Nameless (38 page)
McBride set the blade to his right wrist, watched as Fincher’s attention settled there. Then he made his move.
McBride swung his leg hard and wide, swept the man’s feet from under him. Fincher hit the ground like a rock. The weapon flew across the grass.
Holding his cigarette tight between his teeth, McBride scrambled on top of Fincher. He was stronger than McBride had expected, or maybe he was just weak. They rolled, and it was all McBride could do to keep him pinned down. He jammed the fiery end of the Marlboro into Fincher’s cheek. Fincher screamed.
McBride reached for the weapon with his free hand but he couldn’t hold on to it with the damaged one. He released Fincher and grabbed the weapon with his right hand.
Fincher clutched at the weapon. McBride couldn’t draw it away fast enough. They struggled. The weapon fired. McBride felt the hot lead sear through his flesh.
He couldn’t let this bastard go free. He fought harder. Got his fingers back around the weapon. Fired once. Twice.
Surprise claimed Fincher’s expression. He touched his abdomen where a hole leaked red, but it was the one in the center of his chest that would kill his sorry ass.
Fincher’s gaze connected with McBride’s one last time then he collapsed across his son’s grave.
McBride shook his head to clear his vision. He was dizzy and weak from the booze and blood loss. Damn He’d cut deeper than he meant to. The bullet had ent. his gut. Couldn’t tell if it was bad. Plenty of blood. Not much pain.
Had to stop the blood pouring from his wrist. He toed off one shoe and yanked loose a sock. He wrapped it around his wrist, had to use his teeth to help pull it tight.
He was cold. He shivered.
Nothing he could do about the gut wound. His movements stilted and shaky, he crawled on his elbows and knees to where Fincher’s cell phone lay in the grass. He collapsed on the ground, managed to get it open, and then tried to focus on the keypad. His hands shook and his vision blurred. He pushed what he thought was the right numbers, but darkness …
Darkness closed in on him.
“What is the nature of your emergency?”
The voice dragged him back. “Elmwood Cemetery,” he muttered. “Send paramedics and FBI. Agent down …” The world was spinning hard. He had to close his eyes.
His face flattened into the wet grass and he pictured Grace.
As long as she was safe, he had done this right.
He’d been looking for an excuse to die for about three years now. His eyes slowly closed. Looked like he’d finally found it.
Just when he’d discovered a reason to live.
Grace.
2:30 A.M.
U-Store-It, Downtown Birmingham
A camera?
Vivian tried to reach it but she couldn’t.
Fincher was watching.
Bastard.
She glared at the camera, considered flipping him off but that wouldn’t do any good.
It was hard to tell how long she had been in here.
The piece of shit in the unit next to her started talking again. He’d been going on and on for what felt like hours.
“Vivian,” he called. “Talk to me, please.”
She shuddered. She could only assume that Fincher had plans for her that involved …
him
.
Closing her eyes, she blocked the sound of his voice. Images from seven years ago whirled in her head. She tried her best to block them. Stay strong. Focused. She had to find a way out of here.
A pop or break outside jerked her attention forward.
What the hell was that?
She moved to the door. The sound had come from that direction. That the bastard next door had gone silent told her he had heard it too. No footsteps outside. No voices. Nothing.
Reaching down, she pulled at her door, just to see if anything had changed. Wouldn’t budge.
Dammit.
A metal-against-metal grind brushed her senses. Her heart launched into her throat.
A door was opening.
Close by.
Very close.
Her gaze settled on the wall between her and
him
.
His door.
She put one foot behind the other and started backing up.
Footsteps.
At her door.
Fear exploded in her veins.
Metal rattled against metal.
The lock?
Her lock.
The grinding sound told her brain her door was moving upward before the visual image registered.
Her.
Door.
Opened.
The letters written in black across his forehead stole her attention for one second.
Nameless.
Terror ignited in her veins.
“That’s why he picked you,” he said in that soft whisper she remembered too well. “The lips. Such beautiful lips.”
He charged her.
She sidestepped at the absolute last second.
His shoulder slammed into hers, setting him off balance.
She rammed the heel of her hand into his chin at the exact instant that she launched her knee into his balls.
Too late.
His fingers gripped her throat.
They hit the floor. He howled in agony from her blows, his fingers tightening with the pulse of his pain cutting off her airway.
She kicked. Punched at his throat. Stabbed at his eyes.
She would not be a compliant victim again.
He pinned her on her back. Straddled her waist.
She banged at his trunk. Snatched at his balls. Bucked her hips.
“Oooh … that feels good,” he said.
She couldn’t breathe but she didn’t stop clawing for a vulnerable spot.
“First,” he taunted, “I want a bite of those lips.”
He leaned down, swiped his vile tongue around his lips. Then bared his teeth and leaned closer still.
She snapped her head up, banged forehead to forehead with all her might. Spots formed before her eyes. Her head pounded.
“Bitch!” One hand loosened from her neck as he reached for his forehead.
She gasped for air. Reared her hand back and jammed her fingers into his throat.
He gurgled.
Vivian struggled to throw him off but he was too heavy.
“Have it your way then,” he screamed. “I’ll kill you first!”
His demented eyes locked with hers. “I’ve waited a long time, Number Thirteen.”
His hands clamped around her throat.
An explosion filled the room.
He froze … fingers loosened as he stared down at his chest.
Blood leaked from a round hole there … the crimson color soaking into his pale blue shirt.
He slumped forward.
Vivian shoved him off her and scrambled away.
People were suddenly all around her. Cops. Para medics. Pierce. Pratt. Schaffer and her yellow boots.
Pierce helped Vivian to her feet.
She looked around, then at Pierce. “Where’s McBride?”
He didn’t have to answer.
She knew from the resignation in his eyes.
Fincher had gotten to McBride.
And he’d used her as bait.
10:30 A.M.
UAB Hospital
McBride’s eyes opened slowly. He licked his dry lips. Hadn’t felt like this since that first week-long post-FBI drinking binge.
He tried to raise his arm to wipe his mouth. Pain shot up his forearm.
“Don’t move.”
He turned slightly to the right. “Grace?”
“You almost got yourself killed going off on your own like that,” she fussed. “Too many stitches to count in your wrist and major surgery to remove the bullet and your appendix since the slug lodged there.” She exhaled a weary breath. “But you’re alive.”
He inventoried various aches and pains and the damned hellacious fog in his head. “You sure?”
“You scared me.” Her big dark eyes glittered. “I could kick your ass for that, McBride.”
“I’ll hold you to it,” he said with the best lecherous grin he could produce under the circumstances. His grin slipped into a frown. “What about … Nameless?”
“He’s dead.” She gave him a knowing look. “All of him this time. He and the other one were accomplice killers. They’d been friends since grade school.”
McBride’s confusion deepened. “How’d you get all that?”
“This guy had their real names tattooed on his chest right above his heart. We’re hoping that information might help solve any other murders they might have committed by giving us a starting point.”
McBride wished his throat wasn’t so dry. “I’m glad that’s over for you.” He searched her face. “He didn’t hurt you?”
She shook her head. “I beat the hell out of him before Pierce shot him.”
Pierce. Oh yeah. The anesthesia had almost succeeded in helping McBride to forget about him, but he was damned proud of Grace handling herself so well.
Grace sighed, fiddled with the edge of the sheet. “I’m not sure what to do now. Pierce offered me a position at Quantico.”
Yeah, McBride would just bet he had. “I hope you told him no.” He hadn’t exactly meant for the statement to come out so forcefully. He was damned surprised he had the strength.
“I did. My parents like it that I’m here. I’m beginning to fit in with the others.” She shrugged. “I guess I should stay. There’s room for advancement here too.”
“Good.” He tried to moisten his lips again. It wasn’t working too well.
“Here.” She reached for the cup and straw on the table next to his bed. “You can have water now.” She touched the straw to his lips and he drew in a much-needed drink.
“What about you?” She set the cup aside. “You heading back to the Keys as soon as they release you?”
He wondered if that was hope in her eyes. She wouldn’t hold his gaze long enough for him to see. Sure sounded like it in her voice.
“Depends.”
Her gaze slid back to his. “On what?”
“On you,” he confessed.
“Does that mean if I ask you to say,” she ventured noncommittally, “that you will?”
“I’m certain I could be convinced.”
She kissed his lips, smiled timidly, and murmured, “Will you stay?”
“You’d be getting a shitload of baggage,” he reminded her.
“I have baggage too,” she reminded him.
“I do like my sex kinky,” he added.
“I think I can handle that,” she tossed back.
“I guess the answer is yes, then. I’ll stay.”
“Just so you know,” she began, “there’s an offer on the table from the director for full, permanent reinstatement, if you’re interested.”
“The offer’s flattering, Grace, but I’m not so sure I want that.”
“Whatever you do, it doesn’t matter.” She gently swept the hair back from his brow. “As long as you’re with me, the rest will fall into place.”
She was right.
Her. Him. Together. The rest was just bullshit anyway.
“Have you ever had sex in a hospital bed, Grace?”
She laughed, then kissed him and whispered, “When you’re well enough, we’ll have sex anywhere you want. Within reason,” she qualified.
McBride grunted. “Finally, a reason to wake up every morning.”
The Federal Bureau of Investigation has one mission, only one: to protect. We often don’t appreciate all that the FBI does to that end. Our only insight is what we see and hear in the media. Far too often we take for granted the sacrifice that the men and women in law enforcement and the military make. I wanted to take this opportunity to thank those men and women for protecting what we hold dear. Every single American is indebted to every single one of you for carrying out your mission every single day despite the personal cost.
There are people in my life who allow me the privilege of doing what I love: writing my stories. I would like to thank my family and friends for their endless support. I simply could not do this without all of you. In particular I need to thank Vicki Hinze for her amazing and twisted mind. Mike Cooper for being the coolest friend and attorney on the planet. Candice Thies for being a wonderful friend and a superwoman CPA. CJ Lyons and Kim Howe for their encouragement and friendship. I love all you guys!
Special thanks to all the folks at St. Martin’s Press, particularly Jennifer Weis, Matthew Shear, and Hilary Teeman, for their support and encouragement. Jennifer, Hilary, and my super fantastic agent, Stephanie Rostan, help me make these stories the best they can be. Thank you. This is what I love and I feel honored to work with all of you.
Also by Debra Webb
TRACELESS
Available from St. Martin’s Paperbacks
“Skillfully managing a big cast, Webb keeps the suspense teasingly taut, dropping clues and red herrings one after another on her way to a chilling conclusion.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Traceless
is a riveting entanglement of intrigue, secrets, and passions that had me racing to its breathless end. I loved this book!”
—Karen Rose,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Count to Ten
“Traceless
is a well-crafted and engrossing thriller. Debra Webb has crafted a fine, twisting thriller to be savored and enjoyed.”
—Heather Graham,
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Island
Keep reading for a sneak peek at Debra Webb’s next novel
Coming in August 2008 from St. Martin’s Paperbacks
CHAPTER ONE
Numbers 32:23—Be sure that your sins will find you out …
Sunday, September 5th, 9:40 p.m.
Mountain Brook, Alabama
She clicked off the flashlight, then froze.
Didn’t dare move.
Didn’t even breathe.
She listened intently beyond the frantic pounding in her chest and the roar of blood in her ears. She’d heard something. Anticipation fired through her veins.