Holiday in Death (In Death #7)(101)

He was pulling on his pants one-handed and snatching his porta-‘link with the other. “Let’s move. Go. We’ll call on the run.”

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Simon told her. “With something very special.”

Stall, stall, stall. “Do I get a hint?”

“Something someone who loves you chose just for you.” He started toward her, and she kept the smile in place as she frantically flipped open the buttons of her coat.

“Yeah? Who loves me?”

“Santa loves you, Delia. Pretty Delia.”

She saw his hand come up, caught a glimpse of the pressure syringe palmed in it. Pivoting, she brought up her elbow to block, fighting to get past the stiff wool to her weapon.

“Naughty!” His breath wheezed out as he slapped her into the wall. She countered with a backhand punch, but it bounced off the box. And now her weapon hand was trapped between her body and the wall.

“Get off me, you son of a bitch.” She swiveled, and kicked back to hook her foot around his ankle, cursing herself for indulging in that last drink. She felt the quick sting of the syringe against her neck even as he went down behind her.

“Damn, oh damn,” she managed, as she stumbled two steps away, then just slid bonelessly down the wall.

“Look what you’ve done. Just look.” He scolded her as he opened her bag, searched through for her key card. “You might have broken something. I’m going to be very angry if you’ve broken any of my things. Now, you be a good girl and let’s go inside.”

He hauled her up first, steering her to the door, where he disengaged the locks, then simply let her drop.

She felt the jolt, but it was distant, as if her body were padded with foam. Her mind was screaming for her to move, the message so loud she imagined herself springing up, but she couldn’t feel her legs.

Dimly, she heard him come in and close the door. “Now, let’s get you into bed. We have a great deal to do. It’s nearly Christmas, you know. There’s my love,” he murmured and carried her into the bedroom as if she were a doll.

“I don’t give a flying f**k about skeleton crews and available units,” Eve shouted into the ‘link. “Officer Peabody is down! She’s down, goddamn you.”

Profanity is unacceptable on this channel, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. This offense will be on record. Units are being dispatched. ETA twelve minutes.

“She doesn’t have twelve minutes. If she’s injured, you ass**le, I’m personally going to come in and rip out every one of your circuits.”

She pounded her fist into the ‘link. “Droids, they put goddamn droids on Dispatch, on the desk, every place, because it’s Christmas. Jesus, Roarke, can’t you get this thing to go any faster?”

He was already up to a hundred and ten, screaming through the vicious curtain of icy rain. But he pushed it.

“Nearly there, Eve. We’ll be in time.”

She was suffering unspeakable agonies listening to Simon’s voice through her communicator. She could picture it too clearly in her mind.

He was securing the restraints, carefully cutting away her clothes.

Eve’s mouth went dry.

Spraying her, inside and out, so she would be clean and perfect.

She was out of the car before Roarke had fully screamed to a stop. Her boots skidded, slid, then she dug in and flew to the door. Because her hands weren’t steady, it took her two tries to bypass the locks.

When she pounded up the steps, Roarke was beside her.

And now at last, in the distance, came the shriek of sirens.

Eve slipped the master through the slot and shoved the door open.

“Police!” Weapon out, she charged the bedroom.

Peabody’s eyes were wide and dazed. Naked and bound, she shivered violently as the cold air rushed through the open window.

“He went out, down the fire escape. He ran. I’m okay.”

Eve hesitated for a heartbeat then dived for the window. “Stay with her,” she called to Roarke.

“No, no.” Shaking her head frantically, Peabody strained against the restraints. “She’ll kill him, Roarke. She means to kill him. Try to stop her.”

“You hold on.” He snatched the blanket off the floor, tossed it over her, then went out the window after his wife.

Her ankles sang as she leaped the last two feet to the ground, and her feet slid out from under her on the slick ground. She went down hard on one knee, then scrambled up. She could see him, heading east in a limping run, his bright red suit like a beacon.

“Police! Stop where you are.” But she was already running after him, knowing she was wasting her breath with the order.

There were a thousand bees buzzing in her head, a thousand of them stinging on her skin. In her gut was a ball of hate so hard and bitter it burned. In a deliberate move, she jammed her weapon into the waist of her slacks. She wanted to take him down with her own hands.

She leaped on him like a tiger on the hunt, sent him skidding on his face and belly over the pavement.

She was clawing at him, pounding on him, but couldn’t feel it. Cursing him between harsh, labored breaths, but couldn’t hear it.

Then she was dragging him onto his back and her weapon was in her hand. At his throat.

“Eve.” Roarke stood where he was, a foot away, and kept his voice quiet.