A/N: So, I'm posting this faster than I was planning to because of all of the "encouragement" I received. Thanks! And I promise, this is the last cliffhanger. But you know what they say about that last step…
Disclaimer and acknowledgments are in the Prologue.
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Dina watched warily as Tuttle took a step towards her, his unveiled threat of a moment ago lingering in the air. That explained the gloves the men were wearing, the reason Brock had traded pistols so that hers was the one he was holding against Don's head, and the reason her fugitive had been abducted and hauled down here in the first place: Tuttle was trying to stage a murder-suicide to get the both of them out of the way and eliminate all suspicion as to how and why.
Her mind racing, she stepped to the side so the chair that she'd shot out of a moment ago was no longer behind her. Not that there was anywhere to go, but she wanted the freedom of movement if and when she got the opportunity. As freely as you can move with your hands tied in front of you, she reminded herself. And a devil of a headache from getting conked out.
"I didn't think you liked to get your hands dirty," Don spat at Tuttle as he came closer to her. "I guess that's what getting desperate will do for you."
"Well, at some point, the most efficient way of getting a job done is to do it yourself." He regarded Don for a moment. "Besides, this way I can watch the life go out of your eyes."
The calm, flat tone in which he delivered that statement sent chills down Dina's spine. He might have been discussing an acquisition of a company or a stock market deal, not murder. Reeves, you were right. Grade A sociopath, all the way.
She saw sudden, sharp fear on Don's face for an instant before his features became a blank mask once again.
Tuttle pulled a length of fabric out of his pocket and stretched it taut between his hands. She suddenly realized what it was and felt her heart leap into her throat. "Did you know, Mr. Eppes, that Agent Javier had an unfortunate run-in with a serial killer early in her career? It seems she narrowly avoided being one of his victims." He held up both ends of the scarf and regarded her with his pale blue eyes as he came closer. She stared at him, willing herself to stay in control, although she could feel her breathing coming faster and her heart beginning to pound. She took a step back, but Tuttle moved suddenly, grabbing the plastic tie around her wrists with his left hand and pulling her in front of him. "He strangled young women," Tuttle was saying, the words directed at Eppes. "Wrapped one of their own scarves around their necks and crushed the life out of them."
She saw Don's eyes widen, and his upper body jerked forward as if he was trying to get away. But Brock held him firmly, the Glock unrelentingly jammed against his head. And then at the first brush of the scarf against her neck, her eyes slammed shut. She knew that her fear was exactly the reaction that Tuttle wanted, but she couldn't help the shudder that passed over her as he wound the material around her neck, completely encircling it. Her fists clenched, but the tight grip around her wrists meant that she couldn't lift her hands to stop him.
"It was an interesting story," he said almost conversationally into her ear. Behind her closed eyelids, she saw the shadow of his arm as he made another pass with the scarf. "So nearly a tragedy. It must have been difficult for you; was it six months you were talking to a Bureau psychologist afterwards, or eight? Mr. Eppes could well have found out that information and decided that making you suffer in this way was a small means of paying you back for everything you've put him through."
A small part of her was furious at his words and the invasion of her privacy they revealed. Had Metzke been the one to tell him about this fear of hers, or had he used other connections? The rest of her was too preoccupied with fighting off a panic attack as the silk tightened around her throat.
"Javier!" Don's sharp voice cut into her increasingly dark thoughts.
Her eyes snapped open, and she stared at him. Brock was standing behind him, gun still at his temple, but his eyes were locked on hers. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Tuttle's hand moving, gathering the two ends of the scarf together, and she wanted to scream. But Don's dark eyes were boring into hers, his expression clearly saying, Don't let him do this. Don't let him get to you. He didn't say another word, just kept looking at her as if they were the only two people in the room, telling her without words not to give in. Later, she would think of how supremely ironic it was that she should gather such strength from the man she had first despised and then feared. But at the moment, all she felt was gratitude towards him for silently reminding her of their conversation in the hurricane.
"You never give up, do you?"
"No, I don't."
She didn't let herself relax, not wanting Tuttle to think that anything had changed. But she looked more deliberately at Don, glancing down to the arm that held her bound hands in place, and then at the gun next to his head before meeting his eyes again. She felt the scarf tighten further around her throat as Tuttle pulled on the ends and fought back a wave of panic. But Don's gaze held her steady, the tiny nod telling her that he understood they were about to get their last chance. He twisted his bound hands slightly so they were crossed at the wrists and uncurled one finger. Then two.
Then three.
She'd been leaning away from Tuttle as much as she could, and now she abruptly slammed back into him, driving an elbow into his ribs. She heard an "Oof!" as the breath exploded out of him. Twisting down and to her right, she spun to face him, and to her relief, nothing tightened around her neck. Tuttle had let go of the scarf, but now his right hand was reaching into his jacket, his fingers closing around the butt of the Browning tucked into its concealed holster.
Lunging for the gun, her hands closed around his wrist as his left hand grabbed her upper arm. He was surprisingly strong for his age; it felt like there was a vice closing around her bicep. Suddenly the pressure disappeared, and in a second she realized why. His hand had moved towards the scarf still looped around her neck, and he was giving it a hard pull.
Stars danced briefly before her eyes, and it took all the concentration she had to keep her hands wrapped around his wrist, pushing the gun back into its holster. He was struggling to pull it out and choke her at the same time, and she was suddenly afraid that she wouldn't be able to get enough oxygen to keep her grip. So she loosened her hold on his hand, enough that he could pull the gun clear, and then she pounced, driving her shoulder into his chest and wresting the gun from his hand.
The sound of a gunshot split the air, and for a second she thought Tuttle had somehow managed to get a finger on the trigger. Then she heard a cry of pain that sounded like Don's voice, and her heart sank.
Tuttle took advantage of her momentary distraction to wrap both of his hands over hers to try and pry the gun out of her hand. But fear at what was going on behind her made her hold on. If Don had fallen, she had to get control here. With one desperate tug, she wrenched herself free and stepped back, pointing the gun at Tuttle. "Hands on your head," she barked. "Now."
A second gunshot echoed off the walls, but she didn't dare look over her shoulder. "Now, damn it!"
His pale eyes cold and hard, Tuttle lifted his hands and placed them on top of his head. His gaze flickered to the other side of the table, but he didn't give anything away by his expression.
She took another step back before risking a look. All she saw was the two men on the floor, neither one of them moving. Oh, God.
"Eppes!" she called out. "Can you hear me?"
A low, agonized moan was her only response. Damn it, she thought, looking quickly at Tuttle. He was watching her carefully, noticing how torn she was. Don needed her help right now, but she didn't have any way to restrain Tuttle. Hell, her own hands were still bound, which meant she was holding the gun more awkwardly than she would have liked.
Then a thought occurred to her, and she looked over at Eppes again, allowing more concern and indecision to creep into her expression. She lowered the gun a fraction, watching Tuttle out of the corner of her eye. Come on, you son of a—
He started to shift his weight, his hands lowering from the top of his head and beginning to reach for her. Instantly, she shifted her grip on the gun, sliding it backwards in her hands so that she was holding onto the barrel. As Tuttle lunged towards her, she neatly sidestepped him and then clocked him on the side of the head with the heavy handle of the weapon, watching with no small amount of satisfaction as he fell to the ground with a thump and lay there, completely still.
She had no time to relish her victory, however. Jamming the gun into the holster she'd put on what seemed like days ago but was only that morning, she raced over to where Don was lying on the ground, bright red blood pooling around his left thigh. "Hey, you with me?" she asked sharply as she knelt next to him.
"Yeah," he said so faintly she almost didn't hear it, his face starkly pale against the red-and-black rug.
"Good," she replied. "Keep it that way, you hear?"
He didn't respond, and she felt at the side of his neck. His pulse was still strong, but from the speed with which the carpet beneath his leg was becoming saturated, she had the bad feeling that wouldn't last for long. She started to reach towards the wound on his leg and cursed as she realized her hands were still tied and she didn't have time to look for something sharp to free herself. Whatever she could do for him, it would have to be done with both hands at once.
Suddenly she realized the scarf was still wound around her throat. Nearly laughing at the irony, she yanked it off and wadded it up, saying, "This is going to hurt, but hang in there, okay?"
He grunted in response, but when she put the scarf over the bullet wound and pressed down, he let out a yell that echoed off the dining room walls. "Sorry, I'm sorry," she muttered, lifting her head to look at him. His head was tilted to the side, eyes closed, respiration coming too fast for someone who was lying so still on the ground.
A sudden thought struck her, and she looked up at where she had last seen Alex Brock. He was lying about an arm's length away, deathly still, the bright red stain across his upper chest telling a clear tale.
She frowned, trying to remember what had been going on in the background while she was struggling with her own captor. There had been two gunshots, but she was sure that Don had gone down first. She looked over and saw his hands still loosely wrapped around Brock's gun, and she realized what had happened. "You stubborn bastard," she murmured admiringly. He'd gotten a bullet in the leg—what might yet be a fatal shot—and he'd still had enough strength to overcome the hired killer.
Her hands slipped a little, and she was alarmed to note that the blood flowing out of his wound didn't seem to be slowing down at all. With the bullet hole where it was, that probably meant that an artery had at least been nicked, if not downright cut. She tried to remember her most recent first aid refresher course, but all that sprang to mind was the frightening possibility that such an injury could result in death in five minutes or less.
She twisted her head to look up at the table behind her. Her cell phone was still sitting where Don had dropped it earlier, well out of reach even if her hands weren't tied together. Next to the phone, the glint of her handcuffs caught her eye, and she cursed. There was a way to restrain Tuttle, except she couldn't get to it at the moment. She cast a glance at Don and frowned to see that his eyes were closed. "Hey, Eppes!" She pushed down a little harder and was rewarded with a groan and a roll of his head to the side. No way he can apply any pressure himself, she thought. He's doing enough just breathing.
She measured the distance to the phone and lunged for it, flipping it open and dialing 911 as fast as she could. She tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder and leaned back down on Don's leg, eliciting another sharp cry from him.
"Nine one one, what is your emergency?"
"This is Special Agent Geraldina Javier of the FBI. I need backup and EMTs immediately at 3930 Glenalbyn Drive. I have an agent down and a suspect who needs to be restrained."
"Roger that," came the dispatcher's response. "I'll have LAPD and EMTs there right away."
"Thank you. I have a wounded man who I think is losing blood from his femoral artery, and I'm not sure that I'm applying the right treatment."
The dispatcher talked her through the steps to take, taking it in stride when Dina said her hands were tied together, telling her where to apply pressure to Don's upper leg so that the artery would be compressed between her closed fist and the bone on the other side of it. "It's going to hurt him," the dispatcher warned.
She passed along the warning as she made a fist with one hand, found the spot high on the inside of his leg, and pressed down. Don's agonized cry was audible to the dispatcher, who said, "Just press down as hard as you can, and keep him alert. ETA is now five minutes on that ambulance, and I've been informed that the FBI is on the way as well."
"Thank you," she said. "I can't stay on the line, but I'll keep it open." Then she let the phone slip to the floor and returned her attention to the wounded man in front of her. "You still with me?" she asked, pressing down on his leg with all of her weight.
He let out a sharp grunt of pain. "M'not an agent…anymore," he panted out in shallow breaths.
"If it gets them here faster, it works for me," she replied.
His eyelids cracked open, and he regarded her from their pain-filled depths. "You…just don't want…me getting away."
She gave a half-laugh. "That's right, Eppes," she replied. "Six thousand miles of chasing you and I'm not giving up now, okay? You've got to stay with me."
"Not a lotta…incentive," he said, his eyelids fluttering shut.
"Hey now." She leaned down harder, and his eyes popped back open, the lines of pain deepening across his face. "You got Brock. And I got Tuttle." She cast a glance over her shoulder to make sure he was still unconscious. She couldn't spare the time to restrain him, but thankfully he was still down for the count. "All that's left is for the justice system to do its thing."
"Worked…last time," he muttered faintly, staring up at the ceiling.
"Last time they tricked me," she said in a steely voice. "This time around, I'm on your side."
His gaze slid down to meet hers. "You…always win?"
"Yes, I do," she said firmly, trying not to notice how much blood was still soaking into the carpet. "So keep fighting, okay?"
There was a knock at the door, and she whipped her head around. "Special Agent Javier?" came faintly through the door. "This is Sergeant Pat Dalton of the LAPD."
"Come in," she called urgently.
There was a rattling sound, and then he said, "The door's locked, ma'am."
She grimaced. "I can't leave him to unlock it," she shouted. "You're going to have to break it down."
Two thuds later, her front door crashed to the ground, and a voice called out, "Agent?"
"Over here," she called. A tall, burly policeman rounded the corner, gun at the ready, a shorter female cop behind him. She watched their eyes widen as they took in the sight: two men on the floor, one with a fatal wound to the chest, the other one stirring and coming to, and her kneeling over another man whose leg was saturated with blood.
"He needs the paramedics now," she said, her cool-in-a-crisis persona rising to the fore as if this were any other case and as if she had not so nearly been a victim herself. "He needs restraints and to be read his rights," she added, nodding at a groggy Tuttle at the other end of the room. "And he can wait for the morgue," she said with a jerk of her head towards Brock.
The paramedics were there in seconds, one moving to take Don's vital signs and one moving to replace her position at his leg. The one at his head started examining the bruise on his forehead, and she said impatiently as she backed away, "That's old. It's the gunshot wound that matters."
After a moment, a third EMT entered and came over to her. "Can I take a look at you?" he asked.
"At what?" she asked, confused. She had staggered to her feet and backed off once the EMTs took over, trying to ignore the stickiness on her fingers as the blood started to dry, watching with grim pleasure as the police dragged Tuttle to his feet and put handcuffs on him.
"It looks like there was something wrapped around your neck, and your hands might be injured," he said patiently. "And is that a fresh cut on your forehead?"
Dina blinked. She'd already forgotten about the horror of her near-strangulation in the face of what had happened since. "Yes, there was; no, they aren't; yes, it is, but I'm fine. Please, concentrate on him."
He nodded and joined the other two, who were murmuring about blood pressure and heart rhythms and units of blood. Then one of them left, presumably to get a stretcher. She watched from a distance as Don he tried to respond to their questions, but his replies were too faint for her to hear, and even the renewed pressure that one of the paramedics put on his leg elicited no more than a mild groan.
"Agent Javier?"
She looked over at the LAPD officer. "Yes?"
He was gesturing towards Don, his voice shaded with uncertainty as he said, "You said on the emergency call that there was an agent down, but do you know who he is?"
She took a step towards him, anger suddenly blooming within her. "Do you know who I am?" she asked incredulously.
He frowned for a moment, and then she saw the light bulb go on over his head. "Oh. Oh, of course you know who he is. But—" He paused as a stretcher was wheeled towards the injured man. "He can't be left unescorted, and he really shouldn't be left unrestrained—"
She enunciated carefully, her tone growing icier with each word. "Does he look like he needs to be restrained?"
He flinched. "Sorry, Agent. Just following procedure."
Giving a short nod, she resisted the urge to hold her blood-stained hands up in front of his face to illustrate how incapacitated Eppes currently was. "I'll be riding in the ambulance with him, and I can certainly make sure he doesn't try to jump out the back."
"No, you won't."
The voice was Megan's, and she whirled around to confront her. "Excuse me?"
The rest of her team had entered while she was arguing with the LAPD moron, and their faces wore various combinations of horror and anger as they took in the scene. Within a few seconds, Matt and Chad were taking custody of a still-woozy Tuttle, David was making sure the paramedics had a clear route out the front door, and Colby was bagging the gun resting in Don's hands.
Megan was looking at her sympathetically, which was precisely what she did not need at this point in time. She needed to stay angry, needed to stay upset, or she was going to break down under the strain of the last few hours. "Dina, we traced Don's phone call here, and—" She gestured to indicate the entire scene. "We need you to tell us what happened. Besides, you're still very much part of a crime scene."
She wanted to fold her arms across her chest, but all she could do was stand there, feeling the plastic tie still biting into her wrists and smelling the coppery stench of her reddened hands. Her head was aching so badly she could hardly think, much less take command of the situation. Off to her right, Don let out a low groan, and she looked to see him being carefully loaded onto the stretcher, his face even paler than it had been a few minutes ago. She turned back towards Megan, whose sympathetic look had taken on a touch of impatience. "All right," she sighed.
Megan nodded and raised her voice. "Colby, you ride with him. David, go get Charlie and Alan and bring them to wherever they're taking him."
"No, wait," Dina said as a chilling thought occurred to her. She looked down at the file folder still open on the table and then back at David. "Call the agents who are on them first and make sure everything's okay."
David gave her a wary look as he pulled out his phone. "What's wrong?"
She jerked her chin towards the small pile of photos. "Tuttle made a threat against them, but I don't think he needed to carry it out."
"The phone call," Megan said, her voice hardening.
She nodded, almost afraid to ask what had happened after Don's call to A.D. Wright had gone through. But she was distracted by the paramedics pushing the stretcher out the door, Colby following closely behind. Watching them go, she felt a strange kind of emptiness at letting Don Eppes out of her sight.
"He'll be okay," Megan said quietly, her gaze also turned towards the front door.
"You don't know that," she replied harshly.
Megan turned back towards her, a knowing look in her eyes. "You know that he's strong. He's made it this far; he's not going to give up now."
She exhaled. "I hope you're right."
Across the room, David spoke. "Charlie's still at the office, and everything's fine with Alan. I'm heading over there right now."
Megan nodded at him and said, "Come on," putting a cautious hand on her shoulder. "Let's get your hands washed off so the photo guys can start taking pictures and we can cut you loose."
Dina looked around as it sank in for the first time that her home was about to be picked apart, violated a second time as the crime scene technicians turned over every scrap of material and photographed every inch of the place. If this second invasion was more clinical than Brock and Tuttle's, it would also be more detailed, a more complete loss of privacy. She was already starting to mourn the loss of security and sanctuary this home had provided. Those feelings had disappeared the instant Alex Brock's hand closed over her mouth.
And looking down at the bright red splotches on the floor, she didn't think she could ever be in this room again without remembering Don Eppes' lifeblood draining away beneath her hands.
She gave a shudder and turned away. "Yeah, that would be good," she said, letting Megan lead her towards the bathroom.
Outside, the wail of the siren cut into the night as the ambulance sped away.
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