floor.”
Won’t look back. The door was close. Just a few more feet.
“Before I swung, I told him to get away from her. I told that bastard to stop hurting her, but he wouldn’t listen.”
Her fingers flipped the lock.
“She was bruised and bloody and begging him to stop.”
Her hand curled over the doorknob. Hesitated. Sam looked back. His stare pinned her.
“I wasn’t going to let that bastard rape my mother,” Max said, “so I took the bat I’d brought home from baseball practice, and I swung.” Echoes of fury and pain slipped into his voice. “One hit and he went down, and he didn’t get up again.”
Fourteen.
“They locked me up.” His shoulders straightened. “I did my time, and when I was eighteen, they pulled me up in front of a roomful of folks and asked me if I was sorry I’d killed John Dean.” The strained half-smile that tilted his lips was a touch cruel, a touch cold. “I told them ‘hell, no.’ You see, Samantha, if I had the chance, I’d do it again. I’d take that swing, and I wouldn’t hesitate.” He shrugged. “That’s who I am.”
Not perfect. Dark. Dangerous.
“But I want to know,” the faint lines near his eyes seemed to deepen, “just who are you?”
I don’t know. Sad and true. “I-I have to…” Run. She swiped a hand over her cheeks and felt the wet stains from her tears. “I need to finish checking the other computers here. There’s not much time left.” Sam turned away from him. Tell him you’re sorry. Tell him you don’t think he’s like the perps you chase.
Say something. The order was a scream in her head, but this time, the words didn’t come out. She opened the door and walked away.
“You can’t run forever,” his whisper followed her, and she knew he was right.
CHAPTER Seven
I have something of yours, Mr. Warrant.” The kidnapper glanced at the watch on his wrist. The lamp light shone down on him, letting him see perfectly. One-thirteen a.m. They’d taken Warrant’s son two hours before, right in front of the cops who’d been stationed in The Core. Thanks to his inside man at the club, he’d known all about the cops… and how to avoid them.
Getting his guy hired at The Core had been a stroke of luck. No more hunting down the prey they wanted. Now, well, he just waited for the fools to come looking for him. When they came in The Core, his man gave him a call.
Then playtime started… as Adam had found out.
Adam. Dumbass Adam. Since Adam had left willingly—just like all the others—the cops hadn’t noticed a thing out of the ordinary.
“Wh-what?” Warrant’s voice was groggy, but then, that figured. He’d awakened Slayton Warrant from his mistress’s bed.
The same routine. The old bastards were so predictable. It made the game so easy. “I have Adam,” he told the guy, keeping his voice a whisper, “and if you don’t pay, I’ll send him back to you in pieces.” That always got their attention.
“What? Who the f**k is this?”
Now Slayton was awake. Good. “I’m the man who has dear dumbass Adam, and I’m the man who’ll kill him if you cross me.” He began to walk. The street was deserted, always was, but he knew better than to stay in the light too long.
“This is crap. You don’t have—”
No one ever believed what they were told. Sad. Why were the folks in this world so untrusting? “I can send you proof.” He rather liked that part now. And it would only be fair. If he was doing a favor for one family, he should provide the same courtesy to them all.
“Adam’s at school! He’s not—”
“He was at The Core, drinking like a good frat boy.” The cops and the FBI agents would face hell in the papers after this one. Took him while you watched. Adam had been so eager for a piece of ass, there’d been no need to drug him. When the sexy blonde had left, Adam had gone racing after her, alone. His mistake.
“I’ve got Adam,” he said, “and he’s tied up and begging for his life.” Or Adam would be begging, if he didn’t have duct tape over his mouth.
“No, you’re lying, you—”
“How much is he worth to you?” He cut across the yell. “You’d better figure it out, old man, and figure it out fast.” Adam would be his last mark. He’d have enough money then—they’d have enough money—to get the hell out of that area. No, out of the country. That was supposed to be the plan, right? And everyone on his team knew the plan.