With trembling fingers, I open the door.
19
THE DARE
GRAYSON
Thirty-two steps to the service elevator. On a floor plan, the distance looks short, easy. In reality, with a hostage, panicked nurses screaming, and officers aiming guns at your head, each step might as well be a mile.
“Neither one of us will make it out of this alive,” London says. “They will shoot through me to get to you, Grayson. You’re a convicted serial killer twice over. You’re not leaving this hospital.”
I breathe in her seductive scent. The sweet note of lilac bolsters my resolve and frees me of the lingering sedative in my veins, my limbic system working harder. “They won’t shoot a renowned doctor. The state doesn’t want that lawsuit.”
Her laugh is hollow. “So this is why you came to me, this was your plan. Somehow, you thought getting me here would be your best chance at escape.”
I draw her closer as we gain another step backward. “This is a conversation for later,a stóirín.”
“Sullivan.” Detective Foster appears ahead of us, gundrawn. “I’m putting my weapon down.” He holds one hand up and crouches to set his piece on the floor. He then orders the other officer to do the same. “We don’t need to do this. If you release Dr. Noble, then we’ll all forget this happened. It’s not as if you can be prosecuted any more heavily than you already have.”
I smirk. “That’s not a very good argument, detective.”
His brow furrows as he realizes my point. “But you don’t really want to hurt your doctor, do you? She’s been the only one in your corner.”
I gain another two steps toward the elevator. “Again, not a good argument as she fed me to the wolves, or did you miss her fascinating testimony.”
“Sullivan, don’t—don’t take another step…,” he warns.
There’s a clear waver in his voice; he knows he’s lost this round. I tow London toward the wall, using it to shield our right while I focus on the officers to our left in the adjacent hallway as we ease toward the elevator threshold.
“Push the button,” I tell her. She does, and when the doors slide open, I pull her inside. “See you at the bottom,” I say to Foster before the doors close.
I punch the Lobby button, then count down the seconds. At ten, I push in the Stop button. The car jerks to a halt.
“What are you doing?” London demands.
“Trust me,” I say—and, oh, the look of pure loathing on London’s beautiful face heats my blood. She’s breathtaking when she’s livid.
“We’re not a team,” she says through clenched teeth. “I diagnosed you as delusional in open court. God, I was right.”
“I know. It was brilliant, by the way.” I stuff the weapon behind my back and lift a section of the elevator ceiling, sliding it back. “You should feel proud of that, the way you callously led the jury to kill without remorse. They have you to thank for not losing any sleep over it. Took less than two hours to convict me.”
I plant a foot on the hand bar and hoist myself up through the ceiling.
“I did not?—”
“You did. You can stop lying.” I look down at her. “Give me your string.” I extend my hand, and her delicate eyebrows push together in confusion. “Now, London. Give me the damn string you keep in your pocket.”
She whispers a curse and digs out the black thread.
“All of it,” I demand. “I know you keep more.”
She tosses up the roll of string. I unravel it and hand her one end. “Tie this around the red button.”
She does and lifts her gaze to me. “You said you don’t want to harm me. Are you letting me go?”
I show her the gun. “Don’t lose that sharp brain of yours just yet. Give me your hand.”
I haul her onto the top of the elevator, and we’re seconds from finding out if this plan will work. I guide her toward the ladder on the side of the shaft and then seal my body around hers.
