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She prayed that Grant stayed put. That he did what she told him!
She moved around the counter, staying low, because the kitchen was too open, too exposed.
She had to buy time. Keep him from finding Grant.
“Nelson Lee!” she shouted. “The police are on their way. You won’t get out of this.” She knew she was exposing her location, but better her than Grant.
“Don’t underestimate me,” he said. “There’s too much at stake.”
He was in the hallway that separated the kitchen from the garage door and downstairs bedroom. The stairs were to her left, closer to the front door. Getting him up the stairs would enable her to, hopefully, trap him up there until the police came.
She maneuvered herself through the kitchen and to the dining table, which she immediately pushed over to give herself a shield. The shotgun pellets hit the table just as she dove for cover.
She caught a glimpse of his weapon before she shielded herself—a tactical shotgun, pistol grip. Nice piece. Likely seven shots. He’d fired two.
Wouldn’t kill her at this range, but the closer he got, the more damage it would do. And if he hit her head, even forty feet away, she’d be toast.
“Nelson, the truth is out there,” she called out.
He laughed. “You’re anX-Filesfan?”
“Not really, but in this case, it’s the truth. Tommy Granger had enough evidence in his house that we were able to piece together his investigation. We know about Legacy, we know about the Potomac Bank robbery. We know about BioRise and their clinical trials. We know James Seidel is behind it all and his connection to Legacy through his son-in-law. When I say we, I mean the US Marshals, the FBI, the AUSA. It’s all coming down. Your only chance to escape is now—because you will be brought down when the net falls.”
“No proof,” he said. He was coming closer. She crawled to the edge of the table, her head close to the floor, and looked out. She didn’t see him. The house was dark, though the windows showed some light from the rising sun. But he stayed in the hall, where she didn’t have a clear shot. She could see the tip of his shotgun.
“No evidence,” he continued. “It’s all hearsay. And trust me—these people will fight with every fiber of their beings. They have more money than anyone on earth. They’ll win. You won’t break them.”
“Brock Marsh was raided. It’s shut down. The Rockfords are on the run. The FBI found their mole. I sent a recording of Grant’s statement to the Marshals. He already turned over all the evidence he has.”
That wasn’t true, the part about her recording Grant’s statement, but she wished she had. She hadn’t thought about it when she finally got Grant to talk to her last night. That was stupid on her part. Just plain stupid. She’d been so drained, physically and emotionally, but that was no excuse.
“You know, I almost believe you,” he said. “But even if I did believe you, I was paid to kill Grant Warwick, and I will kill him. I always live up to my commitments.”
He was moving as he talked. He didn’t know where Grant was, but he was also an operative, and would have expected she’d send Grant upstairs, the safest place.
And that’s where he was moving. And that’s where he was wrong.
“Fool me once,” he said, then stepped out of the hall and fired his shotgun repeatedly at the dining table, shattering the wood. She scrambled away as splinters and shards flew everywhere. Something cut into her cheek and she winced, but still moved back to the counter while counting his shots. He had one more.
She rolled as she was trained and then positioned herself, gun out, prone on the floor, and fired at center mass. He stumbled back, grunted, but she was right—he had on a vest. He slowed, the wind knocked out of him, but he wasn’t injured.
She aimed higher, fired three times at the meaty part of his shoulder, hoping to hit around the vest. You always aimed center mass to take out the threat, but making him bleed from a non-fatal injury would also work.
The third shot hit flesh. Blood spattered behind him. She fired again at his other arm as he moved behind the wall again. Then she heard him on the stairs.
She jumped up and, cautious, approached the hall. He was standing on the third stair and when he sensed or saw that she was nearby, he fired his last shotgun pellet into the drywall next to her head. Her ears rang.
Then he was running up the stairs.
She ignored the throbbing from the close blast, and ran after him, firing, hitting his thigh. He fell to his knees on the landing. Crawled up the stairs. He had left his empty shotgun at the bottom of the stairs, but she saw one holstered gun on his hip, another in his hand.
It was now or never.
Regan moved quickly up the stairs as he turned and aimed at her. She fired twice, hit one into the vest and one into his arm, and he jerked, dropped the gun. She couldn’t risk crossing his body to retrieve his gun—he could have a knife, stab her in the thigh. Pull his other gun. Tackle her, even though he had several holes in him and was bleeding. None of them were fatal, if he got medical attention.
But if he made a move, she would shoot him in the head.
“Don’t move,” she said.
