Wherever She Goes(80)

He still hesitates, and I know he wants to argue, but he also knows this is the right plan. Finally, he gives an abrupt nod and says, “Don’t engage. Just stall.”

I nod and start to go.

He grips my arm. “Be careful.”

I lean in to kiss his cheek. “I will.”





Chapter Thirty-Eight





Below, Mama Zima is telling someone to check downstairs. Two sets of heavy footfalls retreat. That means two men are in the house and two are patrolling outside. Mama herself stays on the main level. Once the footsteps retreat down the steps, she says to Lynn, “Go outside. Wait in the car.”

Lynn’s footsteps head toward the front door. A shot fires. A body thuds to the floor, and I close my eyes, forcing my hammering heart to slow.

Mama Zima shot Orbec. Killed him without warning. Now she’s killed a girl who helped her, a girl who’d probably been on her payroll the whole time.

She will not hesitate to shoot me.

Shoot me. Then go after Paul and Brandon, and if she does that, I have no doubt of what will happen to Paul. Another loose end to be clipped off. That’s all he is to her. All we are.

What the hell have I done? What have I gotten my family into?

I thought I had this under control. I thought Hugh Orbec was the worst thing I had to deal with, and he was the sort of person I’d dealt with before. A thug. A man who would use force to get his way, but a man who could be reasoned with, a man who had no justification for killing me and therefore would not.

That isn’t what I’m dealing with now.

I have never encountered anything like I’m dealing with now.

I am not prepared for it. I don’t know how to prepare for it. I don’t know—

Breathe. Just breathe.

Two options here.

Retreat upstairs and hope Paul managed to contact the police, and they are on their way and will arrive before Mama Zima’s thugs find us.

Or confront the problem.

I’m not a fool. I know I can’t take on five armed criminals. The police are my best bet, and the only question is how I’ll stall. Whether my best hope for stalling is defense or offense.

Offense.

I don’t really have a choice here. To retreat puts Paul at risk. To confront means putting myself at risk, and praying that will buy enough time for the police to arrive. If that costs me my life, well, it’s better than costing us both ours. Better than robbing our daughter of both her parents.

Distract. Stall.

Pray.

I start my descent. The problem with coming down a set of stairs? Mama Zima below will see my feet long before I spot her. So I try to angle myself away from the bannister, and with every step, I duck to get a look. I also listen. I can hear the men downstairs. I don’t know how big the basement is, but there’s a limited amount of time they’ll spend down there before realizing they’ve been duped.

What I don’t hear is Mama Zima. I take another two steps and then spot her shadow stretching across the floor. She’s right around the corner. As soon as I come down, she’ll see me.

So much for the element of surprise.

I’ll need to go big. Hope to startle her and dodge and keep dodging.

While she shoots at me? While the sound of my running feet brings the thugs racing upstairs?

This isn’t going to work. It cannot—

Deep breath.

I take out my phone. I need to text Paul. Make sure he’s summoned the police and maybe find out how long—

There’s no cell signal.

My phone has no signal.

No.

Oh God, no.

Either there’s no signal here or they’ve blocked it.

Of course they’ve blocked it, you idiot. Otherwise they wouldn’t be taking their time searching. They’d know we would call for help.

Movement flickers below. It’s Mama Zima’s shadow . . . moving away.

I close my eyes and strain to listen. For a big woman, she walks with very little noise, but she’s definitely moving in the opposite direction.

Maybe if she continues into another room—

No maybes. No hopes. No prayers.

No waiting for the perfect opportunity.

I fly down the stairs as fast as I can. I’m leaping off the bottom step when she hears me. She starts to turn. I’m halfway to her, only a few feet left to go, but she’s spinning, gun going up—

I slam into her. It’s like hitting a brick wall, and all I can think is You’re a fool, Aubrey Finch. A stupid, senseless fool. I’ve played my ace, throwing my entire body into hers, and she’s barely stumbling.

Except she still does stumble. It’s only a slight stagger, but I’ve caught her as she was turning, and her feet twist, and it’s enough. I’ve knocked her off-balance. I slam into her again, and we go down with a crash.

Her gun flies up. I hit her arm and the gun snaps backward, but she doesn’t drop it. I strike again, and this time, I’m off-target. I barely hit her. But her hand opens, eyes widening, and I realize I’ve struck her ulnar nerve.

The gun falls.

It clacks to the hardwood floor, but I only dimly hear it over the footsteps thundering up the stairs. The thugs have heard us fall, and they’re coming.

I knock her gun away and yank out my own. Beneath me, she’s struggling, bucking with formidable strength. But I have her pinned. Then I have the gun, pointed at her forehead, just as the basement door flies open.