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“They both did,” the killer bellowed. “Mully looked after his family. He looked after me. And they stole from him.”
“They,” Quinn repeated. “Do you mean Dane Howell and Errol Derrick?” He couldn’t think of who else he could mean within that context.
“When I find them, they’ll join you in the afterlife.”
“They’re already dead,” Quinn said. Gloria was staring into space now, and Quinn was worried she was going to have a medical episode. She was too old for this kind of terror. Time was running out for both of them.
“I haven’t killed them,” the killer argued. “Yet.”
One way to get a confession, Quinn supposed. “You didn’t,” he agreed. “But they’re already dead.”
The killer scowled, scrunching the tea towel in his hand. Quinn didn’t want to know what he was going to do with it. “You think lying to me is going to get you out of this? You’re a dead man walking.”
An ominous thought that Quinn preferred not to dwell on. He had no intention of dying here and allowing Grady, or his family, or one of his men, to be forced to attempt an identification of his charred body. He had far too many plans for the future with all of them. He needed to know what Jericho wanted from them, and if he were going to be part of the future they were shaping. Too many questions.
Dying here would mean those questions remained unanswered, and Quinn had enough regrets in his life. He wouldn’t take more into death with him.
Quinn grabbed the apple and threw it as hard as he could at the killer. It missed by a mile, slamming into the window instead. The loud noise, accompanied by Gloria screeching in surprise, was enough to momentarily distract the killer. That was all Quinn needed.
He lunged forward. His world spun sharply and his stomach dropped out from under him. He blindly gripped his gun, muscle memory more than anything else guiding him. He swung wildly in the direction of the killer, glad that Gloria was clear on the other side of the room. He couldn’t say with certainty that he wouldn’t accidentally shoot her if she’d been closer.
He aimed for the killer’s knee. It was off mark but went through his calf, at least. The killer collapsed, dropping his gun at his side. Quinn rocketed to his feet, pushing through the dizziness and nausea that were threatening to swamp him. If he stopped now, he was dead.
“Don’t,” Quinn snarled when the killer went to grab his weapon. “Push it away from you with thebackof your hand.” He didn’t move. “Do it now!”
Once the gun was out of the killer’s reach, Quinn grabbed his phone from his pocket and slid it onto the kitchen counter before using two hands to hold his gun steady and aimed at the killer. He was bleeding steadily from his calf wound, and it had to be hurting like a son of a bitch. Yet his gaze was locked onto Quinn, glaring darkly, no hint of pain in his expression. That sole focus was likely why he was such a good cold killer.
Quinn was glad that this would be the end of the line for him. No more victims would be shaped under his blade.
“Gloria, take my phone and get out of here,” Quinn said, checking her in his periphery. He couldn’t afford to lose sight of the killer. “Call for help.”
She hesitated, wobbling as she stood. “But—”
“Please. I need you to help me with this.” She needed help, and comfort, and all of the things that he couldn’t give her right now. All he could do was finish this to ensure that theybothhad time for those things later.
Gloria grabbed his phone and bolted without another word.
“Stand up,” Quinn said. He had to tighten his grip to stop his arms from visibly shaking. The throbbing was taking over his head, and the blood obscuring his vision was getting worse. He had to hope that help would get here quickly because he was deteriorating, fast. “Slowly. No sudden movements.” He couldn’t guarantee that the next bullet that flew wouldn’t be lethal. He’d rather take him in than kill him. He had questions, and this man had answers.
The killer took hold of the side of the cupboard and awkwardly slid to his feet. “I won’t go to jail.”
“I don’t think you have a choice,” Quinn replied. “Turn the burners off.” He waited until the killer had done what he’d told him to. “Multiple counts of homicide. Taking an elderly woman hostage. Assaulting a police officer. Two counts of arson.” The killer looked nonplussed at the charges that Quinn rattled off.
“You think I’m afraid to die?”
Quinn gritted his teeth. “Turn around and put your hands behind your head,” he said forcefully. He swallowed, biting back the bile and vomit crawling up his throat. Half the room was spinning. If he threw up, it was all over. He couldn’t give this man any chances to go for him. Quinn didn’t have the energy to grapple with anyone, and he knew it.
The killer ducked, lunging for something on the counter. The next few tense seconds were a blur.
Quinn fired, grazing the killer’s shoulder. He fired again, and it went wide. The object the killer had picked up was thrown at him, and it was only when the fuckingplatehit him in the head and shattered that Quinn even registered what it was.
He was taken to the ground in an instant, his gun skittering away.
Chapter Eleven
Jerichohadneverdrivenso fast in his entire life. Six was giving him worrying glances but didn’t tell him to slow down. Good, because nothing Jericho had to say right now was fit for any kind of company. And he’d tell Six what he could do with those words, and it wasn’t a pleasant suggestion.
They’d already been on their way when Hunter had called them. The wordsHughes just pulled up to the house and went inwere going to loop in his head for the rest of his life, the terror a heaviness in his gut. Quinn could look after himself.
