New York to Dallas (In Death #33)(119)

She turned into her office, surprised not to see the cat. Probably sulking. She shrugged, started toward her board. Nearly smiled when Galahad poked his head out from under the chair. Would’ve smiled, ragged on him, but he bared his teeth in a hiss.

For the second time in their acquaintance, Galahad saved her life.

She spun around, led with a stiffened forearm. The knife bit a shallow stream down her arm, but missed carving into her back. She followed the block with a punch, and as McQueen dodged, she reached for her weapon.

Remembered tossing it and her jacket on the bed.

He came at her again, the knife arcing through the air. She leaped back, managed to kick his knife arm, but without enough juice to dislodge the weapon.

Clutch piece, she thought as she dodged another swipe. She still had her clutch piece on her ankle. But didn’t have the room to get it.

Devolving, she thought. So push.

“You’re losing it, Isaac.” She crouched, fighting stance. “You’ll never get out of here.”

“I got in, didn’t I? Luck’s on my side this time around. It’s just too bad Roarke’s not with you. But I can wait. Maybe I won’t kill you—yet. I’ll let you watch me slice him, piece by piece, first.”

“He’ll take you apart. You have no idea.” She dodged the knife again, spun around, got a boot in his gut. The blade grazed her hip on the follow-through.

“I’m going to put so many holes in you.”

She shoved a chair at him, and the action, the reaction took her back to the room where they’d fought before. But she wasn’t a rookie now. She was smarter, stronger. She only had to hold him off, get to her weapon.

“You’re the one with holes where your control, your brains used to be. You should be gone, in the wind, living it rich on all that money you stashed by. But we’ve got it all now. You’re going back in a cage, and this time there won’t be any accounts to tap. You’re just f**king stupid.”

Fury stained his face dull red as he charged. She leaped over the sleep chair, and the knife sliced down, leaving a vicious gash down the back of the chair. Momentum carrying her, she reached down for her clutch piece, tried to gain her feet, her balance as she swung back.

Both weapons clattered to the floor when he hit her like a battering ram. His weight bore her down, with her arm twisted under her. Something popped, but she registered the sound, the screaming pain as a snap.

And she was back in a room washed in dirty red light.

Roarke used the time sitting in traffic to run through some logistics. They’d broken through most of McQueen’s filters—he hadn’t been quite as obsessive about blocks and fail-safes on what he’d installed in the second location.

Felt safe, Roarke thought. Untouchable.

He’d learned differently.

Still, nothing they’d recovered thus far proved particularly helpful in finding him now. But the extensive data files McQueen had amassed on Eve had given Roarke some very bad moments. That kind of obsession wouldn’t fade or be turned aside. That obsession was exactly why McQueen had changed pattern, pushed the boundaries of all sense, tumbled into a crazed sort of labyrinth of plot and plan.

He wouldn’t give up, very likely couldn’t give up.

The contacts he’d made with her, even the memo cube—so personal, so unnecessary. Somewhat like a spurned lover, Roarke concluded as bored, annoyed with the stall, he began to weave through traffic.

And the last communication, he mused as he finally turned to the hotel. That last furious com, with cops only blocks away, when McQueen should have been thinking of nothing but escape. That was completely dead stupid, over-the-edge. Survival always came first, and didn’t he know it. If you want to taunt—though he’d never seen the point of it himself—taunt from cover. But to risk the communication from only blocks away when McQueen had to know they were linked up, had to know they’d initiated a track and trace? That was . . .

It struck him, a hammer to the heart. Linked—then, linked when Eve had talked to him earlier from the hotel office.

Track and trace.

He jumped out of the car before he reached the hotel door. Dragged out his ’link. He tried her first, on the run, got her voice directing him to leave a message.

“Sir!” the doorman called after him as he bolted toward the doors. “Your vehicle—”

“Contact the police,” Roarke ordered when he’d reached the security station at the elevator. “Lieutenant Ricchio. Now! And send a team, armed, to my rooms. Now, goddamn it.” He flew into the elevator, drew the weapon from the holster at the small of his back.

He might’ve prayed, but only a single word sounded over and over in his head.

Eve.

She screamed. The pain was so huge, filled everything. He struck her, again and again, and pressed against her. Hard against where she knew he would push into her, tear her, hurt her. Again.

And this time he’d kill her. She saw it on his face.

Her father’s face.

“That’s right, scream. Nobody can hear you. You’re going to scream when I f**k you. That’s right, that’s right.” He tore at her clothes. “I’m going to f**k you, then I’m going to kill you. Who’s lucky now, bitch? Who’s lucky now?”

“Please, don’t! It hurts.”