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She could hear him breathing hard, still hurting from the pain she’d inflicted. But pain wouldn’t stop him from trying to kill her. Any second now, he’d be after her again—not just silent and cold this time, but seething with rage like a wounded beast. How could he get to her in the stall? There was an opening under the door, high enough to crawl through. But she could inflict a lot of damage kicking and stomping him. Climbing over the top of the door would put him in an awkward position.
He was strong enough to break the flimsy lock and rip the door open. But he was in a desperate situation, too. There was only one way out of here, and Brock was waiting outside the front door with a gun—the hit man would know that.
She forced herself to speak boldly. “Listen to me. There’s a man outside with a gun waiting for you. Let me go, and I promise to walk away with him. You’ll be safe to leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere until I kill you, bitch.” His pain-laced voice was a reptilian hiss. “Your boyfriend isn’t the only one with a gun. I could shoot you, then shoot him on my way out. The rodeo’s over. By now he’ll be alone out there.”
Was he bluffing? If he had a gun, she’d seen no sign of it. But it made sense that he’d be carrying a backup weapon. If he were to use it on her, Brock would hear the shot and be ready for him. The man would be smarter to kill her silently with the needle or even with his bare hands. That would give him a better chance of taking Brock by surprise when he made his escape.
But she was overthinking. With the brief standoff running out, there was only one thing to do—fight for her life.
Now, while he was still weakened by her blow, was the time to strike. She needed a weapon. Glancing around the roomy stall, she saw the plain aluminum walker that had been left next to the toilet—probably by the man who’d made it part of his disguise.
Picking it up, she twisted off the four rubber feet, leaving the hard metal edges. The stall door opened outward against the back wall of the restroom to make an easier exit for wheelchairs and other devices. She was as scared as she had ever been in her life. But she couldn’t let that stop her.
Stooping, she glanced through the space beneath the door of the stall. She could see his feet, clad in the yellow Crocs that were part of his disguise. He was standing maybe four feet away, by the sink counter. Would he have the syringe or a gun in his hand? There was no time to wonder.
Raising the handles of the walker to her chest, so that the legs stuck straight out in front, she slipped back the bolt, kicked open the door, and charged.
The door slammed harmlessly against the wall. Tess saw the syringe as the metal feet of the walker struck his chest. Shoved backward over the sink counter, he grunted in pain but didn’t lose his grip on the deadly weapon. His free hand flashed out, knocked the walker to the floor, and seized the front of her jacket, holding her fast. His ugly eyes bored into hers. “Time to end this, bitch,” he snarled. “I’d enjoy keeping you alive and making you hurt. But you’ll be dead by the time I pull the needle out.”
In a desperate move, her hand groped in her pocket and found the sage. One end of it, the end made to be burned, was smoothly rounded. The other end was bundled sage stems, dry, rigid, and sharp. As the hand with the needle came down, aiming for her neck, she shoved the stems into his eyes.
He screamed, clutching his bloodied face with the hand that had held Tess captive. She spun away and raced for the front door. Her shaking fingers fumbled with the latch that unlocked the deadbolt from the inside.
Still gripping the syringe, he lurched blindly after her. He had almost reached her when he stumbled over the walker, where it lay on the floor. Thrusting out an arm in an effort to save his balance, he fell forward, facedown, and lay still.
As the door finally opened, Tess staggered outside and fell against Brock. Still holding the pistol, he caught her with one arm. “Are you all right?” His voice was harsh with emotion.
She nodded, pressing against him. “And him?” He glanced past her to where the hit man lay facedown on the blood-smeared tiles.
“I think he might be dead, Brock. But don’t go in there. He could still be dangerous.”
Ignoring her plea, he eased her gently aside. “Stay here,” he said.
Still armed with the gun, he walked into the restroom, nudged the fallen man with his foot, then crouched beside him to check for a pulse. He shook his head. “You can relax. He’s dead.”
“Then I must’ve killed him.” Her voice broke. “I know he was an evil monster, but I’ve never killed anybody before—never wanted to.”
“Hold on.” Brock stood and used the toe of his boot to raise the hit man’s torso partway. “You didn’t kill him, Tess,” he said. “Looking at the damage, I’d say he fell on his own needle and injected himself in the heart.” He let the body sink back into position. “He got what was coming to him.”
Stepping outside, he holstered the pistol, gathered her into his arms, and held her tight. Tess could feel his body trembling. “When I realized what was happening, and I couldn’t get to you to protect you, Lord, it was the worst feeling I’ve ever had. I never want to feel like that again. I never want to let you go. I love you, Tess.” He kissed her, then released her. “Come on, let’s get your bulls loaded and get out of here.”
“Shouldn’t we call the police?”
“Somebody else can do that. Right now, I just want to take you and leave.”
As if summoned by his thoughts, two security men were walking across the field toward them. Brock motioned them to stop. “There was something going on in that restroom back there,” he said. “You might want to check it out.”
Brock led her on, his arm around her waist providing support and protection. “I can’t believe he’s gone,” she said. “This nightmare is really over.”
He kissed the top of her head. “It isn’t over, Tess,” he said. “It won’t be over until I end it.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
VAL GAZED THROUGH THE TRUCK WINDSHIELD AT THE SUNBAKEDCalifornia desert. Rolling brown hills, dotted with scrub and scattered with cheap housing tracts, stretched endlessly along the freeway. The distance from the ranch to Bakersfield could be covered in one long day. But the drive seemed to be taking forever—especially when she thought of what lay ahead.
A glance at Casey, dozing in the passenger seat, softened Val’s heart. They’d left the ranch before first light, the morning after his arrival. Casey had done most of the driving. But she’d spelled him every few hours to give him a rest. By now they were both tired.
