Christmas at Twilight (24 page)

The little girl darted out into the damp misty night, the door shutting automatically behind her with a sharp click.

Ashley sank her teeth into Sloane's ear, shook her head like a rat terrier with a rodent in its jaws. Encumbered by the chair, Hutch was too slow to help her. As he rounded the end of the bed, Sloane bucked her from his back, spun around and cuffed her hard in the temple with his gun.

She dropped to the floor, slack and unmoving.

Hutch lunged, but Sloane two-stepped backward as he pointed the gun at Ashley's inert body. “Sit the fuck back down, hero. Or I'll blow her . . . Well, you can finish the cliché.”

Furious, Hutch gnashed his teeth. If he weren't handcuffed to the chair, he'd break Sloane's spine in two pieces.

“Sit!”

Fuming, Hutch sat.

At least Kimmie had gotten out alive. Someone would find her and bring the police. But would they arrive in time?

Was Ashley still alive?

He shifted his gaze to his sister. Yes, she was breathing but unconscious, a large red whelp blooming at her temple. His heart belly-flopped. She'd been so brave, sacrificing herself for her daughter, attempting to make amends. He had so many regrets and he knew she did too. Sorrow yellowed his outrage, but he could indulge neither.

“Scoot back,” Sloane said.

Grudgingly, Hutch scooted.

“Farther.”

He glowered, didn't move.

“Really? You want to see your sister's brain splattered all over the walls?”

Gritting his teeth, Hutch backed up all the way to the wall.

“Much better,” Sloane said. “Now you see, I had a couple of scenarios rolling around in my head. There was Plan A . . .”

Sloane paused as if waiting for a drum roll.

Hutch grunted.

“In which I lure you here by having the kid call you. Check. That part went down smooth as greasy snot. Part two of that plan was to use your phone to send a text to my dear wife and get her to bring my son over here.” He spit out the word “wife” as if it was a rancid peanut in his bowl of mixed nuts.

“Ex-wife,” Hutch corrected, struggling to keep his tone neutral.

“You know what's coming, right?” Sloane's sadistic pleasure vibrated through everything he did, his words, his face, his body language. He was enjoying this immensely. “You've gotta know how it's bound to end.”

Hutch didn't give him the satisfaction of a reply.

Sloane cocked his head. “What's that? You don't want to know the ending?”

Think. Think. He's giving you enough time to come up with something.

“Oops. Sorry. Spoiler alert. Cover your ears if you don't want to hear, but wait, you can't, can you? You're all tied up. And here I thought Delta Force was supposed to be badass.”

Hutch knew how to get out of handcuffs. That was no biggie with the comb he carried in his back pocket, but he didn't have time. Sloane could put a bullet in him before he could get his fingers into his pocket.

“So anyway, in Plan A, I make you watch while I kill your sister and your niece. Then I shoot you and the boy and make Meredith watch. Then I play with her for while, and then I kill her too and plant the gun in your hand. I was a police detective, remember? I know how to make it look like a murder-suicide.”

“You're going to kill your own son?”

Sloane shrugged. “Eh, easy come, easy go.”

Hutch gulped. This man was a certifiable psychopath.

“But alas, the kid just got away and exploded Plan A, so that leaves me with Plan B.” Sloane paused again. “Don't you want to know what Plan B is?”

Do not react.

“No? Okay. I get it. When you reach the gates of hell you want to be able to tell Satan you never saw it coming. Good for you.”

Sloane pointed the Smith & Wesson at Hutch and fired two rounds into his chest.

M
eredith's phone dinged. Stopping her in mid-pace. She raced over to scoop it up off the coffee table, read the text.

On the way home. ETA 10 min.

She let out a heavy sigh, sagged onto the couch; ankles crossed, and resisted the urge to text back asking about Ashley and Kimmie. He was driving and she didn't want to distract him.

Hmm, should she go get Ben so he could be here when Kimmie arrived? No. What if Kimmie wasn't with him? They'd need time alone to talk out what had happened.

After ten minutes, she roused herself from the couch and went to the foyer to peer out of the long, narrow glass window that gave her a view of the street. Her heart thumped and her palms went sweaty. She wiped her hands against the seat of her jeans and started pacing again, her body twisted tight as the stings on an overly tuned guitar.

Hutch's truck pulled into the driveway and he got out. Head down, he sprinted toward the house.

An instant smile broke across her face and she flung the door open. “I thought you would never get home.”

“Miss me?” he asked, and raised his head.

Meredith's eyes flew open wide. Oh God, no! Not Hutch. It was the monster from her worst nightmares. How? How?

Sloane leered at her and shoved his way over the threshold.

Gun
, screamed her primal instinct.
Get to the gun.

She spun around, felt the whoosh of air behind her as he grabbed for hair that was no longer there. The bastard loved dragging her around by the hair.

Gun, gun, gun.

How was she going to get the box unlocked and the gun loaded before he was upon her?

Just move. The gun is your only chance!

She scrambled up the stairs, hearing the heavy thud of his footsteps behind her.

“You think that's a good idea?” he called. “There's no way out from the second floor unless you want to jump out the window.”

Panic-induced adrenaline spurred her legs faster, sprinting at top speed, even though it felt to her as if she was barely moving. Nightmare. This was her worst nightmare come to life.

“You can run, but you can't hide,” he shouted gaily.

Just wait until I get my hands on that gun. I'll blast you to kingdom come, you bastard.

“Aw, you're not happy to see me?”

She reached the landing, didn't dare look back to see how close behind her he was. She was done running. No more. If Sloane killed her, he killed her. Hutch would take care of Ben. She trusted that completely. Leaving her son would be the hardest thing she'd ever done, but she simply could not continue to live in terror. Either Sloane was going to die or she was.

One way or the other, it all ended here.

Now.

Today.

She darted into the bedroom, turned the flimsy lock she knew wouldn't hold him for long, but it might buy her enough precious seconds to load the gun.

Meredith dived under the bed. The box, the box, where was the lockbox?

Her mind whirled so fast, her emotions so agitated that she couldn't see what was right in front of her.

The gray metal lockbox.

It was there.

She grabbed the handle, dragged it from underneath the bed.

Sloane was twisting the door handle. “C'mon, really? You're going to make me kick the door down?”

Hand trembling, she quickly ran it underneath the table in search of the key taped there. Found it, ripped it free, and fumbled the key.

Sloane battered the door. Kicking it.
Bam. Bam. Bam
. “I'm comin' for you. Nowhere to run.”

Her breath came in short, quick pants.
Don't hyperventilate! It's you or him.

Finally, she sank the key home, turned the lock, yanked open the box.

Empty. The box was empty.

The door imploded, wood splintered, hitting her face and there was Sloane grinning manically like Jack Nicholson in
The Shining
.

“Looking for this?” he asked, pointing the .40-caliber Colt Defender at her head.

Oh God. She felt the color drain from her face as her entire body went icy cold. Her heart hammered. Her head spun. No hope. No hope left. She was a dead woman.

In desperation, she flung the empty lockbox at him.

He deflected it with his shoulder.

She lunged for the window.

He moved like a panther, caught her, fisted the back of her shirt in his hand, and dragged her backward.

A scream shot from her mouth.

“Don't worry, I'm not going to shoot you,” he said. “I've got something much slower and more painful in store.”

Meredith snatched at the bedpost, trying to hold on, trying to think, bur her brain was as numb as her body.

Sloane grabbed her by the hair of her head, but because her hair was so short, his fingers slipped.

She kicked ferociously, blindly. Jerking away from him.

Temporarily, he lost his balance, giving her the edge she needed to vault over the splintered piece of door and sprint out into the hall.

“Oh no, you don't,” Sloane roared, and tore after her.

She hit the stairs, but in her haste, she misstepped. Down. She knew she was going down. She put out her hands to the wall to keep from falling, but momentum dragged her forward and she somersaulted to the bottom of the stairs.

Before she could right herself, Sloane was standing over her, grinning at her with his Chiclet teeth.

Fear squeezed every last bit of air from her lungs. “Hutch,” she cried out. “Hutch, where are you?”

“Aww, isn't that sweet?” Sloane loomed down. “Calling for lover boy.”

She tried to scamper to her feet, but he had one leg on either side of her.

“I hate to be the one to break it to you . . .” He crouched down. “No wait, I love being the one to break it to you. Your Prince Charming isn't coming to save you.”

She kicked, bicycling her legs, determined to impair him any way she could.

He grabbed her left heel, flipped her over onto her belly, and started tugging her across the floor. “Wanna know why he's not coming for you?”

She slammed her right foot into his shin. “Go to hell.”

He didn't even wince. “I did a bad thing. You are not going to be happy with me.”

She clutched at whatever she could get hold of to slow his progress—the leg of the coffee table, the rug, one of Ben's LEGOs that she threw over her shoulder at him. Thank God, she had not gone over to pick her son up from Flynn.

“You see, I put a couple of bullets into lover boy's chest. I'm afraid you're never gonna see him again.”

No. Hutch could not be dead. Sloane had a black belt in lying. “I don't believe you.”

“That's your prerogative. But I've got his truck and his cell phone. Who do you think texted you?”

Oh God, no. Hutch could not be dead. Sloane could not have won. He could not have bested a Delta Force operator. Bile rose in her throat. She was going to vomit.

Do not throw up.

They were in the kitchen now. The tile was cold against her stomach. She was knocking down chairs, kicking hard, still trying to get away, but he was impervious.

Where was he taking her?

Fight, fight. Go out fighting.

She kicked with every last bit of strength she had left in her body and finally connected with his groin.

“Bitch!” he roared, and dropped her leg.

She went onto all fours, crawling frantically for the back door, and managed to wrench it open, letting in a blast of wet, frigid air before he clutched her shoulders and threw her onto her back. His face was livid, a purple vein throbbing at his temple.

She smashed the heel of her palm into his nose.

He yelped, cursed her, wrapped both hands around her neck, and pressed his thumbs hard into her throat.

An instant headache burst through her brain and bright stars before her eyes. She couldn't breathe. His fingers closed tighter, closing off her airway, strangling the life from her body.

No. Please God, no. She wanted to live for her son.

But it was all slipping away.

In the fog of waning consciousness, she thought she heard the front door slam open. Was it Hutch? Had he come for her at last? Or was it an auditory hallucination? The last winking out of awareness?

A woman screeched. Not her. She couldn't force any air through her throat past Sloane's pythonlike grip.

“You killed my brother,” the woman cried out. Ashley. It was Ashley. “Now get your hands off my friend and prepare to die, you sick, twisted psycho.”

P
ain stabbed Hutch's chest. Every breath he took was like getting bashed in the lungs with a hammer. Yeah, it hurt, but if it hadn't been for those death threats at Mike's memorial service, if Gideon hadn't insisted they protect themselves with ballistic vests, if Meredith's urgent call hadn't sent him straight to the airport without changing clothes, if it hadn't been for his overcoat hiding evidence of the vest from Sloane, he would be dead.

He pressed the accelerator of Ashley's car all the way to the floorboard and bulleted through the dark, misty night, desperate to get to Meredith. He had been knocked out for less than five minutes, but he'd already wasted crucial time hot-wiring Ashley's car. He had no idea what Sloane had done with his sister, or where Kimmie might be hiding, but for the moment, Meredith's safety was paramount. He assumed Sloane had commandeered his truck to use as a ruse to get Meredith to open the door.

Gnashing his teeth, Hutch whipped the steering wheel, guiding the car around the bend leading into his housing division. He didn't have his phone to call for backup. He had to get to Meredith and Ben now!

Almost there. Almost there.

Habit had him reaching into the glove compartment to arm himself, but knowledge hit him. This wasn't his vehicle.

And he didn't have a gun.

D
imly, Meredith heard a handgun pop, felt the tightening of the band around her neck loosen all at once. A second gunshot reverberated in the close confines.

She coughed, blinked, sat up. Saw Ashley crumple into the doorway, the hand at her throat soaked with blood. The acrid smell of gunpowder burned the air Meredith struggled to suck into her lungs.

Sloane lay a few feet away clutching a kneecap that was no longer there, screaming in a high keen like a wounded animal.

In an instant, her oxygen-deprived, adrenaline-soaked mind read the situation. Sloane had shot Ashley first, but she'd managed to fire off a shot.

Every impulse in her body screamed at her to get away while she had the chance, but she couldn't leave Ashley. Hutch would want her to save his sister. He could no longer do it himself.

On hands and knees, Meredith crawled through Sloane's blood to get to her friend.

“Ashley,” Meredith cried, forcing her name past her raw, aching throat.

Ashley's eyes stared vacant, unseeing. Her throat was gone. There was nothing Meredith could do for her. Grief ripped through her. First Hutch. Now Ashley. Sloane had to pay for this.

“Bitch,” Sloane cried, and came for her.

Where was Ashley's gun? She scanned the area but didn't see it. Was the gun under Ashley's body?

Forget about the gun. Get out of here while he's incapacitated.

She leaped to her feet, lunging for the back door, but Sloane was quicker and manacled his hand around her ankle, yanking her down on top of him.

He was wounded. She could beat him.

They grappled.

She punched him.

He punched her.

Blood was everywhere. Ashley's blood, his blood, her blood.

She kicked his shattered leg. He grunted in pain, but he held on tight. Nothing seemed to stop him. He rolled her over, away from Ashley's body and toward the back door.

The motion-sensitive porch light had come on, bathing the deck in a soft yellow glow.

Meredith raised her head, less than a foot to freedom.

That's when she saw it.

Her Colt Defender.

Somehow in Sloane's shootout with Ashley, the gun had landed on the track of the open sliding glass door. That's why he was rolling her toward the door, so he could get his hands on the gun.

She gave a primal war cry, aimed another kick at his knee, but he moved at the same time and she missed. He locked an arm around her throat.

No. She wasn't going to let him choke her again. She had the advantage now.

Aggressively, she jabbed her elbow into his gut, simultaneously pushing herself to her feet, only to slip in blood and almost go down again.

She latched on to the bar and regained her balance, only to look down and see that he was holding the gun.

Sloane stared her right in the eyes, racked the gun, and growled, “You're dead, bitch.”