Charles’s face became florid and his breathing hitched. “No. You can’t have him.”
Stay with me, Susannah. “It’s too late, Ray Kraemer. I have him already. Paul is mine. You have nothing left.” And on the last word Susannah kicked Charles hard on his left leg, sending them both to the floor. Charles landed on the backpack, the sharp corners of the box he carried knocking the breath from his lungs. Susannah took the advantage, thrashing and clawing like a trapped cat.
The moment she broke free, Luke lunged, grabbing Charles’s wrist with both hands, his elbow digging into Charles’s throat. But the old man was much stronger than he appeared. Luke’s arms burned from the struggle until he heard a snap of Charles’s wrist bone and a hoarse cry. Charles’s hand released the gun and, fueled by adrenaline and rage, Luke sat on his chest, clutching the old man by the throat.
“Fucking sonofabitch,” Luke snarled. His hands tightened, shaking Charles until he gasped for breath. Luke bore down, feeling the give of throat cartilage. Kill him. He drew back his fist, then froze. The old man was incapacitated. Injured. Unarmed. Kill him. Luke could hear the words in his mind, a primal chant that throbbed through every inch of his body. Kill him. Kill him with your bare hands. Kill him for Susannah. For Monica and Angel and Alicia Tremaine and every other victim.
Wait. The small voice in his mind was soft, but firm. This is not the man you are. Yes, it was. But it wasn’t the man Luke wanted to be. Disgusted both with Charles and with his own still, small voice, Luke grabbed Charles by the lapels, hauled him into a sitting position, and leaned in close. “I hope some prison con kills you like the dog you are.”
Charles’s mouth curved as a searing pain ripped through Luke’s biceps and too late he saw the short blade in Charles’s other hand. Sonofabitch.
“You’re the coward, not me. Never me. You’re weak,” Charles grunted, twisting, going for the gun with his unbroken hand. “Weak,” he repeated, and clumsily Luke grabbed at him, abruptly halting at the sickening sound of crushing bone.
Charles flew back, his head striking the carpet so hard it bounced. His body went still, his mouth wide open. Stunned, Luke looked up. Susannah stood over him, Charles’s walking stick clutched in her hands like a baseball bat. Her eyes were wild, turbulent, as she stared down at the man, who with so many others, had ruined her life.
“I’m not weak,” she said. “Not anymore. Not ever again.”
Luke grasped her wrist gently, tugging until she met his eyes. “You never were weak, Susannah. Never. You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever known.”
Her shoulders sagged, her breathing strident. “Did I kill him? Please say I did.”
Luke pressed his fingers to Charles’s throat. “Yeah, honey. I think you did.”
“Good,” she said fiercely. She let the stick fall. For a moment they simply stared at each other, catching their breath. Then a voice called from the back of the house.
“Hello? Anybody here?” It was Chase.
Luke blew out a relieved breath and rose, his sliced arm burning like hell and bleeding sullenly. Luckily Charles hadn’t hit anything vital. “Back here, Chase.” With his good arm, he brought Susannah close, burying his face in her hair. “It’s done.”
She nodded against his chest. “You’re hurt.”
“I’ll live.”
She lifted her face, her lips curving in a trembling smile. “Good.”
He smiled back. “You could do some first aid, though. Rip off your blouse to make me a bandage, something like that.”
Her smile finally reached her eyes. “I think the medics have regulation bandages. But I’ll keep the blouse request in mind for later.”
“Oh my God.” Chase stopped in the doorway, shock on his face. “What happened here?”
“What? What happened?” Another man pushed past Chase, and Luke opened his mouth in warning, but caught Chase’s warning stare.
“This is Officer Houston,” Chase said soberly. “He’s searching for a suspect he tracked here. Of course we offered support. Houston, is this your man?”
Houston was stumbling forward, horrified. “No.”
“It’s not your man?” Chase asked carefully.
Houston fell to his knees next to Charles’s body. “Oh God. Oh no.” He looked up, the rage and fear in his eyes focused completely on Susannah. “You. You killed him.”
The remaining color drained from her face. “You. You raped me.” She looked at Luke, then Chase in confusion. “It’s him. Do something. Arrest him.”
“You killed him.” Houston lunged to his feet, reaching for Susannah. “You bitch.”
Chase was on him, suddenly joined by four agents. Quickly subdued, Houston still struggled, now sobbing. “You killed him. You bitch. He was mine. Mine. Mine.”
“Well, now he’s dead, dead, dead,” Susannah said with contempt.
“Take him,” Chase said. “Don’t forget to read him his rights.” Shoulders sagging, he turned to Susannah. “I’m so sorry. We had to link him with Charles or all we might have had would have been accounts from the criminals he was blackmailing. IA wanted him red-handed so we let him come here, hoping we could catch the two of them together.”
“Susannah hit Charles after he tried to grab the gun,” Luke said. “Self-defense.”
“I know,” Chase said and pulled an earbud from his ear. “Pete reported the whole thing.” He pointed to the window. Pete stood outside, glaring as Houston was dragged away. “Pete saw Charles drag you in here. He mobilized the GBI backup, including a sniper who had Charles in his sights almost the whole time. We were just waiting for a clean shot.” He noticed Luke’s arm and the bloody knife on the carpet. “You’re cut.”
“A scratch.” It was a lie, but he was more worried about Susannah. “How are you?”
“I’m okay,” she said, which was also a lie. She was pale but alert as she examined the walking stick. “The top comes off.” She worked it free, then sucked in a breath. Inside was a swastika brand, the same size she wore on her hip. “He was there that night.” She looked at Charles’s backpack. “I want to see what’s inside. I need to know.”
“And you will know,” Chase said. “As soon as the crime lab is done with the scene, the ME is done with the bodies, we take statements, and you both get checked out at the ER. And don’t even consider arguing with me. I knew Grant had a gun to your head, but I had to pretend nothing was happening to keep Houston off guard.” And the haggard exhaustion in his eyes was testament to how hard that had been.
“I’m sorry, Chase,” she said. “You’re right. Luke needs medical attention first. I’ve waited thirteen years to understand. I can wait a few hours more.”
Atlanta , Monday, February 5, 5:30 p.m.
“Knock, knock,” Susannah said, and Monica Cassidy looked up, smiling.
“Mom, look.”
Mrs. Cassidy stood, considerably more relaxed than the last time they’d seen her. “Susannah, Agent Papadopoulos, come in. What happened to you two?”
Luke’s arm was in a sling after receiving twenty stitches to what he’d called “just a scratch.” Susannah had a black eye and a broken rib, courtesy of her fight with Bobby.
“We tangled with the bad guys,” Susannah said lightly.
Monica’s eyes went wary. “And?”
Susannah sobered. “We kicked their sorry asses.”