Perfect Victim, The (52 page)

Terror pounded through her as the two men drew sleek, black weapons from beneath their coats.

"Randall!" Her scream pierced the air. Oblivious to the danger, she lunged toward him.

It was as though she were moving in slow motion. She watched as Randall swung around to face the two men. His right hand moved to his weapon. She saw fear on his face, realization in his eyes as the muzzles rose, leveled.

His eyes met hers. "Run!" he shouted.

The blast deafened her. She screamed his name, then watched in shock as the concussion sent him reeling back.

"No!" Denial ripped through her. Screaming his name, she lunged toward him, knowing what she'd just witnessed couldn't be happening. God wouldn't do that to her. He wouldn't take another loved one.

A second blast rocked her brain. She looked up to see Clint fall. Blood spattered the wall behind him.

Nausea crashed through her. Her legs buckled. She fell to her hands and knees, the cell phone clattering away. A few feet away Randall lay twisted and motionless. "Randall!" Panic sent her crawling toward his prone form. She had to see him. Had to touch him. Had to know he was alive.

Shoving a chair out of the way, she crawled toward him. The floor around her was slippery with blood. For all she knew it could have been her own. It was on her hands, like warm syrup, sticky between her fingers, soaking into her clothing.

An instant before she reached him, two strong hands clamped around her shoulders and pulled her to her feet. "No!"

Pain seared through her right shoulder. Enraged, she twisted and lashed out with her feet. An instant later, the realization that she'd been injected slammed into her. A minute to react, she thought. She had to reach Randall. God, she didn't want to die alone.

She struggled, but the hands dragged her toward the front door. She was aware of the stunning silence around her,
punctuated by the sound of her boots scraping across the floor
.
In the darkness, someone sobbed. A telephone rang in another room. Sirens howled in the distance.

The police, she thought vaguely. She tried to free herself from the man
'
s grip, but her body
,
had gone numb
.
Her mind waned
;
thoughts floated in and out
.
By the time they dragged her outside, she was unable to feel the cold.

Chapter 23

He struggled toward the light. The darkness terrified him. Darkness was death. He knew death intimately. He'd seen it. Smelled it. Feared it. He didn't want to die.

The pain was blinding in its intensity. As if someone had taken a shovel to his chest and shattered his sternum. He was aware of noise around him. The keening of sirens. Unintelligible shouting. A man barking out commands. Someone touched his chest. Something smooth and hard cupped his face. Oxygen. He tried to draw a breath. Pain clenched his chest like a steel trap.

The memory of what had happened rushed back. He remembered the gunmen. Shotguns. Blasts so close they'd left him temporarily deaf.

His heart stopped when he thought of Addison.

He opened his eyes, struggled to sit up. Pain ripped through him, sending him back down. He shoved the oxygen cup aside. "Addison!"

"Easy, buddy. Take it easy."

Randall focused on the young woman kneeling over him.
She was
wearing a navy jacket and rubber exam gloves
.
A paramedic, he realized. Firmly, she replaced the oxygen cup over his nose and mouth
.
"This will
help you breathe
,
" she said.

"Where is she?" He shoved the cup away from his face.

"Shhh, don't try to talk
.
I'm a paramedic. I'm going to stabilize you, then we're going to transport you to the hospital. Just try to relax, okay?" She gave him an everything's peachy smile and slipped the cup over his face
.
"Now
,
take a few easy breaths for me, not too deep
.
"

Fighting a rising tide of panic
,
Randall did as he was told, mentally tallying his injuries
.
At best, his ribs were broken.

Maybe a collapsed lung
.
Christ, he was in bad shape. If it hadn
'
t been for the vest .
.
.

The paramedic reached for his wrist and began taking his pulse.

With his free hand, he ripped the cup from his face
.
"Where the hell is she?" His voice sounded desperate and weak. "The woman who was with me
—
is she here? Is she hurt?"

Before she could answer
,
a man approached and gazed down at him
.
"How is he?" he asked the paramedic.

"No external trauma. Kevlar vest protected him from the bullet
.
He's probably got a few broken ribs. We'll need to take X rays."

The man's eyebrows rose. "Body armor, huh?" He shot a hard look at Randall. "Expecting a shoot-out, cowboy?"

"You a cop?
"

"Detective Murphy, Georgetown PD
.
What happened here?"

Randall struggled to a sitting position, closing his eyes against the dizziness
.
Swallowing panic, feeling the seconds ticking away, he recounted the shooting, ending with a recommendation that Murphy contact Van-Dyne in Denver
.
He knew if the police detained him for questioning he could be tied up for hours. He couldn't let that happen
.
His only concern was for Addison.

"I'm a private detective," he said. "My I.D.'s in my wallet." Wincing with pain, he reached into the rear pocket of his jeans, and passed the wallet to the detective. "There was a woman with me. Where is she?"

The detective studied his identification. "Bartender says the two men forced her into a car."

Randall felt the words like a physical blow. "I've got to find her. Jesus Christ."

"Easy, partner."

"They'll kill her."

"Who?"

"I don't know ... hired thugs."

"Give me a description."

"Two men. Black face masks, long coats. They were packing sawed-off shotguns."

The detective's eyes sharpened. "You're making this sound like some kind of a professional job."

Randall knew better than to name names. No one would believe him, and he would risk turning the event into a media feeding frenzy. Van-Dyne could take care of the details. Right now, his single priority was to find Addison.

He wanted to trust the detective. He wanted to tell him everything; he desperately needed help. But there was no time. If he was detained for questioning, it would be hours before they released him. Addison didn't have that kind of time. "That's all I know."

"Your friend's in bad shape." Murphy frowned. "You're not helping matters by clamming up."

Randall watched two paramedics frantically working on Clint. Blood glistened on their gloves.
Don't die, you bastard
, he thought bitterly. Clint was his only link to Tate. As far as Randall was concerned, the man had been served his just reward. He only hoped the son of a bitch lived long enough to talk.

Grinding his teeth against the ice-pick jabs of pain, Randall struggled to his feet. The room tilted. Nausea roiled in his gut. He clutched the table and leaned heavily against it.
Spotting Clint
'
s
.
cell phone a few feet away, he bent and picked it up.

Two paramedics rolled a gurney into the restaurant and parked it beside Clint's form. A third bagged oxygen. They lifted Clint on a count of three and laid him on the gurney.

Randall watched, sweating, nauseous, and waited for his senses to return. "Any idea where they took her?"

"No."

"What about the vehicle?"

"We don't know yet
.
" The detective gave Rand
a
ll a sage look
.
"I
'
d like for you to come downtown with me, Mr. Talbot. I need a statement, and I'd like for you to answer a few more questions."

Panic swirled in his gut
.
"
I'm in a lot of pain
.
I think I
'
ve got some broken ribs
.
Maybe a collapsed lung. I need to go to the hospital first, get myself checked out
.
"

"I'd be happy to drive you over to Columbia afterward. A statement shouldn't hold you up but an hour or so
.
"

.
As if on cue, the young
.
paramedic strode up to them, clutching a medical case at her side
.
Despite her age, she managed to look official in her navy jacket and severe-fitting trousers
.
She looked at Randall.
"
I'm required to ask you if you'd like medical aid or if you're refusing."

"I'd like to be transpo
r
ted to the hospital," he said.
"
With my friend there
.
" He looked at Clint
.

"You family?" she asked
.

"I'm all he's got." Randall felt the detective
'
s eyes on him as he he
a
ded for the front door
.

"We'll send someone over to the hospital for a statement, Talbot," Murphy shouted.

Randall had already forgotten Detective Murphy by the time he climbed into the ambulance.

Sound drifted in and out of her consciousness like a lazy, meandering tide
.
The rhythmic thud of her heart
beat. The ticking of a clock somewhere nearby. An occasional creak.

She was lying on her side with her knees drawn up to her chest. Softness cradled her body. The air around her was too cool for comfort and held the distinct smell of dampness. Her mouth felt gritty and dry, as though someone had filled it with sand, then hastily emptied it. A gentle throbbing emanated from the base of her skull.