Beauty (A Midsummer Suspense Tale) (19 page)

The Dragon watched her in silence, a small smile on her lips.

“Someone’s bound to come back to the house soon,” Bryar began, hoping maybe she could buy herself some time. “People are expecting to get a hold of me. They’ll show up and they won’t be alone—Sawyer will...” She blinked, hard, and licked her lips as her mouth tingled oddly. “Saw...yer...will...” She coughed and wheezed. The tingles continued and her throat grew tight, voice hoarse.

Oh God
.

Her wide, terrified eyes went to The Dragon, who smiled smugly in return.

“Peanut oil adds a nice flavor, doesn’t it?”

Oh God NO
.

Bryar dropped the glass, which crashed on the hardwood. Ice spilled across the floor. Already her skin was itching, tongue felt thick and mouth swelled. She fumbled around her coat, felt around, but couldn’t find her EpiPen.

Her purse. It was on the back deck still.

“Precision and care when making a move, always,” The Dragon continued as she watched Bryar flail and struggle to her feet. “Medical records in a small town are so quick and easy to obtain.”

Panic had set in, forcing Bryar to move even as her head spun. Her throat was thick and swollen, words wouldn’t come. Tears flowed freely from her eyes. She scanned the room, couldn’t remember where the phone was. She had to get to her purse.

The woman stood and rounded the coffee table, watching Bryar. “It’s not burning to death, no. But the terror you must be feeling right now—that seems equal.” She glanced at the expensive silver watch on her wrist. “Your throat is likely starting to close now. I’d give you fifteen minutes or less.”

Bryar managed to get two feet before she tumbled over, landed on the couch. The Dragon’s voice was cutting in and out, too much for her to focus on. Her heart was going mad in her chest and panic clawed up and down her insides—she managed little gasping breaths that weren’t enough. She rolled onto her back, stared up at the ceiling, body no longer obeying her and head swimming.

Black cut over her vision and Bryar lost consciousness.

Chapter Thirteen

Sawyer was immediately filled with dread upon reaching the beach house.

The front gate was open and the light spilling from the house indicated the front door was as well. He pulled Brennen’s Mustang right to the front steps and left the keys in the ignition as he climbed out.

“Bryar?” he called but heard no response.

He ran up the steps and into the house. They’d left things locked up when they left—he remembered Scott double checking. They weren’t irresponsible enough to leave it open for kids to break in and vandalize things.

But kids hadn’t done this, he was sure of it. Some innate knowledge told him—there was no way petty thieves or rebellious teens would’ve stumbled across the empty beach house and broken in so easily. And it was late, too late, for anyone to be out. He’d seen no sign of anyone in the area when he drove up, just a single car passing his about five minutes ago on the stretch of road that led there. No sign of anyone walking around the beach. No boats on the water.

But Bryar wouldn’t have just left the front door open, and there was no sign of the SUV, either. So where the hell was Jeffrey?

“Bryar!” His voice echoed through the vaulted ceiling of the foyer. He wished he had a weapon but didn’t carry a gun and didn’t know of anything useful in the beach house. A fire poker, maybe, and he immediately took a side step into the living room toward the fireplace. He threw on a few lights as he went but the brightening of the space did nothing to alleviate his worry.

He found the fire poker and drew it up, brandishing it like a sword, before turning to survey the house again. Bryar would’ve heard him by now, he was sure of it. She would’ve responded.

Unless, for some reason, she couldn’t. He needed to properly check the house before looking outside.

He returned to the foyer and started for the steps that would lead to the upper floor when faint music drew his attention. It was coming from downstairs, he was sure of it—the sound system in the den. He backtracked and hung a right, carefully moving down the stairs. Light spilled across the bottom steps—lights that he hadn’t turned on yet.

Classical music grew louder. Light gleamed off of something spilled across the hardwood—melting ice and broken glass. He stomped down the rest of the stairs with the fire poker thrust ahead of him, the metal grip going slick as his palm sweat. A cool breeze blew through the space and he knew without looking that the back glass doors must be open, chilling the interior air.

At the bottom of the stairs, he saw the body on the couch.

His heart seized, all air sucked from his lungs. Sawyer stumbled forward on autopilot, his visioning tunnelling on Bryar’s prone form. The end of the fire poker scraped on the floor as his arm fell to his side. Glass crunched under foot as he rounded the coffee table in a rush and made it to her side. His fingers found her throat, barely felt a thready pulse there.

She couldn’t breathe—he saw that right away. Her lips and face were swollen, eyes closed. Skin was red and irritated—what the hell happened? It looked like a...

Allergic reaction
. Her EpiPen—she needed that. If it wasn’t too late.

Nothing in her coat pockets. He stood straight and scanned the den in a panic—no sign of her purse.

Her purse. On the deck from earlier.

A sudden
boom
sounded, snapping like a firecracker, and Sawyer ducked down flat. Gunshot. He twisted around, flat on the floor, and glanced under the coffee table. Feet in high heels came around the side of the wet bar.

He was trapped.

He breathed deeply, tried to remain calm. Couldn’t see above him—had to pray Bryar didn’t get hit by the shot. Her time was running out. She needed the shot of epinephrine or she wouldn’t make it.

Sawyer shifted enough to get his cell phone from the pocket of his jeans. Steps clicked toward him—if she hadn’t shot yet, she was waiting for him to move so she had a better angle. His hand locked on the cell phone and he pulled it out, switched to speakerphone and thumbed in 911. Dropped the phone, twisted, braced.

“911, do you need an ambulance or police?” came the operator’s voice.

The steps ceased, gun barked again; a bullet knocked through the coffee table inches away on an angle, spitting wood and splintering the floor near his knee. Sawyer braced his palms under the table and lifted it, shoved it in the direction of the woman. The table flew but he wasn’t looking, instead jumping over the couch. He landed hard on his knees, the shock running through his legs.

“Both an ambulance and police,” he shouted, trusting the operator hadn’t hung up yet, and rattled off the address of the beach house as he ducked behind the couch. “My girlfriend went into anaphylactic shock and there’s a woman with a gun here.”

The deck door was open, cool fall air breezing in. He scanned the area, spotted her purse resting under the lounge chair still.

Had to disarm the woman he presumed was The Dragon. Also had to get Bryar’s EpiPen.

Shit.

The gun spoke again and then there was silence, just the classical music playing. Sawyer panted hard, crouched down behind the couch. If he dove for the deck, she’d spot him. If he stayed where he was, she’d walk around and shoot him anyway.

“Sean Sawyer, I presume,” came the smooth, venomous voice of the woman behind him—he couldn’t quite place where she stood, her voice moving breezily through the wide airy space. “That was your phone I just shot, by the way.”

At least the call went through.

Her heels clicked on the wood as she walked, moving more toward his right. “Your girlfriend is running out of time. I think her lips are turning blue—you should see it.”

Bitch was baiting him. At least he had a sense of where she was now. Sawyer inched left along the back of the couch, careful not to let his shoes squeak and to keep his breathing even and silent. Getting out the back door, grabbing the EpiPen, and saving Bryar wasn’t an option until The Dragon was out of the picture.

“As much as I’m enjoying watching Talia die slowly, I
could
just shoot her. And will if you don’t stand up. You’re not getting out of here either way but maybe, just maybe, the ambulance will arrive in time to save
her
if you do.”

Tempting, but he didn’t believe for a second Bryar would leave the house alive even if the ambulance
did
make it soon. This woman wouldn’t allow it.

They shouldn’t have split up. He shouldn’t have left her alone—this was his fault.

Sawyer shoved away the guilt and continued creeping around the couch until he was at the end and able to twist around the back of it. Her steps were still across the room—he didn’t think she knew he’d moved. He eyed the bar. No weapons, at least not in the traditional sense, but there were bottles. Something else he could throw for a distraction.

He crept forward, ducked around the bar. Eased a heavy bottle of wine off the lower shelf and took a deep breath.

Her steps had stopped. “Last chance, Mr. Sawyer.”

No other options—at least he could try.

He bolted up and threw the bottle.

It missed her, cracked against the wall behind her, splashing and throwing broken glass everywhere. She spun, gun pointed toward him, but he’d already reached for another bottle and threw it.

The gun went off just as the bottle struck her shoulder; the bullet went wide, hitting the end of the bar a foot away. He reached again, found a glass, threw it. Then another. Wine and broken glass littered the floor and The Dragon’s face was red—had she been capable of spitting fire, he thought she probably would have.

The gun fired again just as Sawyer ducked down. Plaster from the walls puffed down, slicked the hardwood under him. He grasped a bottle, threw it blindly, and scrambled around the bar again.

To the side of the couch ahead, just feet away, lay the fire poker.

She still had the gun, though, and he didn’t know how many rounds were left—she’d fired several already.

No time to think or worry, he scrambled forward, got the poker in hand, and vaulted over the sofa.

The gun swung toward him.

Her dark, dark eyes were locked on him, anger and murder in their depths.

Sawyer swung the poker. The gun fired.

Pain bloomed in his chest but the hit swung true, cracked against her arm with enough force that the gun dropped.

He lost the grip with his left hand, arm going limp at his side. He tightened his grasp on the handle still, sucked in a painful breath, and swung again. The poker cracked her against the side of the head this time, knocked her to the floor.

He was bleeding. He felt it, the hot blood rolling down his chest, weakening him with every passing second. The adrenaline kept him going, kept him moving—he kicked the gun under the couch, kept the poker raised in case he had to hit again, but the edge had sliced her temple and blood pooled under her head. She didn’t move.

Byrar
.

Sawyer stumbled, forced himself forward. Back around the couch for the open rear door. He found her purse, had to set the poker down to grasp it and empty the contents on the deck. The plastic case fell out and he retrieved the EpiPen from inside.

Please don’t let me be too late
.

He stood straight, started back for the house.

Another bullet flew, shattered the glass inches to his right. He glimpsed her there for just a second, blood painted along the side of her face and silky black hair in disarray around her shoulders.

Sawyer dove again, his knees sliding in his own blood. Shit, how had she retrieved the gun? But a scan of the floor by the couch revealed she hadn’t—she’d had a backup. The shiny barrel of the original one waited there still, just within grasp.

Carefully he set down the EpiPen and lifted the weapon instead.

He’d fired a few times in his life at a gun range for fun. That was it. Close range, he’d hopefully be able to hit her. For a moment he closed his eyes, tried to listen past the painful thrumming of his pulse in his ears, tried to ignore the blood draining from his body that had him growing weaker by the second.

In the distance, sirens sounded. If he ended this now, and got Bryar the shot, she’d probably make it. No time to waste.

The woman’s shoe crunched on glass, giving away her exact location.

Sawyer took a steadying breath as his eyes shot open and then he rose on his knees, right arm extended, struggling to hold the gun straight. He fired twice.

Both bullets struck her torso.

She wavered for a moment, eyes growing wide, the barrel of her gun tipping to the left as strength left her. Her lips parted but no final words escaped. Just blood soaking her clothes, running down her body to strike the floor.

The Dragon crumpled to the floor.

Sawyer panted hard—breathing was growing more difficult. He set the gun on the back of the couch, scooped up the EpiPen. Moved on exhausted legs, got to Bryar’s side and fell to his knees by the couch. His own blood slicked across the EpiPen, made it hard to read the instructions, but eventually he got enough of it that he could slam the needle into her thigh. It clicked, injected, and he held the needle there, watching her face, hoping for some sign she was okay.

The sirens were growing louder but not loud enough for his liking. Sawyer leaned over her, felt her pulse again. Watched the slow rise and fall of her chest. He cupped her cheek.

“Bryar?”

Her lips twitched. Eyelids fluttered but didn’t full open. Hope surged through him—she was okay. She had to be. They’d get there in time.

He slumped down next to her, his own blood painting the couch, and kept a hold of her hand with his right one, palm to palm, determined not to let go.

It felt like both seconds and hours had passed but footsteps on the stairs alerted him to the arrival of EMTs. Sawyer fell back on his heels weakly, kept pointing them to her when they came to see about his gunshot wound. While one man tended to him, he watched the others work, sliding Bryar to a stretcher and taking over getting her breathing normalized. He answered what questions he could and followed them, back upstairs to the back of the ambulance, just one spoken phrase lodging in his head and repeating over and over.