Escape (Last Chance Series, Book 3.5) (9 page)

For a moment she hung suspended from the window box framing, her heart pounding.  Relief making her light headed. 

Cherov
was gone.

And then reality hit hard. 
The sound of the gunshot filling her head.  Seth could be hurt inside.  He could be dead.  And she was stuck out here, her arms already shaking with the effort to hold on.

Using her feet, she tried to find purchase. 
Some way to help her climb back in through the shattered window.  But there were no ledges or pock marks to give her a foothold.  And there was no way she was strong enough to pull herself up using only her arms.

It was just a matter of time.

But then if Seth was gone…  She felt the strength draining from her arms, her fingers going numb.

“Tracy, baby, can you hear me?” 

Seth.

Her heart started racing again.  “I’m here.”   She dared a look up, the effort rewarded by the sight of Seth’s face.  “But I can’t hold on much longer.”

“It’s okay.  I’m here.  I want you to let go of the metal and grab my wrist,” he said, extending a hand through the window. 

She shook her head.  “I’ll pull you down with me.”

“No fucking way,” he replied.  “You might be strong.  But you’re not going to pull me down.  Besides, we have some things to settle between us.  And I’d just as soon not deal with them hanging out a window.  So grab my hand.”  He stretched so that his arm was closer now.  “Don’t think about it.  Just do it.”

For one second she wasn’t sure she had the courage, but then she saw the love reflected in his eyes, and knew that for this man—she could do anything.  Gripping as tightly as she could with her left hand, she reached for him with her right, her fingers closing around his wrist. 

“Okay, baby, I’ve got you.” His other hand closed around her fingers.  “On my count I want you to let go.  No hesitation.  All right?”

She nodded, her left arm starting to go numb, as well as her fingers.

“One,” Seth called, “two…THREE.”

Tracy let go and Seth jerked her upward, the two of them tumbling back
into  her apartment.  Broken glass dug into her hip and back, but she didn’t give a damn.  All that mattered was that she was here.  Alive.  With Seth.

He pulled her into his arms, cradling her against him, his breath hot against her hair.  “Oh my God, Tracy, I thought I’d lost you.  What the hell were you thinking?”

“Cherov was going to kill you,” she said, the sound of his heart beating beneath her ear the most beautiful thing she’d ever heard.  “I couldn’t let that happen.  If I lost you, I don’t know…” she trailed off, emotion threatening to swamp her.

Seth lifted her chin with a gentle finger.  “I’m right here, Tracy.  And I’m not going anywhere.  I promise.  Whatever kind of relationship you want—
that’s what we’ll have.  I just know I can’t live without you.”

“I want you, Seth.  For always and ever.”   She opened her mouth to tell him that she’d marry him.  That she’d shout it from the rooftops if
that’s what he needed.  But Seth clearly had other ideas, lowering his head as his lips took possession of hers.

There’d be time for talking later.

Much later.

******

Three weeks later

The lights of Manhattan glittered through the newly installed window in Tracy’s apartment.  It was almost as if nothing had ever happened.  And yet in one night Tracy had almost lost everything.  But fate had been kind, and instead she’d been given a gift. The chance to build a life with Seth.  And the wisdom to recognize how wonderful that was.

And tonight, all of her friends were here to celebrate their joy.  Across the room, Seth was talking with Gabe, Peyton and Nigel—the three original members of Last Chance.  Along with Madison and Harrison, of course.  The two of them, along with Hannah, were huddled in the corner, sipping beer, while Madison showed them the latest pictures of her children.  

Sam, Peyton’s wife, and also a member of Last Chance was explaining something to Melissa, who was absently rubbing her very pregnant belly.  It was her and Nigel’s first child.  And the two of them were over the moon.

Tracy smiled at the assembled company.   She was a lucky woman.  The horrors of the night in the lab were behind her.  And the future was full of promise. 
Cherov’s body had been found shattered on the sidewalk below her building.  And both Henry and Marshall were dead.  The microchip had been turned over to the government and although they’d been unable to connect the dots between Cherov and the defense contractor’s owner, the FBI was still working on it.  

There’d been less success in finding the buyer who’d hired Marshall and Henry, but the investigation was still open.  And there’d even been talk of Last Chance taking up the hunt.  Of course only if there weren’t more important cases to deal with.

“You okay?” Seth asked, slipping an arm around her as he handed her a glass of champagne.  “The engagement party isn’t too much?  I told Madison I wasn’t sure you’d be up for it.”

Tracy smiled up at her husband to be, wondering what in the world had ever made her think she could live without him.  “It’s perfect.  I was just soaking it all in.”  She leaned back against him, loving the feel of his arms as they circled around her waist.  “Having everyone here together is just so wonderful.  But I’ll be honest,” she tipped her head back, her gaze meeting his, “there’s a part of me that can’t wait for them to go because that will mean it’s just the two of us and then…”

“Hold that thought,” Cullen Pulaski, Last Chance’s leader, said as he strode into the room, winking at Tracy as he passed.  “I’ve got news.  Sorry I’m late,” he shrugged apologetically in Tracy and Seth’s direction,  “but I’ve been in a meeting with the President.”

“Don’t tell me,” Peyton said, “there’s a crisis and the President needs us to turn it around.”

“I’m afraid so,” Cullen replied, not looking the slightest bit sorry.  “One of the Mexican drug cartels has just taken a congressman and his family hostage…”

Tracy sighed as Seth’s arms tightened around her. 

It never ended.

She leaned into his embrace with a wry smile.  “Welcome to Last Chance.”

Turn the page for an exciting

look
at the first book in the

Last Chance
series!

ENDGAME

New York City

Interrogation rooms ranked only slightly above gas station restrooms in the stench and cleanliness department.  Which was too bad, considering the amount of time Madison Harper spent in them.  Sucking in a final breath of semi-clean air, she opened the door and walked into the room, immediately commanding the attention of the detective in the corner and the perp at the table.

The latter looked to be at odds with his surroundings, although he was showing some signs of wear and tear.  His white button down was starting to wilt, and the creases in his khaki’s weren’t as pristine as they’d once been.   With a little luck, she’d soon be responsible for adding some sweat to the ensemble.

With a subtle nod at the detective, she lifted the bag she held onto the table, making a play of pulling out a blood-spattered pipe.  Still without breaking the silence, she carefully laid the pipe on a battered bookshelf, and then, just as carefully, turned her back on it.

“Mr. Jackson.”  She held her hand out to the man at the table, ignoring the flash of surprise in the detective’s eyes.  It was always the same. 
Derision, surprise, skepticism, and then ultimately resentful admiration.  Profiler’s lot in life. 

“Who the hell are you?”  Paul Jackson glared up at her through bloodshot eyes.  She waited a beat, and then another, delighted to see him shooting a sideways glance at the pipe. 
So far so good.

“My name is Madison Harper.”  They shook hands as if they were at a business meeting, and then she sat across from him at the table.  Detective Barton shifted, leaning back against the
window sill, eyes narrowed, arms crossed. 

Skepticism.

Madison bit back a smile.

“You another detective?”  Jackson was studying her now, trying to figure out who the hell she was, and more importantly if he could use her to his advantage.  It was there in the tilt of his head, and the twist of his brows. 

“No.”  She shook her head, pulling a stack of files out of the case and dropping them on the table.  “FBI.  We’ve been working with the police.   Trying to solve Connie Weston’s murder.”  

Murder was in fact a kind word for the act.  A vivacious fifth grader, Connie had disappeared on a walk to the corner grocery, only to be discovered dead in an abandoned warehouse five days later.  The child had been raped, sodomized, and then beaten in the head with the pipe on the bookshelf.   There were no
finger prints, and no trace elements to tie Jackson to the murder, but Madison was nevertheless certain of his guilt. 

The trick was to get him to admit as much.

“I already told Barney Fife there,” Jackson inclined his head toward Barton, but his gaze was back on the pipe, “I didn’t do it.”

Barton shifted again, looking a lot like he wanted to tear into Jackson, but he had his orders, and to his credit, despite his obvious disapproval he didn’t attempt to interfere.  They’d been round and round their approach, and only when his lieutenant had insisted had Barton agreed to play it her way.  But apparently he lived by his word.

“Maybe not on purpose,” she said, noting that Jackson had indeed started to sweat, his hands clenched in an attempt to hold onto control. 

Jackson worked for the local cable company and had been in the area the day Connie disappeared.   He was newly divorced, and recently discharged from the army.  His sheet included, a suspected rape and a couple of arson charges from his youth. And he’d been the primary suspect in a New Jersey rape a couple of years back.  A hooker named Belinda Markham.

Until today he’d been the picture of helpful, cocky and confident.   Even volunteered to take a lie detector test.  He was definitely the kind of man who could have approached Connie without scaring her.  The vivacious eleven-year old would never have seen it coming.  Not when she was so close to home.  Even in New York there was a comfort zone.

“We know you did it, you sick bastard.  Just tell us how.”   Barton evidently had lost whatever willpower he’d summoned, and he stepped menacingly toward Jackson, his face twisted in anger.

Jackson immediately regained some of his former bravado, glaring up at the detective through narrowed eyes.  “I didn’t do nothing.”

Madison swallowed a rebuke, settling instead for a visual one, and then smiled at Jackson, reaching out to touch his hand, her skin crawling with the action, her body held in tight control so that her revulsion was not apparent.  “We’re not blaming you, Paul.   I’ve seen the pictures.”   She made a play of pulling them out of an envelope.  

She let her gaze sweep over the tiny form clad only in the plaid skirt from her school uniform, keeping focus instead on Jackson, who was staring at the photograph with something akin to a hypnotic trance.  It was as if he simply couldn’t pull his eyes away.

“The man who killed her obviously felt remorse, Paul.  See how he laid her jacket over her face.  It’s a protective move.  Meant to shield her from harm.  Whoever did this obviously had a heart.”

She swallowed the bile rising in her throat, and looked up to meet Detective Barton’s eyes.  His skepticism was fading. 

“She was a pretty little girl.”  Jackson’s voice was soft now, all traces of contentiousness gone.  “Really sweet.”

Madison grabbed onto the adjective.   To call someone sweet you had to know them.  Or at least have met them.  She felt a flash of triumph, she was getting close.  “Not so sweet, surely?”  She looked up to meet Jackson’s eyes, only to find he was again staring at the pipe, his breathing uneven.

“I mean girls that age --they don’t know what they’ve got do they?”   She waited a moment making sure she had his full attention.  “Wearing their skirts so short.  Their legs all tanned and
bare.   They hardly leave anything to the imagination.  And girls like that hardly ever wear bras.  It’s enough to drive a man crazy, isn’t it.”

Jackson nodded slightly, his gaze now alternating between the pipe and the photograph.  There were circles of sweat under his arms now, and beads of it on his forehead.  With a slight nod, Madison indicated that it was time for the final act.

Barton pushed off of the window sill and walked over to pull out the chair beside Jackson.  “Did you know that when a person is bludgeoned to death, like Connie here,” he poked a finger at the photograph, “ blood flies everywhere?”

Unconsciously, Jackson looked down at his hands. 

“All we have to do, Paul, is test you for trace.”  It was far to late for that, but the man had no way of knowing, besides he’d turned the corner, found his out.   He’d never meant to kill Connie.  He’d only wanted to seduce her.  In his mind, her friendlessness equated with wanting him.  It was only afterward, when he realized the reality was nothing like the fantasy --that Connie was frightened and hurt -- that he knew he had to kill her.   To cover up what he’d done.