“Drop the weapon!”
My hands still, the blade trembles with my restraint. A thin line of red beads and drips down Grayson’s throat. I stare at the blood, the poison flowing out.
I recognize the gruff boom of the voice. I hold my place, not lowering the knife.
I have to finish this.
“I said, drop it, London,” Detective Foster shouts, his gun aimed at me.
“She can’t.” Nelson turns his weapon on Foster. “She doesn’t have a choice. She has to kill him.”
I glance at the detective. Foster’s confusion results in his aim bouncing from me to Nelson. “What’s going on?” Foster demands.
Nelson makes a move to his left.
“Don’t—” The sound of the gun safety clicking off reverberates around the tense room. The agent halts movement, the standoff between them thickening the air, suffocating.
I use the distraction to gauge Grayson’s condition. He’s weakening. Sweat dots his forehead, his facial muscles tic, muscles spasm. I know the symptoms; I memorized them. Soon, convulsions will take hold.
He doesn’t have long.
This scenario has two contingencies: Foster’s arrival sets the first in motion.
“I’m ready,” Grayson says. “You’reready.”
I inhale a fortifying breath. Then: “You’ve been chasing a copycat,” I tell Foster. I catch and hold his gaze. His Glock is still directed at Nelson. “The murders in Brunswick and Minneapolis. The second Rockland victim. Even the prostitute that you stumbled on to…” I let the truth of my words drift over him. “And you’ve been so close to catching the killer. Working alongside him nearly every day of the investigation.”
His thick brows draw together. As realization sets in, he focuses on the man in his sights. “I knew something was off with you.”
Nelson adjusts his stance, rolling his shoulders and lifting his chin. “You’re not a part of this, Foster. You’re a bumbling, reject detective, and you’re officially off the case.”
A gunshot fires.
The silence breaks. Gunfire cracks with a resounding echo, leaving behind a muted ringing in my ears. On startled reflex, I drop the knife. Grayson pulls me down against the container and positions his body over mine.
A loud groan of pain, and then another shot rings out.
“I hate guns.” Grayson’s voice is barely audible through the gauzy stuffing filling my ears. “This how you want to announce your legacy, Nelson!” he yells. “Gunning down your victims… Not very original.”
Then, Grayson’s comforting weight disappears. He releases a grunt as a booted foot makes contact with his ribs, then a sharppain lances the back of my head. I’m yanked backward, my bare skin burning as I’m dragged along the cold steel.
“Get up,” Nelson seethes, pulling me to stand by my hair.
I lash out, nails aimed at his face, but he easily blocks my attack. He smashes the butt of the gun against my temple. Pain splinters my head, darkness blinks before my eyes. He draws me against his chest. Pushes the muzzle to my throbbing head.
My feet kick at the steel despite the pain it causes my injured flesh, seeking purchase as he drags me over the container. Nelson grips my shoulder, securing his forearm across my chest. Grayson watches the moment through a haze of pain and helplessness as the aconite ravishes his system.
Incensed, I regain my composure and latch on to Nelson’s arm, digging my nails into his skin. “Let me go?—”
“Not happening,” he says near my ear. “You’re good at being a hostage, London. Don’t let me down now.”
As my vision clears, I glimpse Foster below. Leaned up against a support beam, he uses it as a shield. He’s holding his casted arm. Red seeps between his fingers. He’s been shot.
Grayson is dying. Foster is injured. How badly, I’m not sure—but he won’t be able to make a stand against Nelson. I’m a sacrificial lamb for Nelson’s escape. Fighting to live only long enough until I transition into a burden. Where he’ll dispose of me.
The moment is crystal, pristine. So clear, I can taste the chemicals infusing the air.
I catch Grayson’s gaze and stop struggling. The clarity I feel is reflected in his pale blue eyes. He’s losing the battle, his awareness slipping away.Now.
