The Prey

CHAPTER 28

“Haven’t you ever wanted to kill someone? Just for the sheer pleasure of it?”

Bobby stared at Rowan with a sparkle in his cold blue eyes.

She was tied to a chair in the dining room and Bobby sat at the head of the table, drinking Scotch and holding a gun on her.

She’d lost the battle.

He’d anticipated that she would attack him and was prepared. She couldn’t even land a single blow. He’d come in low and spun around, grabbing her.

She’d been too emotional, too unfocused.

She wouldn’t make the same mistake next time. If there was a next time.

“Well?” he prodded, swirling his Scotch, the ice rattling around in the glass, much in the same manner as it had in their father’s years ago.

“I saw him,” she said.

“Who?”

“Daddy.”

Bobby scowled, his face full of contempt. “Weak fool! He couldn’t stomach that the bitch was finally dead. He was pussy-whipped. Nothing like the man I thought he was.”

Rowan worked to control her expression. She could not allow Bobby to bait her if she hoped to defeat him.

Sitting here in the formal dining room, at a highly polished and rarely used table, with her lunatic brother felt surreal. She reminded herself Bobby wasn’t a lunatic. He was a coldblooded killer who’d planned vicious, brutal crimes and followed through with precision.

And he was her brother. They’d been born to the same parents, had been raised in the same house. They’d both witnessed their father’s abuse of their mother, but Bobby enjoyed it. Relished it. She abhorred it.

Had Bobby been born evil? Or had he watched their father’s extreme mood swings and been affected? Did he have a twisted gene that turned evil when he witnessed it? Or did the circumstances of their upbringing turn him into a killer and her into a cop?

She reminded herself that she wasn’t a cop anymore. And if she had any control over it, Bobby’s killing spree would end here, tonight.

“Daddy spoke to me,” Rowan said.

“Dad? Bullshit.” Bobby laughed, shaking his head.

“He called me Beth.”

“He’s lost his fucking mind. I saw him, too. Stupid fuck. His mind’s gone, he lost it twenty-three years ago. He could have pled temporary insanity. Bet some bleeding-heart jury would have bought it. But he’s fucking insane.”

“You’re not,” Rowan said.

“Damn straight I’m not.” He slammed his glass down on the table. “I think you’re playing me. The fucker didn’t say a word.”

Rowan would never forget what her father had said when he thought she was her mother. Bobby saw you with him again. I told you to stay away from him, but you didn’t.

“You told him that you saw Mom with another man. Not for the first time.”

His brows furrowed and he looked pissed. “I don’t know how you know that, but it didn’t come from him. He was as crazy as a loon when I saw him.”

“When you saw him, you told him I was as good as dead.”

“And you will be soon.” Now Bobby looked more than a little pissed off. His blue eyes took on a violent darkness. Rowan wondered if he’d tried to bait their father into talking and failed. The fact that their father spoke to her must irritate him.

“Yes,” she said a moment later.

Bobby narrowed his eyes. “Yes? What the fuck does that mean?”

“You asked if I ever wanted to kill someone for the sheer pleasure of it. Yes.” Rowan glared at him, trying to keep her emotions under control. She wanted to scream and rage and tear at these binds, but knew that was what he wanted.

“I would get intense pleasure killing you, you bastard.”

He reached over and slapped her, knocking her over. She struggled, tied to the chair. The coppery flavor of her own blood poured into her mouth and she swallowed, gagging.

Bobby laughed. “Such spunk. You were always a brat. But you were scared of me. I knew it. You’re scared of me now. I see it. And you will die.” He stood and stared down at her, his cold blue eyes vindictive. “But you will beg for mercy before I’m done.” He kicked her and walked away.

She closed her eyes and took deep breaths. It hurt, but there was no real damage. She needed to loosen the ropes, break free when he least expected it. But she had no intention of escaping.

Not until she killed him.

She wished she knew his plan. She thought he’d just use her as a punching bag. Literally beat her to death. She wouldn’t break. She’d been trained to withstand torture. To retreat into her mind, force herself to think of something other than the situation.

But Bobby wanted to break her. He’d started by sending her the funeral wreath, the hair, the lilies. He fully intended to kill her, but first he wanted her fear. Her tears. She mentally prepared herself for the worst.

She had no idea.

He came back, untied her from the chair, hoisted her up, and half-carried, half-dragged her to the living room. He tossed her onto the couch and righted her so she sat up as straight as possible. She felt the ropes on her wrists loosen. Just enough to give her hope that she could manipulate the binds and free herself.

“This is your life, Lily bitch.” He sat down in a recliner and turned the television on with the remote control.

It was one of those large-screen televisions, fifty or so inches across. When the screen lit, Rowan was staring at a wedding picture.

Her parents.

“Robert MacIntosh married Elizabeth Pierson on June first,” Bobby said, his voice singsong, mocking. “Typical spring wedding for a boring couple. He had a future, could have gone places and done things with his life, but the bitch kept him tied to home with a bunch of brats.”

Bobby glanced at her. “You all should have been killed. Six fucking kids. What were they thinking? The house was a fucking zoo all the time. If I didn’t keep you all in line, there’d never be any peace and quiet.” He paused, a gleam in his eye as he glared at Rowan. “But I know why. She did it to keep Daddy with her. Got herself pregnant every time he had a thought of leaving the whore.”

Rowan was careful to show no reaction. She wouldn’t allow Bobby’s words to affect her. She looked at her parents on the screen. Her father’s dark hair and brilliant blue eyes. Her mother’s fair skin and white-blonde hair.

It was like looking at herself.

They looked happy. At least when they first got married. You saw it in their eyes, in the way her father beamed at her mother, in her mother’s half-smile, half-laugh, caught forever in time.

What had happened? Had her father started hitting her mother after they were married? After they had children? When did the abuse start, and why did her mother stay with him for so long?

“Did you know the bitch was pregnant when they got married?” Bobby said, his voice spitting out venom that made Rowan unconsciously shiver. “She got herself pregnant, trapped him into marriage. I was born in November. June, November. Hmmm. All their hypocrisy. Church on Sundays, no swearing, no fun. Yet they were out screwing around. Good enough for them, wasn’t it?”

Rowan didn’t think the hypocrisy had anything to do with church or swearing. It had to do with her parent’s relationship. With her father hitting her mother and her allowing it. With her accepting all his apologies. With their all going to church as a family and pretending they were normal.

They were anything but normal.

Rowan hadn’t realized the image on the video was paused until Bobby pressed “play” and the image switched to a baby. He paused it again.

“Me,” he said, with both disdain and pride in his voice. “The only MacIntosh worthy of being born. The bitch should have had her fucking tubes tied, but no, she couldn’t keep Daddy trapped if she couldn’t get herself knocked up.”

The baby was beautiful. Bald, with startling blue eyes. Round and chubby. Bobby sat in a little baby chair in front of a Christmas tree, about a month old. He could have been the Gerber baby.

Bobby. How could a beautiful, innocent little baby turn into a monster? Rowan closed her eyes.

“Open your eyes!”

She felt the sharp sting of something on her face. Tears sprung to her eyes at the sudden, unexpected pain, but she swallowed them. She glared at Bobby. He had a whip in his hand.

“Don’t close them again. You don’t want to know what I’ll do.”

“You can torture me, but I won’t break,” she said through clenched teeth, anger seething beneath the surface.

“We’ll see.” He grinned.

The videotape started rolling again. The baby picture stayed on for another minute, before switching to a picture of Bobby, Melanie, and Rachel. A portrait, taken at the shopping mall. Bobby was three or four, Melanie a year younger, and Rachel a baby.

They were three beautiful children, Bobby fair, Mel and Rachel dark-haired like their father. Young, happy children.

Bobby didn’t look cruel. But was any four-year-old capable of knowing he was going to grow up and kill his family? Kill innocent human beings in his warped sense of vengeance and revenge?

Bobby didn’t pause the pictures. Several snapshots of the three oldest MacIntosh children rolled across the screen. At birthday parties. At Christmas and Easter and wearing their Sunday best. Playing in the yard, in the park, having a tea party in the backyard.

Rowan searched Bobby’s eyes for the turning point, when he had changed from a happy little boy to a murderous thug who terrorized his younger siblings.

Then she saw it. Not in Bobby, but in Melanie and Rachel.

They were young girls, four and six or so, and Rowan saw their eyes change. Bobby’s didn’t. Bobby looked the same. But one snapshot of Rachel showed fear as she glanced at him, the photograph preserving her emotion for all time. Another showed Mel hugging Rachel. It could have been the sweet scene of two sisters embracing; instead, Rowan saw anger in Mel’s eyes and tears in Rachel’s.

Had their mother known? Had she known what Bobby did to her other children? She would have had to, Rowan thought. Rowan remembered many times when her mother had told her to take Peter outside, away from Bobby. All the times Mel had taken them for ice cream. The sullen look in Rachel’s eyes whenever Bobby had been in the same room.

Her mother had known. Yet she kept them all in that house. Knowing Bobby terrorized them. Taking the abuse of her husband yet welcoming him in her bed. Rowan would never understand her mother. She couldn’t hate her, though she wanted to. After all, she was dead. Murdered by her abusive husband.

They were all dead.

Except Bobby and her. And Peter, Rowan thought gratefully. Peter was safe in Boston.

If Rowan died at Bobby’s hands, she would die knowing Bobby hadn’t won. Peter was alive. And because Bobby thought he was dead, he was safe.

The images started flashing by rapidly, pictures of Mel and Rachel and Mama. Where had they come from? As she watched, she realized that the same ten or so pictures repeated. Over and over. They looked familiar to her, but why?

Her photo album. He’d found her cabin in Colorado and stole the one thing she had left of her family.

Suddenly it stopped on Mama’s bloody body.

Rowan screamed, then closed her eyes.

Bobby whipped her across the neck and she winced. “Open them!”

“Go ahead, whip me to death! I don’t care!” She tried to control her pain and anger but couldn’t.

“Open them, or your lover will be next.”

Her eyes shot open and she glared at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Though Bobby didn’t know it, John was dead. He’d never have left Tess.

She quickly blinked back her tears. She couldn’t think about John now. She wouldn’t be able to focus on what she needed to do.

Bobby leaned back, smirking, tucking the whip into his lap. “Yes you do. Watch.”

Stone-faced, preparing herself for more bloody images of the family she loved, she stared at the television.

Music started. Loud, surrounding her through speakers in all corners of the room. Some unidentifiable rap tune with verses that highlighted the word “kill” and a beat she felt in her gut. She wanted to vomit.

Mama’s picture was in black and white. The shades of gray did nothing to mask the terror of the scene. The blood almost black against the pale gray of the linoleum, arcs and splatters across the too-white cabinets, the stark lighting giving everything an unreal feel, like a bad B-movie.

Mama was followed by a picture of her father taken recently. His dark hair gray, his eyes vacant, empty, hollow. Bobby must have taken it when he visited Daddy. He looked just like Rowan remembered seeing him last week.

Then Mel and Rachel, together, smiling. Then lying dead and bloody in the foyer.

Kill, kill, kill the bitch!

Rowan shivered at the lyrics, wondering how Bobby had obtained the crime-scene photos. She almost laughed out loud. She could hardly believe he’d escaped from prison and had found a fool to replace him. Stealing crime photos would be child’s play.

Peter at five, his kindergarten photo. Then Peter dead.

No, not dead, Rowan reminded herself. He wasn’t dead.

There was a photo of a cop carrying Peter out of the house. Peter wore his dinosaur pajamas and they were covered in blood. It was Dani’s blood, not his. Dani’s blood. But Peter’s eyes were closed and his mouth was open and he appeared lifeless.

The image changed to Dani. Dani. A whimper escaped her throat but she forced herself to look. Beautiful Dani as a baby. As a toddler. At three, playing tea with her stuffed animals.

Then the small body bag. Somehow, the black bag was worse than seeing her dead again. So generic, so sterile.

Rowan didn’t know she was crying until her cheeks felt hot and damp.

Her tormentor grunted. “I never understood why you liked that little crybaby so much. Oh, well, she’s dead and buried, isn’t she? You couldn’t protect her. What’d you do? Put her body in front of yours? So she’d die in your place?” Bobby barked out a laugh, and Rowan wanted to strangle him with her bare hands. She had never hated anyone so much in her life. Black fury burned as she steadily worked on the ropes that bound her, careful not to let him see what she was doing.

The music changed to the Beatles’ “Paperback Writer,” the upbeat tune paradoxical to the gruesome photos that followed.

A bloody body massacred, cut into bits, lying in a Dumpster. It took Rowan a moment to realize this was Doreen Rodriguez. Bobby had taken pictures of his crimes. Bile rose in her throat and she swallowed it back.

The florist, stabbed to death, pretty blonde hair matted with blood.

The Harpers. The little girl while she still had her pigtails. The mom staring dead into the camera.

Pretty Melissa Jane Acker, raped, strangled, her body left spread-eagled in the signature style of Rowan’s fictional killer in Crime of Corruption.

“You’re sick,” she muttered.

Bobby laughed, and her fingers continued working on the ropes. Were they looser? She thought so. Her fingernails were raw and wet with her blood as they broke in her quiet fury.

Then she stopped.

Michael.

He was half lying, half sitting against the wall in what she presumed was his apartment, his chest a bloody mess, his eyes unfocused. Dying.

A sob escaped her throat and Bobby said, “I thought you were screwing him. But you’re the ice princess.” His tone was mocking. “Ice cold, no feeling. The press didn’t like you. I don’t think you’ve made any friends now, have you?”

Michael. He didn’t deserve this. None of them did. “You fucking bastard,” she whispered. “I’ll kill you!”

The whip stung the back of her neck again and she felt warm blood ooze down her back.

“You’re hardly in a position to threaten me, Lily Pad.”

The videotape rolled. Images of Tess. John. Roger. Herself. Many taken from the vacant house next to hers. Roger in Washington. Tess going into her apartment.

He paused it.

“Well, she’s in a bazillion pieces, or burned to a crisp. Either way, your lover’s sister is dead. Along with Roger Collins. Asshole. He deserved it. His fucking mocking attitude, thinking he was so much better than me. Well, I showed him, didn’t I? Didn’t I?” Bobby lashed out with the whip again, this one cutting across her arm.

“Yes, you sure did.” Oh, Roger! I’m so sorry.

“I was going to get his stupid wife, but didn’t have the chance. Now it won’t be any fun to knock her off. So, I guess she’s going to live.” He sounded almost sad.

“You are sick,” she said quietly. That they shared the same parents, the same blood, made her nauseous.

“No, Lily Pad, I’m not sick.” He paused the videotape and turned to her. “Look at me.”

She did, her hatred for Bobby filling her soul.

“Our father is sick,” he said, his voice bitter with hate. “Weak, pathetic, sick. Stupid fuck let that woman pussy-whip him into getting her way every fucking time. When he finally stood up to her and slapped the bitch down, he cried and apologized. Of course she forgave him. What’s one bruise when she had whatever she fucking wanted? If he’d only showed her who’s boss, she’d never have gotten away with screwing around.”

“She didn’t. That’s your own twisted logic.”

“Oh, Lily, you are naÏve. Dad finally confronted her that night. They were in a huge fight when I walked into the kitchen. Dad pounding on her and I thought finally, he was going to kill her.”

“What?” Rowan wasn’t sure she was hearing Bobby correctly. He saw their father kill their mother? But-hadn’t he come in later?

“You heard me. I told him to kill the bitch. And you know what the fucker did? He hit me.”

Bobby sounded surprised. Rowan was stunned.

“So I did what he never had the balls to do. Took Mama’s biggest knife and sliced her open. And he just watched. Stupid fool.”

“You? You killed Mama?” Rowan’s stomach dry-heaved. She’d seen her father with the knife. Saw him kneeling over Mama’s body. Saw him drop the knife. Watched as Bobby walked in and said The bitch is finally dead.

“Of course I did. He’d never do it. All he ever did was beat up on her and then cry and apologize and whine. Over and over. I was sick and tired of it. I’d have killed him, too, but he wasn’t putting up a fight. Just knelt there and picked up the knife and held it. Lost it completely, by the look of him.”

“You’re sick.”

“You think I’m sick? What about you? I’ve read all of your books, Lily. All of them. You came up with crimes so horrific I was shocked.” Eyes wide, he splayed his hand across his chest in mock surprise.

“Really, Lily,” he continued, “your mind is twisted. I only did what you are too weak to do. Made your fantasies real.”

She turned from him, hot with rage she couldn’t act on. She started working the ropes again. Almost free. Patience, Rowan. Patience.

He’d killed their mother. Her father was no murderer. It was Bobby. She hadn’t seen her father stabbing Mama, but assumed it because she’d walked in right afterward and he had been holding the bloody knife.

But it had been Bobby all along.

He started the video again and demanded she watch.

Running on the beach. Taken from this house. “I never understood why you run on the beach when there’s a perfectly good gym two miles up the road. It’s cold, and that awful smell of kelp and salt. Fucking gross.” Then a picture of her and Michael on the beach. Then her and John.

Then her and John on the stairs leading up to her deck. John’s hand was on her cheek. She remembered that moment. When she first realized there was a connection between them.

I love you, Rowan.

She willed herself not to show any emotion. It was so hard not to break.

Then the image changed and she was kissing John again, in the dining room. The picture was fuzzy, taken through the window, but it was obvious they were in a passionate embrace.

Her stomach rolled at the thought that Bobby had watched an intimate moment between her and John. That he’d photographed it.

She still felt John’s phantom kiss on her lips. She’d take that last taste of him to her grave.

Bobby stared at his little sister. “Well? Do you have anything to say?”

“No.”

“Oh, come now, Lily. You must be all torn up inside. Knowing that you’re responsible for the deaths of all those people. Doreen. Gina and Natalie and Kimberly Harper. Michael Flynn, your stupid-ass of a drunk bodyguard. He was practically crying in his Scotch that night. Pussy-whipped, just like Dad. Pretty much accepted the fact that you and his brother were doing the dirty deed and he should step out of the way.”

What? Michael had actually talked to Bobby? But he wouldn’t have known Bobby from a stranger; they’d just been two guys drinking at a bar.

Rowan squirmed with frustration. “You asshole! You know nothing about Michael or anyone else. You’re going to rot in hell, you pig.”

Bobby laughed, feeding on her rage. “Oh, yeah, bring it on, babe. Bring it on. I knew that ice-cold exterior would melt. I’ll bet you’re just itching to get to me. After I break your scrawny neck, I’m going to shoot your lover in the back. Seems fitting, doesn’t it? Sort of a re-done ‘Romeo and Juliet.’ Too bad you won’t have time to write about it.”

She leapt from her seat, hands free. She launched herself at Bobby, oblivious to the sting of the whip across her chest. She didn’t realize a scream came from her lungs until she heard it, loud and ringing in her ears.

She had the element of surprise. She put her arms together and swung them at the side of his head. He fell out of the chair with the force of her blow, swearing.

She lunged at him and grasped his neck, pushing her thumbs hard into his windpipe. He thrashed and kicked, throwing her off him. She tried to scramble away, but he grabbed her legs and pulled her back.

Screaming in anger and pain, she fought to escape.

“Bitch, you’ll pay!” He slammed her head into the floor. Her vision blurred. He flipped her over so she faced him, then slapped her. “You’re going to die. Then I’ll get your boyfriend.”

He swung, missing as she kicked him hard in the groin. He grunted and she scurried away, running toward the door.

She had it open, but he slammed it closed behind her and knocked her down.

Then she saw it. The fireplace.

She crawled toward the fireplace and he kicked her.

“Oh, this is too much fun!” Bobby yelled. “Run again.”

He kicked her in the side. She hissed, sucked in her breath. A sharp, knifelike pain dug into her side. She lost her breath and willed herself to breathe again, focus. Control.

He pulled her up, his breath heavy and ragged. She stared into familiar blue eyes, eyes filled with a wild, sick pleasure. A slight smile turned his lips up.

Bobby took a gun out of his waistband and pointed it at her face.

“Run,” he said, laughing. “Run!”

John jumped from the car before Agent Thorne stopped and ran down the sloping driveway. There was a crash from inside, and then the door swung open and he saw her.

Rowan. The dim streetlights cast odd shadows on her face; then he realized it was blood. A man loomed behind her and slammed the door shut.

He’s killing her.

Peter was right behind him by the time John reached the door. He turned the knob with his left hand, his gun in his right. The door was unlocked and he swung it open.

“Run!” he heard MacIntosh scream at Rowan.

“MacIntosh!” John yelled.

Bobby swung around, blood streaming from the side of his head. He had a gun.

Rowan slipped from his grasp and stumbled into the brick fireplace, her head hitting the hard surface with a sickening thud.

John’s heart jumped as he watched, out of the corner of his eye, Rowan fall. He didn’t take his gaze off of Bobby.

“I was going to get you next,” Bobby told him. “Now Lily can watch you die.”

John started to pull the trigger when Peter stepped from behind him.

“No, Bobby.”

“Peter! Get back!” John snapped, trying to block the priest with his body.

A hint of recognition flickered across Bobby’s face. “No. It’s not possible. You’re dead. I saw you.”

“You saw what you wanted to see,” Peter said. “This must end now. No one else needs to die, Bobby. Put down the gun.”

Bobby’s features twisted in rage. John kept trying to maneuver in front of Peter, but the damned priest wouldn’t stop moving.

Rowan moaned from the fireplace as she tried to sit up, and Bobby’s attention momentarily wavered. John rushed him.

Bobby caught sight of the movement and turned, firing his gun at the same time. The force of the bullet struck John’s right arm and his gun flew from his grasp.

Bobby laughed and took two steps over to him. “Now you die. And it’s even better than I thought-Lily Pad can watch her lover die. Oh, Romeo.” Bobby aimed.

“And then him.” He sneered, jerking the gun toward Peter. “You were supposed to be dead!”

Peter stood in the foyer.

“Bobby, stop this insanity. Now.”

Peter’s voice was firm, strong. Rowan opened her eyes. Peter? What was he doing here? Her vision was blurry, clouded. She fumbled around for something, anything to defend herself with. To defend Peter.

John was unarmed, blood dripping from his arm. Shot. But he was alive. A huge weight lifted from her heart and soul. John hadn’t been killed in the explosion.

Everyone I love dies…

Not anymore. Bobby’s killing spree would end here. Tonight. Now.

“What, preacher man, you going to send me to hell?” Bobby spat out, waving the gun between Peter and John. “Whatever happened to forgiveness?” He barked that cruel, wild laugh he had. It grated on Rowan’s mind, her head pounding, echoing. She shook it, trying to regain her full senses.

Weapon. Weapon. She spotted John’s gun, but she had double vision. She tried to focus, but it was too far away.

“Bobby, you must want forgiveness. You have to be repentant.”

Again, that wild laugh. “You want me to be sorry? Okay, I’m sorry.” He giggled. “Sorry you were all born.”

Rowan finally felt something solid. Metal. Glancing to her right, she saw she was holding a fireplace poker. She tightened her grasp. She had only one chance.

The two men she loved-John and Peter-would die if she didn’t succeed.

She couldn’t let Bobby win.

Through her failing vision she noticed John moving carefully away from Peter, away from her. She could attack without Bobby’s full attention. And keep his gun away from Peter.

She inched forward.

“Bobby, the FBI has surrounded the house,” John said. “You won’t get away.”

“I have hostages,” he said mockingly. “Worked with your sister, eh? Sorry she had to be blown up, she was kind of cute. Too bad I didn’t have time to screw her.”

Anger spread across John’s face. “She didn’t die,” he said. “She made it. I disarmed your amateur attempt at making a bomb. You failed.”

“You lie!” Bobby pointed the gun straight at John’s head.

Rowan screamed and lunged at Bobby, the poker in her hand.

A gun went off. Bobby’s? Then another shot. A third explosion. Rowan didn’t know where the sounds were coming from; they seemed to be coming from everywhere.

Bobby turned, eyes wide in rage and pain, and fired as she ran straight at him with the poker. A hot flash of pain hit her left shoulder but she kept moving forward. If she failed, John and Peter would die.

The sick sound of the poker cutting into Bobby’s flesh was followed by an inhuman scream. She stumbled and fell on top of him. Each breath hurt her chest.

Large hands pulled her off. She looked up through the haze. “Peter,” she whispered. “Run. I couldn’t…” she coughed and sputtered.

“Shh,” he told her and laid her down gently. His lips moved in silent prayer, but Rowan didn’t know if he was really quiet or if she just couldn’t hear him. He turned to Bobby and made the sign of the cross.

John interrupted Peter. “Don’t you dare pray for him,” he said as he knelt at Rowan’s side.

“He’s dying,” Peter said simply.

“I hope he burns in hell,” John said.

Bobby tried to speak as he clutched the poker sticking out of his stomach. Nothing came out but a gurgle and blood. He sputtered, convulsed, then lay still, his eyes open and fixed.

“John,” Rowan murmured, eyes closed.

“I’m here. Open your eyes.”

“You’re-you’re alive.” Her eyes fluttered open, then closed again.

“Yes. So are you. Peter, call an ambulance.”

“Why-Peter?”

“Roger called him to come out. We didn’t know where you were. Tess is safe. You bought us enough time.” He leaned over and kissed her, his tears falling on her face. He took off his shirt, wincing as the material pulled out of his wound, and pressed it against the gushing hole in her left shoulder.

“I-I thought you were dead. The bomb.” She coughed, her voice weak.

“Stay with me, Rowan. Don’t let him win.”

“I-I-” She coughed again.

“Shh. Don’t talk.”

“The ambulance is on the way,” Peter said as he squatted and handed John towels. John quickly tossed his shirt aside and held the towels to Rowan’s bleeding wound.

Agent Thorne and two other Feds John didn’t recognize were searching the place. One knelt beside Bobby and confirmed he was dead.

“How is she?” Thorne asked, worried.

“She’ll make it,” John said through clenched teeth. She has to. I don’t want to live without her. I don’t know if I can.

“John.” Rowan’s voice was weak, her breathing shallow.

“Shh. Save your strength.”

“I-I love you.”

Tears rolled down his cheeks. “Rowan, you know I love you. Stay with me.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t talk.” Her blood spread under his fingers, but he kept firm pressure on her shoulder. “Don’t you dare die on me.”

She closed her eyes and gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. She coughed.

“It’s over, Rowan,” John said. “It’s over.”