Kill for Me

Chapter Twenty

Atlanta, Sunday, February 4, 1:30 p.m.

It was controlled chaos, Susannah thought. There were people everywhere.

The women had gathered in the kitchen, the men in the living room. At first everyone had been politely curious when Luke had introduced her, even turning the sound down on the television to check her out.

But Mama had put her arm around Susannah’s shoulders and ushered her into the kitchen with the “rest of the girls.” The television in the living room went back to its ear-numbing volume and everyone just talked louder to be heard over it.

“Pop is losing his hearing,” Luke’s sister Demi confided as she chopped vegetables. As the oldest, she was second in command. Mama Papa, of course ran the show.

Mama shrugged. “Papa doesn’t think so, so it’s not so.”

Susannah had to smile. “The beauty of denial. Are you sure I can’t do anything?”

“No,” Demi said. “We’ve got a system.” Her two youngest tore through the kitchen, Darlin’ the bulldog lumbering behind them. “Stop bothering that dog,” she scolded.

“I think Luke’s just happy Darlin’s following somebody else,” Susannah said.

“He pretends to be gruff,” Mitra said, turning from the stove. “Luke’s an old softie.”

“I know,” Susannah said, and Demi looked up, eyes narrowed in speculation.

“Do you now?” she asked, then lightly smacked the hand of another child, this one about twelve. “Don’t you touch my clean vegetables with your dirty hands, young man. Go wash. Go.” She looked at Susannah, again speculatively. “Do you like kids?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been around them much.”

Mitra laughed. “She’s asking you if you plan to have children someday, Susannah.”

The women were all looking at her. “I haven’t really thought about it.”

“You’re not getting any younger,” Demi said and, startled, Susannah laughed.

“Thank you.”

Demi just grinned. “I live to give advice.”

Mama looked up from her lamb. “Leave her alone, Demitra. She’s young still.”

Susannah looked at the two sisters. “Your name is Demitra?” she asked Demi.

“Yes. And so is hers,” Demi pointed to Mitra. “In Greek families, the oldest is named after the father’s father or mother. Pop’s mother was Demitra. The second child is named after the mother’s parent, and so on.”

“Mama’s mother was also Demitra,” Mitra said.

“So you can have two children in the same family with the same name?”

Mitra shrugged. “It happens more often than you’d think. I know a family where three sons are Peter. Actually the Greek names are different, but all translate to Peter.”

Demi nodded. “So what are your parents’ names, Susannah?”

“Demi,” Mitra hissed, making a fierce face.

“What?” Then Demi blushed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think. Your parents were… You didn’t have a good relationship with your parents.”

Demi seemed to be the master of understatement, but she also looked upset, so Susannah smiled. “It’s okay. I don’t think I’d be naming any children after my parents.”

“So you will have children.” Satisfied, Demi went back to her chopping.

Susannah considered protesting, then caught Mitra’s grin and closed her mouth.

“How are the clothes I bought working out, Susannah?” Mitra asked, deftly turning the topic. “Stacie was thrilled that you gave her that outfit back, by the way.”

“I figured she would be. Your clothes are perfect, thank you. But I’m nearly out.”

Mitra’s eyes widened. “How? I got you five outfits.”

Susannah grimaced. “They keep getting bloody.”

“Oh, yeah.” Mitra shrugged again. “Well, Johnny can clean them for you.”

“Johnny can clean anything,” Demi said. “An-y-thing.”

Their conversation shifted to the stains cousin Johnny had removed, then on to other cousins and so many family members Susannah gave up trying to keep them straight. Instead she enjoyed the pleasure of being in a warm kitchen instead of a restaurant, part of the conversation, instead of listening in on others from a table for one.

The meal was the same. Sitting between Luke and Leo, Susannah watched the quiet devotion his father showered on Mama. And there was laughter, so much she wanted to hold it all in.

“What does Lukamou mean?” she whispered to Leo. Mama had called Luke by that name more than once and every time he’d softened. That’s when Susannah realized she was seeing him being superglued back together before her very eyes.

“It’s a pet name,” Leo whispered back. “Like if someone called you SuzyQ.”

“But no one would,” Susannah said darkly and Leo chuckled.

“Luke’s real name is Loukaniko, by the way. Luke is just a nickname.”

“Loukaniko,” she murmured. “I’ll remember that.”

Too soon the meal was over. To think that they did this chaotic, wonderful thing every Sunday afternoon. No wonder Daniel loves it here so much.

“You come back next week,” Demi said with authority. “Even if Luke must work.”

“Thank you. I’d like that.”

Like a noisy herd, the whole family moved toward the door. Leo was waiting with her coat and purse. He helped her with her coat, then pressed her purse into her arms. Startled, her eyes flew up to meet his. Her purse was three pounds heavier than it had been before she arrived and she immediately understood what he’d done. “Leo.”

He caught her in a hard hug. “Feel safe,” he whispered. He pulled back, his eyes as black as Luke’s and just as intense. “Come back soon.”

Her throat tightened. “I will. Thank you.”

Mama caught her in another bear hug. “That matter we discussed on Friday night,” she said. “Your crossroads. Have you decided which path you’ll take?”

Susannah thought of the press conference, now only hours away. “I knew which direction I had to take then,” she said. “I just didn’t like it.”

“Then it must be the right one,” Mama said wryly. “As Leo says, come back soon. Luka, do not leave that dog in my house.”

Luke sighed long-sufferingly. “Fine. Come on, Dog.”

“Call her Darlin’,” Susannah teased. He’d not done so in front of his family.

Leo snickered. “Yes, darlin’.”

Luke glared at him. “It’s bad enough I have to take the damn dog,” he muttered. But when he lifted Darlin’ into the backseat of his car, his hands lingered to pet her head. “Good girl,” Susannah heard him murmur. “Good Darlin’.”

Her heart cracked open. I want him. I want this. They’re happy. I want to be happy.

He got into the car, eyes resting on his mother’s house. “Chase told me to go home, get recharged,” he said. “I just did. Thanks for giving up your sleep. I needed this.”

She took his hand, entwined her fingers through his. “So did I.”

He brought her hand to his lips. “Let’s take the dog home. Then I have a team meeting before your date with the media. Are you ready?”

“Yeah. I’m ready.” And she found she really was. “Let’s go.”

Dutton, Sunday, February 4, 3:15 p.m.

Luke found Chase sitting on a bench in the outdoor break area, staring morosely at a pair of ducks that greedily pecked the ground. In one hand Chase held a bag of popcorn. Between his fingers was a lit cigarette.

“You don’t smoke,” Luke said.

Chase looked at his cigarette. “Used to. Quit twelve years, four months ago.”

“What’s wrong?” Luke asked, bracing himself for the next wave of bad news.

Chase looked up, no smile on his face. “Bobby just hit a baker’s dozen.”

Thirteen. Luke’s heart sank. “Monica’s dad?”

“No. No, he’s still missing, as is Judge Borenson.”

“The Davis kids were found, so who is it?”

“Jersey Jameson. He transported the girls from the bunker to Ridgefield House. He tried to clean, but we found one of Ashley Csorka’s hairs, along with traces of vomit.”

“She said she’d gotten sick in the boat,” Luke murmured. “Who was the thirteenth?”

“Kira Laneer.”

Luke sat on the bench heavily. “Garth Davis’s mistress. She’s dead?”

“Theoretically, yes. In reality no.”

“Chase, you’re not making any sense.”

He sighed. “I know. I’m tired. And now I know for sure I have a mole on my team. I mentioned Kira in the meeting this morning on purpose. She didn’t really call in a tip.”

Luke frowned. “You suspected one of us?”

“I suspected somebody. I had Ms. Laneer socked away in a safe house and good thing I did. Someone fired into her home a few hours ago. They hit a mannequin we’d put on the sofa. With a wig, it looked like her from behind. When my agents confronted him, he shot them.”

Luke closed his eyes. “And?”

“One stable. One critical. Shooter got away. One of the agents managed to get off a few shots. We think he nicked an arm, but it didn’t slow him down.”

“God, Chase.”

“I know. We made sure we’d watered the flower bed under that window really well. We got a good shoe impression in the dirt. Man’s shoe, size fourteen.”

Luke shook his head. “No way that’s Bobby’s size. I can’t even wear a fourteen.”

“No, she wears a woman’s ten. She wouldn’t have been able to run if she’d been wearing these shoes, plus the deformation was even in the impression. The shoe was fully filled with a size fourteen foot. We got pictures of the shooter, but he had a mask covering his face.”

“So every time we mention someone in team meeting, they get whacked.”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“I can’t see it being any of us. Even Germanio.”

“Hank wasn’t there when we talked about Jennifer Ohman, the nurse. I’ve alerted my supervisors and we’ve brought in OPS.”

Luke winced. The Office of Professional Standards was a necessary evil, but every cop, good or bad, instinctively hated them on sight. “What are they going to do?”

“Investigate the hell out of everybody. The investigation goes on, but all cell phone and land line calls will be monitored.”

“So why are you telling me this? Does this mean you don’t suspect me?” Luke tried to keep the annoyance from his voice, but goddammit, he hated OPS.

“I don’t suspect any of you,” Chase said harshly. He took a long drag on the cigarette and started coughing. “Dammit, I can’t even smoke right today.”

“How long since you slept, Chase?”

“Too long, but with this… I can’t sleep knowing we’ve got a traitor in our ranks.”

“What do you want from me?” Luke asked, more kindly.

“I need you to keep your eyes open. That’s one of the reasons I sent you home. When Bobby killed that nurse, she just as easily could have killed Susannah. I’m wondering why she didn’t.”

“Am I the only one who knows?”

“Yeah. And if I die mysteriously, OPS will be on your ass like white on rice.”

“Thank you,” Luke said dryly. “I’ll do my damndest to keep you alive, too.”

Chase dumped the popcorn. “Knock yourselves out,” he muttered to the ducks.

“It’ll be okay,” Luke said. “We’ll figure this out.”

“Yeah, but will I have any agents left when we do?”

Atlanta, Sunday, February 4, 3:55 p.m.

From her carefully chosen place on the standing-room-only sidelines, Bobby counted six of them on the stage. Five women Garth had raped plus sweet Susannah, who sat at the far left of the table, closest to the eaves. Fate had smiled.

But the six women didn’t. They were sober, some visibly nervous. Gretchen French had her arm in a sling. That made Bobby satisfied. But Susannah looked serene and that made Bobby furious. She must have skillfully applied her makeup because she had no dark circles and Bobby knew for a fact the woman had not slept in days.

It didn’t matter, though. Soon she’d be dead, a bullet straight through her heart. The nine-mil in Bobby’s pocket would accomplish the task nicely.

She’d passed through the metal detector with a smile, her press credentials hanging around her neck. Even at a hard glance, the makeup, bra padding, and Marianne’s wig had enabled Bobby to pass for Marianne with the toughest of critics. Still, her stomach churned, thinking of Charles. Damned old man. Why do you care what he thinks?

But half a lifetime of caring was a hard habit to kick. She still wanted to prove herself. She had pride. She had skill. Soon Charles would see it, along with every person watching live and on the endless CNN loop later.

Bobby resisted the temptation to touch the gun in her pocket. It was real. It was loaded. She’d checked it, taking it into a ladies’ room stall minutes after it had been passed to her from behind, wrapped in a jacket and stuffed in a backpack. Her contact had done well. See, I have something, old man. She had a mole in GBI.

That Paul gave you. And Charles gave you Paul. It left a bitter taste. When she thought back, she realized how she’d been played. That she’d met Paul exactly when she’d needed a cop inside APD had seemed like fate at the time. Now, she knew she’d been just like one of the pawns Charles carried around in that ivory box of his.

But for now, she needed to focus. For the next hour she was Marianne Woolf, ace reporter. Marianne wouldn’t be needing the identity for a while, not until she woke up. She wasn’t dead after all, just stunned. There had been no need to kill her. Bobby didn’t kill everyone, no matter what Paul thought. Paul, that sonofabitch.

Don’t think about him or you’ll fail. Think about… She searched for a topic. Marianne. Bobby had always liked Marianne. She’d been the one tight ass at that stuffy private school who had lowered herself to talk to her. Taunted by the rich bitches as “the girl most likely to do everybody,” Marianne had been in dire need of a friend back then.

Their friendship had continued over the years, mostly since Garth had been elected mayor. Since then, a lot of the rich bitches who hadn’t given her the time of day were suddenly more attentive. She’d gone to their charity lunches and smiled, secretly smirking at the knowledge they had welcomed a murderer and a high-priced whore to their Irish-lace-covered tables where they sipped tea from antique silver teapots.

But the day she’d been invited to tea at Judge Vartanian’s house had been very difficult indeed. Sitting amidst the quiet elegance of old money without screaming MINE and grabbing Carol Vartanian by the throat had taken every bit of her self-control. It had taken a meeting with Charles beforehand to calm her. It had taken his assurances that her time would come. That someday she would be sitting in the big house, drinking from her great-grandmother Vartanian’s silver tea set.

That would never happen now. Now that the police knew who she was. Now that Susannah had ruined everything by finding that damn girl in the woods. Now she’d have to leave Dutton, leave Georgia. Leave the fucking country.

Now even Charles had abandoned her.

Don’t think about Charles. Keep your hate sharp. Think about the Vartanians. She’d so wanted, needed to break Carol Vartanian’s scrawny neck. The judge’s wife had been the reason the Styvesons had been forced to move from the well-paying Dutton parsonage before Bobby’s earliest memory. It had been Carol’s interference that had kept her father in low-paying churches in the middle of nowhere. It had been Carol Vartanian who’d ruined her life. Her mother had told her so.

And it was Susannah Vartanian who’d lived her life. Up there in the big house with the fine things. The designer clothes, the pearls handed down six generations. It was Susannah Vartanian who would lose it all today. First her dignity. And then her life.

Bobby resisted the temptation to fiddle with Marianne’s press credentials hanging around her neck. Marianne had responded quickly to her call for help this morning, just as Bobby had known she would. Garth had been arrested and their bank accounts had been frozen and what is to become of me? Marianne had swallowed it hook, line, and sinker. No doubt the promise of an exclusive hadn’t hurt her Good Samaritan zeal.

GBI Agent Talia Scott was walking across the stage, clasping the hand of each woman at the table. Agent Scott lingered over Susannah, her expression concerned, but Susannah nodded resolutely. Scott stepped off to the side and Gretchen French pulled her microphone close.

Gretchen cleared her throat. “Good afternoon. Thank you for coming.” Conversation died quickly and all eyes were on the stage. “We are six of sixteen women raped by the Dutton men you in the media have called the Richie Rich Rapists. Please understand that there is nothing comedic about this for the six of us sitting here before you, or the seven of us who for reasons of their own chose not to appear. Or for the three of us who did not survive. This is not funny. It is not cute. It is real and it happened to us.”

A few reporters actually looked ashamed. Gretchen’s good, Bobby thought.

“We were sixteen,” Gretchen went on, “and we were raped by a gang of young men who used our shame and fear to keep us silent. Not one of us knew that there were others. Had we known, we would have spoken then. We’re speaking now. We will take your questions, but be advised that we may choose not to answer them.”

It’ll be soon, Bobby thought, her pulse beginning to race. An anonymous phone call to a Journal reporter known to skirt the boundaries of good taste was about to cause the uproar she would use to her advantage. Casually she edged through the crowd to where she had a clear shot. She planned three clear shots. The first would finish Gretchen French off and cause a commotion. The second would be for dear little Susannah. The third shot, Bobby thought, is for whichever poor sap is standing closest to me. The resulting stampede was all she’d need to get away. It had worked before and Bobby was a firm believer in not fixing what wasn’t broken. And just as before, Bobby had an escape plan all worked out.

She scanned the crowd. The Journal reporter she’d called with a tip was sitting in the third row, a feral gleam in his eyes, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

So am I.

Susannah was calm. Surprisingly so. She looked out at the sea of faces and knew she’d made the right choice. She also knew the gossip had begun the moment she’d sat at the table. The media knew the victims were going to speak out. They’d had no idea she was one of the victims. They certainly knew now. Her face had been instantly recognized and the buzz had ripped through the room, viral and electric. Reporters had whipped out their BlackBerries and cell phones, each wanting to be the first to deliver this juicy morsel.

Marianne Woolf was standing off to the side, covering the event for her husband’s Dutton Review. Marianne’s pictures of Kate’s murder and Sheila’s funeral had been splashed across the Review’s front page that morning. Susannah imagined she’d be among tomorrow’s front-page stories.

Luke was also out there, standing near the back of the room, on edge, on guard. She and the other five victims had been brought in through a back door to avoid the crush, but everyone else in the room had passed through a metal detector. The GBI was taking no chances with their safety. Still she knew Luke measured each face, each demeanor. It was comforting, knowing he was watching over her.

Talia had come by with encouraging words for each of the women on the stage, pausing to ask Susannah one last time if she was sure. Susannah was very sure.

When Gretchen began speaking everyone went still. Gretchen had shared her prepared statement with the five of them beforehand, and her eloquent but passionate words had brought tears to the eyes of more than one of the women. But now their eyes were dry as they prepared for questions.

The first came from a woman reporter. “How did you find out about one another?”

Talia had provided Gretchen with a scripted response to this question. “In the course of a multiple murder investigation in another state, pictures of our assaults were recovered. Over the past week, the GBI determined our identities from those photos.”

Cameras flashed and Susannah heard whispers of Simon Vartanian and Philadelphia intermixed with her name and Daniel’s. Leaning on the skills she’d honed through years of living with Arthur Vartanian, she kept her chin up, her eyes impassive, completely aware most of the cameras were pointed at her face.

A man stood up. “How have your lives been impacted by the assault?”

The women looked at each other and on the other side of Gretchen, Carla Solomon pulled the microphone closer. “The impact has been felt differently by each one of us, but overall, it’s been consistent with the aftereffects suffered by most assault victims. We’ve had trouble establishing and maintaining relationships. A few of us have battled substance abuse. One of us committed suicide. It was a defining, devastating moment in our lives, one that has left permanent scars.”

Then a man in the third row stood and Susannah felt an instant prickle of unease. His eyes were on her and there was a… satisfaction in his expression that raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

“Troy Tomlinson with the Journal,” he said. “This is for Susannah Vartanian.”

The microphone was passed down the table. From the corner of her eye Susannah searched for Luke, but he was no longer in the back of the room and her unease grew.

“You all were victims thirteen years ago,” Tomlinson began, “and I think I speak for us all in saying we have sympathy for what happened to you and understand why you failed to report your assaults then. You were all sixteen years old and far too young to deal with the enormity of your experience.” His voice oozed a false sincerity that set Susannah’s teeth on edge, and beside her, Gretchen stiffened. “But, Susannah, how can you, especially given your record of pushing rape victims up in New York City to come forward, how can you explain your failure to report a second assault, seven years later, one in which your friend was brutally murdered?” The buzz swelled and Tomlinson spoke louder. “And how do you respond to Garth Davis’s denial of your assault?”

Susannah’s heart began to pound. How did he know about Darcy? As the second question sank in, fury flared, tamping the fear. Garth Davis denies raping us? With all of those pictures as proof? Son of a fucking bitch.

No. Stay calm. Tell the truth.

“Mr. Tomlinson, your insinuation that any rape victim who does not report her assault is somehow negligent or immature is both egregiously insensitive and cruel.” She leaned forward, no smile on her face. “Rape is more than a physical assault, and victims, including myself, must deal with the resulting feelings of loss of personal safety, control, and confidence each in her own way. This is true whether they’re sixteen or sixty.

“When my friend was murdered six years ago, I cooperated with the authorities the best way I knew how. I made sure the facts were known even as I struggled to survive a second assault. My friend’s murderer was subsequently caught and is paying for his crime.” He opened his mouth, but she cut him off. “I’m not finished, Mr. Tomlinson. You asked two questions. Mr. Davis cannot possibly deny our assaults occurred, nor his part in them. The evidence is irrefutable. Vile and disturbing. But irrefutable.”

Tomlinson smiled. “I interviewed Mayor Davis. He doesn’t deny all the assaults, Susannah. Just yours. He challenges you to show one photo of him raping you.”

You’re a son of a fucking bitch, too. But she kept her cool. “Mr. Davis must answer to God and to the people of the state of Georgia for his crimes. I know what happened to me. What Mr. Davis says is immaterial. As I said, the evidence is irrefutable. Now please sit down, Mr. Tomlinson. You’re finished.”

Bobby drew a steadying breath. Bitch. She’d sailed through that minefield like it was a field of fucking poppies. Damn her. Goddamn her. Susannah Vartanian had come out on top for the very last time. Now. It would be now.

Stop. Breathe. Follow the plan or you’ll leave here in handcuffs. Gretchen first. Susannah second. Bystander third.

Her hand was steady as she reached into her pocket, positioning her gun so she could fire from within the pocket. Her aim was sure as she pulled the trigger, the pop of the silencer covered up by the cries of reporters jockeying to ask the next question. Her smile was grim when her bullet hit Gretchen in the chest. Gretchen slumped forward as the next bullet hit Susannah right in the heart, sending her flying backward to the floor.

Her third bullet landed in the back of a man with a video camera resting on his shoulder. He dropped like a rock, his camera crashing to the floor.

Screams filled the air. It was priceless.

She moved through the surging crowd, feeling like a celebrity on the red carpet with cameras flashing all around her. But the lenses were pointed at the stage. The cop who’d been standing guard at the stage rushed forward to kneel by the cameraman.

Calmly Bobby walked past the stage on her way to the back entrance and her way out. Then stopped. Lying on her stomach under the table was Susannah Vartanian, her eyes wide open and alert, her small hands wrapped around a very large gun.

People were screaming. Behind her, Gretchen was moaning and she could hear Chase yelling for a medic. Susannah’s chest was burning. Shit. It hurt. Worse than the last time. She’d instinctively rolled under the table, her hand diving into her purse for the gun that had not been there before she’d sat next to Leo Papadopoulos at lunch.

Then the burning in her chest was forgotten as she found herself staring into a pair of cold blue eyes. She had only an instant to register the visual disconnect. The hair and the breasts were Marianne Woolf’s. But the eyes belonged to Barbara Jean Davis.

Those eyes narrowed, then her lips pulled back in a snarl, and the hand Barbara Jean held in her pocket lifted her coat, revealing the rigid line of a gun barrel.

For a heartbeat Susannah aimed between Bobby’s blue eyes, then reconsidered. Death is too good for you, bitch. Dropping her aim to Bobby’s right arm, she fired.

Bobby’s eyes registered shock, then pain, then rage. The crack of Susannah’s gun sent new screams through the crowd and the thunder of feet shook the stage.

“Drop it!” came the shouted order above her head as a new wave of camera flashes left spots dancing in front of her eyes. Still, she could see the smirk on Bobby’s face as she took several steps backward and was swallowed up into the crowd.

“But-” Susannah cried out in pain when a booted foot came down on her forearm.

“Drop the gun and put your hands where we can see them,” another voice barked. Arm throbbing, heart pounding, Susannah placed the gun on the stage and held her hands straight out in front of her. Six uniformed cops pointed guns at her head.

“Listen to me,” she said loudly. “Dammit.” She winced when the booted foot moved off her wrist, replaced by the cold steel of handcuffs. “She’s-”

The cop had grabbed her other arm, twisting it behind her back, when someone vaulted from the floor to the stage and an authoritative voice boomed. “Officer. Back away. Now.” Luke. Finally. Susannah let out a breath as the six cops took a measured step back and Luke dropped to his knees by her side.

“What the hell happened here?” Chase demanded from behind her.

“I don’t know,” Luke said. “Susannah, where are you hurt?”

Susannah grabbed his arm and dragged herself to her knees, the handcuff swinging from her wrist. The room spun and she clenched her eyes shut. “It was Bobby. She has a gun. She’s here, in the crowd somewhere.”

“What?” Luke demanded.

“Where?” Chase snapped.

“That way,” she pointed and prayed Mama Papa’s lamb would stay put in her churning stomach. Now that it was over, she was shaking like a leaf, her words choppy. “She’s wearing a wig. Marianne Woolf. She looked like Marianne.” A wave of hysteria was bubbling up and she shoved it back. “She was wearing a black trench coat.”

“I’ve got it.” Chase was running, making the stage bounce. “You stay with her.”

Susannah swallowed hard as her head spun and her stomach roiled. Luke’s hands tightened on her shoulders. “Oh my god. Susannah.”

She forced her eyes open to find him staring at her chest in horror. Slowly she looked down and blinked at the Kevlar vest showing through the bullet hole in her sweater, right over her heart. “Shit,” she mumbled. “This was my last clean outfit.”

Bobby unbuttoned her coat with one hand, cursing Susannah Vartanian. Goddamn her. Bullets just bounced off the little bitch, both literally and metaphorically. My arm burns like hell and Susannah Vartanian should be dead. Dead. A vest. Susannah was wearing a goddamn vest. I should have known, should have planned. I failed.

Stop thinking about Susannah. Get yourself out of here. There would only be a few seconds before Susannah raised the alarm, assuming the cops let her speak. Right now they thought she was the shooter. There was some joy in that irony.

Get busy. Get gone. In the middle of the throng of pushing people, Bobby shrugged out of her coat and draped it over her wounded arm. Now she had free passage, thanks to her GBI mole who’d wrapped the gun in a jacket before stuffing it into the backpack she’d passed to Bobby before the press conference began. The jacket with GBI emblazoned across the back was a tad tight, but it would do the job. Quickly she slipped Marianne Woolf’s press credentials beneath her shirt.

“Pardon me,” she said loudly. “Coming through.” The people crowding her took one look at her jacket and moved aside. “Stay calm,” she said officially. “Just stay calm.”

Cops were shepherding the crowd to the middle of the room, away from the doors. Head high, Bobby walked through one of the rear doors, nodding to the Atlanta cop who stood guard. He nodded back, briefly, then returned his eyes to the crowd.

She kept her chin up as she walked past the police searching in the hallway.

“Anything?” one asked her.

She shook her head. “They caught one of the shooters inside, but they’re still looking for the second one. Excuse me.” As she walked, coat over her arm, she fumbled her right hand into the pocket that held the gun. Her arm burned like hell, but her hand still worked. The door was in sight. Just a few more steps to freedom.

“Stop! Police!”

Fuck. Turning as she ran the last few steps, Bobby started to fire.

“She shot you.” Kneeling on the stage, Luke’s heart climbed up into his throat.

Susannah pressed the heel of her palm to her chest, covering the hole in her sweater. “I know. Hurts like a bitch, too.” She frowned, trying to concentrate. “Bobby’s hit. I shot her right arm. She had a gun in her coat pocket. She was going to shoot me. Again. Damn.”

Luke forced his fear back. The cops were still glaring at them and Susannah still wore one of their handcuffs on her right wrist. She’d shot into a crowd. He glanced at the gun on the stage and knew exactly where it had come from. Leo. There would be trouble over this, but he’d deal with it later. Now he focused on Susannah. Her face was ashen, her eyes overly bright. She was shaking. She was in pain. In shock.

And the cameras continued to flash. He needed to get her out of here. “Can you stand up?”

She nodded grimly. “Yes.” She turned as he lifted her to her feet, staring at the medics who were securing Gretchen French to the gurney. “How bad is she?”

“She wasn’t wearing a vest,” Luke said. “But she’s conscious and that’s good.” He looked at the cop, who regarded him through narrowed eyes, ignoring the glare and focusing on the man’s nameplate. “Officer Swift. I’m taking her out of here. Please take your cuffs off her wrist, right here where the cameras can see you do it. I’m taking over this shooting.”

Susannah held out her wrist and Swift unlocked the handcuffs. “It was self-defense,” she said quietly. “I was shot first.”

Officer Swift glanced briefly at the hole in Susannah’s sweater. “You shot into a crowd of innocent people, Miss Vartanian.”

“And if I hadn’t, I’d be dead.” Twin slashes of crimson stood out against her pale face. She was furious, but her voice remained in control.

Swift’s jaw tightened. “I’ll be writing this all in my report and making sure my chain of command is copied.”

“Be sure to copy me, too.” Luke scooped both her gun and her purse from the floor, then took her arm in a gesture of support rather than control. “Walk with me,” he murmured. “We’re going down these steps and out the back door.”

“Where are the other women?” she asked, her voice now trembling.

“Talia hustled them out the back. They’re all safe.” He walked her through the back door and closed it behind them. The noise level immediately dropped.

Her shoulders relaxed a hair. “It’s quiet,” she breathed. “I can hear myself thi-”

“Stop. Police.” The shout came from around the corner. It was followed by two shots, then more shouting. Through it, Luke heard the chilling words officer down.

Chase. Luke pulled the radio from his belt. “This is Special Agent Papadopoulos. Agent Wharton, what’s your status?” There was no reply and his heart started to race again. “Chase, what’s your position?”

Two more shots cracked from the radio. Then Chase’s voice came through and Luke’s shoulders slumped in relief. “We have an APD officer down. Suspect escaped.”

She got away. Again. Goddammit. “I’m coming toward you.” Luke led a pale Susannah around the corner and down another hall and met Chase coming through a door from the outside. He was still talking into his radio, his expression murderous. Off to the side sat a uniformed cop, white-faced, clutching his thigh, his hands covered in his own blood. Another officer had started emergency first aid.

On the floor by the rear door was a black trench coat.

“It was Bobby,” Chase said. “She fired at the cop, then ran. She had a car waiting for her. We’re in pursuit.” His gaze narrowed on Susannah’s sweater. “You’re hit.”

“So was Bobby,” she said, her jaw clenched. “I got her right arm just before she shot at me again. That’s the coat she was wearing.”

“Well, she shot with her left hand without much of a problem. Her first two shots hit the cop on his vest, her third, his thigh. I’ve got medics on the way. The officer fired twice, but she was already through the door.”

“You fired at the car?” Luke asked, and Chase’s brows crunched.

“Yeah. Missed. The car was weaving like a stunt driver.”

Luke pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket and snapped them on, crouching next to the coat. “Three holes in the pocket,” he said. “She fired all those shots from inside her pocket.” He looked up, met Susannah’s eyes. “One hole in the sleeve. Lots of blood.”

“She’s wounded,” Chase said. “She can’t go to a hospital. Where will she go?”

“Not back to her house on the river or her house in Dutton,” Luke said. “Susannah?”

“I don’t know who she’d trust to help her now. Did you see who was driving the car?”

Chase’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t get a good look.” Then he sighed heavily. “Bobby was wearing a GBI jacket.”

Luke’s stomach turned over as he stood. “Your leak. Bobby has an accomplice.”

“You have a leak?” Susannah asked quietly.

“Yes,” Chase said heavily.

“You did get a good look at the driver,” Luke said, even more quietly.

Chase shook his head. “No, but I recognized the car. It was Leigh’s.”

“Leigh? Leigh Smithson? Her car was stolen?” Then he saw Chase’s face and understood. “Shit. Leigh’s the leak. Damn, Chase, I never would have… Shit.”

“Yeah.” Chase rubbed his forehead. “I put out a BOLO as soon as I saw her car.”

“It makes sense,” Luke said slowly. “Especially the nurse at the hospital. Leigh brought me the message to meet her.”

Susannah went still. “Nurse Ohman said she’d been waiting outside for an hour.”

“Enough time for Leigh to take her call, inform Bobby, then draw you out with a false message from me,” Luke murmured. “Hell. Why? Why would Leigh do this?”

“Blackmail?” Susannah asked. “But what secret could be so bad that she’d do this?”

Chase blew out a breath. “I don’t know. Luke, let’s get the team together and debrief. We need to figure out where Bobby will go. Where’s your gun, Susannah?”

“Luke took it.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“It was my father’s,” Susannah said without missing a beat. “I took it from his house.”

Luke held back what would have been a weary sigh. She was protecting Leo and she lied very well. He wasn’t sure how he felt about either. He’d worry about it later.

Chase just nodded. “Don’t do it again,” was all he said.

Susannah lifted her chin. “Catch Bobby Davis, so I won’t have to.”

Chase’s smile was grim. “Fair enough.”

Bobby was thrown against Leigh Smithson’s car door as they careened around a corner. She bit back the cry of pain as the throbbing in her arm trebled. “I see your driving skills have not improved,” she gritted out, and Smithson shot her a glare.

“I hate you.”

“Yeah, I know. Then again, I’m not the one who murdered three little kids.”

“Sure you have,” Smithson said bitterly.

Bobby chuckled. “You can let me off here.”

Leigh Smithson stopped the car and grabbed Bobby’s arm. “Shoot me.”

“So you can pretend I forced you? No. But this might help.” She pulled Marianne Woolf’s wig from her head and tossed it. “Knock yourself out.” Bobby slammed the door and started walking, shivering. It was cold. She’d dropped her coat when that cop started shooting at her. She still had her gun, but not her cell phone. Dammit. She’d have to get another phone and another car. That wouldn’t be too hard to do.

Her arm hurt. It continued to bleed sullenly, but at least she’d stopped most of the flow. She’d felt around enough to know the bullet was still in there.

I need a doctor. But a hospital wasn’t an option and Toby Granville couldn’t help her because he was dead, because of Daniel Vartanian. Damn him to hell.

She thought of Paul sitting in Charles’s kitchen. Charles had stitched him up. She hated to call Charles. Hated him.

This time she didn’t have a choice. She had to call Charles. Tanner could have fixed you up. But he was dead. By my hand. Because of Susannah Vartanian. If she hadn’t chased them to the rest area… Damn the woman. She needed to die. And soon.

But first I need a place to hide. To recharge. To heal.

She knew just the place. I’m going home.