A Chip and a Chair (Seven of Spades, #5)(69)

He smiled. “Nice to meet you, Natasha. I’m Levi.”





Present

Natasha touched a small device in her left ear. “I’ve got him, Carmen.” She stepped into the room and shut the door. “Can you keep an eye on the rest of the building for me? Thanks.”

Levi stared at her. “Natasha, what are you doing here? You’re going to get hurt.”

She blinked several times, looked at the dead man at her feet, and glanced over her shoulder at the closed door. Then she turned back to him and raised her eyebrows.

“No.” He laughed at the pure ridiculousness of it all, shaking his head. “No. No.”

Her gaze remained steady on his.

“No,” he said, his voice cracking. “No.” He could barely draw his next breath. “No!”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to find out this way, but I couldn’t trust anyone else to come get you, not with that bounty on your head.”

Water splashed onto his lips, which were already damp from the sprinkler system. He licked it away and distantly noticed how much saltier it was now. And when had it gotten so cold in here?

“No,” he said again, because that was the only word he could remember.

Then Natasha started toward him, and suddenly he remembered a lot more words.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” He lurched violently backward, tipping his chair onto its rear legs. It hit the wall and slammed back down, jarring his bound body.

“Okay.” Natasha raised her hands, one of which was still holding the gun. “Okay.”

God, it was freezing in here; his teeth were chattering. “I want to hear you say it.”

She frowned, then bit her lip as comprehension dawned. “Levi . . .”

“I want to hear you fucking say it!”

Her eyes fell briefly shut. When she opened them, she nodded and squared her shoulders. “I’m the Seven of Spades.”

A low, agonized moan scraped the skin off Levi’s throat as he crumpled in on himself. He dropped his forehead to his knees, heedless of the strain it put on his back and arms, twisting his spine like he could evade the truth if he just contorted his body the right way.

Something terrible was writhing in his gut, a spiny, many-legged insect shredding his insides as it fought to claw its way out of him. Noxious, oily rage filled his mouth and coated his throat, so thick he choked on it. Still hunched over, he rocked fitfully back and forth.

“Levi.” Natasha’s footsteps sounded on the floor, drawing closer. “We can’t stay here. Utopia will send reinforcements.”

He sensed her reaching for him and jerked his head up, snarling like a feral animal. “Don’t untie me.”

“But we-”

“If my hands are free, I will kill you.”

She snatched her own hands back and retreated a few steps. After a moment of silence, she said, “I appreciate your honesty. There’s only so long we can wait, though. Carmen has control of the warehouse’s security system, but we’ll have to move eventually, or we’ll get pinned down here.”

He forced himself to look at her straight-on. What he wanted to see was a stranger, a monster wearing Natasha’s face, speaking with her voice. Someone unrecognizable beyond the surface level who’d managed to fool him all this time.

All he saw was the Natasha he’d known for years-the same calm demeanor, the same gently concerned expression. The only unfamiliar thing about her was the gun she was holding. In every other way, she was the woman who’d become his trusted confidante. The friend whose house he’d visited countless times. The peer counselor he’d leaned on for support in his darkest hours.

The serial killer with one of the highest body counts in modern history. The nightmare who’d stalked and harassed and tormented him. The psycho who’d forced Dominic to murder an unconscious man.

He groaned and shook his head frantically. The sick fury inside him was tearing at his stomach lining, ripping him apart, about to burst free any moment. It would turn him inside out, and if that happened, he would lose himself forever.

Tilting his head back, he took several shaky breaths. These circumstances were far more dire than his own emotional reactions, however profound. The city needed him-him, Detective Levi Abrams, not whatever shadow of himself he’d become if he flew into a homicidal rage or surrendered to despair. He had to stay in control.

When he focused on Natasha again, she was watching him warily. He decided to try a few simple, factual questions, hoping a rational approach would help stabilize him.

“Does Carmen know who you are?” he asked.

“Yes. I told her the truth after I extracted her from police custody.”

Levi didn’t bother asking for Carmen’s location; wherever she was would be far beyond his reach. Instead, he remembered a conversation he’d had with Natasha after he killed Dale Slater, in which she’d empathized with him over an experience they’d ostensibly had in common. “When you killed Merritt, was it really self-defense?”

“No,” she said quietly. “He did kill Crystal, but he never tried to kill me. I took him by surprise and watched him die. Then I inflicted my own defensive wounds.”

So even their very first meeting had been based on a lie. Levi cracked his neck and tried to control his voice when he spoke again. “Was he the first person you killed?”