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“Why are you always watching her?” Whitney demanded, the gun still pointed in Finley’s general direction.
This was not going to end well for Whitney, Finley suspected. Or for her.
“Don’t make me ask you again,” Brant warned, moving one more step closer to the woman.
Not good. Not good.Finley measured the distance to the exit. Could she make it without being shot in the back?
Doubtful.
Brant moved in on Whitney, close enough to grab her by the throat, the way he’d obviously done before. His hands were hard fists at his sides, his entire demeanor poised for attack. Anger radiated off him in palpable waves.
Finley made a decision then and there. Whitney was the lesser of the two threats.
“Don’t give him the gun,” Finley warned. “It’s the only leverage you have.”
Brant glanced at her, fury contorting his face. “Shut the fuck up.” He turned back to Whitney. “Give me the goddam—”
His words ended abruptly with the explosion that rent the air and sent a bullet through his chest. He looked down at the wound. Touched the blood pumping from his chest and then, lifting his face to glare at Whitney once more, he reached forward.
Whitney stumbled back.
Another explosion from the weapon.
Another wound opened in the bastard’s chest, and this time he staggered. He swung in Finley’s direction. She tried to sidestep him, but he toppled forward too fast, collapsing into Finley and grabbing ahold of her before she could move.
One hand swiped across her face as his full body weight slid down her, dragging her to her knees. For three beats she knelt, frozen, his weight pushing against her.
Move!her brain commanded.
Arms shaking, she pushed him off. His body landed on the floor with a thud. He lay on the cold concrete unmoving. Eyes wide open.
Finley struggled to her feet. Stared at her bloody hands and the blood streaking along the front of her clothes.Hisblood. She swallowed. Tasted his blood on her lips. Gagged.
“Is he dead?” Weapon still clutched in a firing position, Whitney stared at the man on the floor.
Finley eased back a step. Considered what to do next. Call 911? Run? Fuck! She landed on, “I don’t know. One of us should see if he’s still breathing.”
“Don’t move.” The weapon swung in Finley’s direction.
Shit. Shit.
“I don’t think he’s breathing,” Finley cautioned. He hadn’t blinked since he hit the floor, and she hadn’t seen his chest move.
“This is your fault,” Whitney accused.
Maybe. Finley had been in this exact situation before. In that convenience store two months ago ... shit! Maybe she was crazy. Maybe she had caused all this. Fuck!
No. No.Think. Think or end up like the guy on the floor.
“Listen to me,” Finley urged in the calmest tone she could summon. “What happened was not my fault or your fault. And right now, with this”—she gestured to the man, who was likely dead or soon would be—“you can call it self-defense. He was coming toward you. Threatening you. You were aware of his reputation, and you did what you had to do to survive. Did he put all those bruises on you?”
Whitney blinked. “Doesn’t matter. I shot him. I’m fucked. But if I kill you, then there’s no witness. I’m in the clear.”
“They’ll find you,” Finley argued. “Maybe you didn’t notice the camera on the building.” Hopefully she hadn’t noticed that it was only a camera mount and hood. “We’re all three on that video. If you’re the only one who leaves, then this is on you. If we both leave, I’m your witness that it was self-defense.”
“I can’t deal with this.” Whitney shook her head. “I’m not ... I’m not doing this.” She used her sweatshirt in an attempt to clean her prints from the gun, threw it on the floor, and ran.
The door hit the wall as the woman rushed out. Her shoes pounded on the steps and then the pavement. Seconds later her car peeled out of the parking lot.
