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This couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t be trapped by a couple of non-pros, a female martial arts student, and a damned cat. It was surreal; that’s what it was, surreal, but he couldn’t kid himself about what was happening.
He thought about being nailed for the Crenshaw murders.
He thought about the handyman dead in the back of the van.
He thought about the years of prison that were in store for him.
No way.
No fucking way.
“Don’t move,” Noah told him coldly. “I mean it: one step, and I’ll shoot you, right here. Right now.”
“You can’t,” he said, desperate to get away, trying to think of anything.
Scott held him in his sights, his face hard, recognition dawning. “You shot me. Out there in that desert. I saw your face, Gibbs, and I didn’t realize who you were. But I do now. And I’m damned sure you tried to blow me away, just like you did Ned Crenshaw. Just like you did Trudie.” His eyes narrowed. “You came back to the hospital to finish me off, but I ran, so don’t tell me I can’t pull the trigger. Because I can. And I will.”
The bastard would enjoy killing him.
For the first time in a long while, Milo Gibbs felt fear burn through his blood. He knew if he didn’t do something quickly, right now, he was doomed. Time to play his trump card and try like hell to ignore the pain pounding through his leg.
“I’m your father,” he said, looking straight at Remmi.
Her mouth dropped open, and she stared at him, blinking and shaking her head. Her knees looked as if they might buckle, and if they did, and Scott had to steady her—if he was distracted for one half a moment—Milo knew he could grab the gun, could salvage this cluster-fuck of an operation, could reverse this untenable situation.
“You’re lying,” Remmi said.
“Wish I was, but me and Edie—er, Didi—got together before she ran off to California and . . . and I went back to Vera. Didn’t know about you for years.”
“Oh, God. No, no, no.”
He saw the truth sinking in, but, damn it, Scott was still holding the gun rock steady.
“It’s true, Remmi,” he said, in his best cajoling tone. “If I’d known—”
“You’re saying that I’m your daughter and you came into this house to murder me?”
“It’s not what—”
“After you killed how many others?” She was obviously stunned,
disbelieving. Then the anger came. Instead of hanging her head, trying to sort fact from fiction, she raised her chin and glared at him through eyes that were hard and glassy with unshed tears. “You’re not my father. You’re no father. I don’t care what you did or didn’t do with my mother. I don’t give a damn what blood type you have or DNA test or any of what the rest of it says.”
He tried again. God, the door was so damned close. “But, honey—”
“Go to hell, Milo. Go straight to hell.”
Shit!
He had to get out of here!
He thought he could hear the sound of approaching sirens. The cops were on their way. But there was still time. He could still escape, regardless of the gun pointed straight at his chest.
The stairs were mere steps away.
He glanced again at the post at the top of the stairs. Only three steps—
Then he saw her. The Asian woman. She was coiled tighter. As if she had anticipated his move. Before he could react, she spun around; foot outstretched, face twisted into a demonic grimace, she screamed and flew at him, all of her weight thrust upon his already throbbing knee.
