should’ve talked. I-I don’t know Trace did this and—”
His hand slid between them. He tipped back her chin, forcing her to look up at him. “You did the right thing.”
Her heart finally stopped racing. Sara pulled back from him. “Come inside.” She wanted him to stay with her. No, after everything that had happened, she needed him.
He shut the door. Locked it.
Sara dropped her robe. She wasn’t wearing anything beneath it. The robe pooled at her feet. She gave him a smile. “Why don’t you try to make me forget why I was so afraid?”
He’d been the one to convince her that she couldn’t protect her boss. Trace had lied. A man was dead.
She didn’t know Parker Jacobs. She’d never seen him in her life, not until Detective Griffin had shown her photos of the dead man.
The photos had brought back too many dark memories for Sara.
So much blood.
She’d been afraid. If Trace was a killer, if he’d done that…then I didn’t have a choice.
She took a step toward her lover. She’d kept on her heels, for him. He liked her in heels and nothing else. “Please make me forget,” she said, and Sara hated that a pleading note had entered her voice. She’d meant to sound seductive.
He bent toward his boots. Lifted up the left leg of his pants.
Sara frowned. What was he—
A knife was strapped to his ankle.
“Don’t worry,” he said as he rose, that knife gripped easily in his hand. “Soon you won’t need to forget anything.”
No, no. This was not happening.
“Y-you can’t be serious.” Her voice shook. Her whole bodyshook. “Is this some kind of game? Because I don’t like it.” Not with her past.
“I’m very serious.” The blade gleamed. He stepped toward her. “You’ve worked with Trace for several years now. You’ve been his confidant.”
She grabbed the robe. Yanked it over her shoulders. Her gaze flew around the room. She had to find a weapon. Had to run.
“So I think you should be the one to call Trace. Who knows…maybe he’ll even get here in time to save you.”
She was crying. The tears had leaked from her eyes and fallen down her cheeks. That terrible image of the dead man—his slashed throat, his bloody chest—flashed through her mind once more. “It was you.” Why?
“Sometimes you think you know someone.” He looked down at the knife. “But you only know what that person shows you. The deepest, darkest parts of ourselves are always hidden.”
She spun to run.
Sara made it two feet when he grabbed her. He yanked her head back, gripping her hair tightly, and he put the knife to her throat.
Sara whimpered.
“Listen carefully,” he whispered into her ear. “Because I need you to relay a very specific message for me.”
***
The cops had tossed his place, and they sure appeared to have enjoyed the job.
Someone’s ass is going to get burned because of this.
“Are they supposed to leave it wrecked like this?” Skye asked as she bent to grab some fallen couch pillows.
“No,” Trace growled. “They’re not.” Alex was playing out of his league, and the detective was about to get slapped back into his normal game position. He reached for his phone.
It rang, vibrating as it gave a quick peal of sound. Trace glanced at the flat surface of the phone’s screen and saw Sara Kramer’s face. Frowning, he answered, “Sara? What’s going on?”
At first, he only heard silence. Then…
A gasp?
“Sara?”
Skye glanced up at the sharp bite in his voice.
“You n-need to know…” Sara said quietly.
“What is it? Sara, are you okay?”
“You n-need to know what it feels like…” Sara was whispering. And crying?
“Sara, are you alone?” Because he was afraid that she wasn’t.
A sob. Choked off. Then, “You’ll know what it-it feels like to…lose it all…”
His blood chilled.
“Take care of my sister,” Sara gasped out. “Please!” Then she cried, “My apartment—”
The line went dead.
Trace tried to call her back. The phone just rang. Trace ditched his pajama pants and dressed in an instant. Then he ran for the door. Skye rushed after him, but he spun, throwing up his arms and blocking the elevator before she could come with him.
“I think it’s him,” he said, the words too quiet.
Skye’s eyes were wide. “What’s happening? I thought you were talking to Sara.”
“He has her.” That message had been too deliberate. “If I don’t get to her, she’ll be dead.” Hell, it might already be too late. Trace pushed the button on his phone that would connect him to Reese. “Stay here,” he told Skye as he backed into the elevator. “I’ve got to help her.”
Skye watched him with troubled eyes. The elevator doors began to close.
Reese answered on the second ring. “Yeah, boss, what’s up?”
Skye jumped into the elevator.
She wasn’t supposed to do that! “Get to Sara’s place,” Trace told Reese. “As fast as you can. I’m sending a full team behind you.” He glared at Skye.
She punched the button for the lobby.
“I think…I think the killer’s after Sara. Get there. Get there. I’m on my way.” He ended the call. “What the hell are you doing?” Trace asked, trying to choke back his fear and fury. “You can’t come. It’s too—”
“Dangerous? Yes, it sounds that way. Dangerous for Sara and for you, and there is no way on earth that I’m just going to sit in the penthouse while you rush off to face whatever is happening at her place.” She gave a firm nod. “Team, remember? That’s what we are. Now call more of your men and tell them to get their asses over there.”
The elevator doors opened.
Trace got more of his men on the line.
He and Skye rushed through the lobby. Henry hurried to open the door for them. The bright light hit them outside and—
“What’s the rush?” Alex demanded, hands on his hips as he whirled toward them. “Not making a run for it, are you, Weston?”
Before Trace could do more than snarl at the man, Skye told the cop, “His assistant just called. Trace thinks that she’s in danger.”
“Sara?”
Trace ended the call. Tried Sara’s line again. It just kept ringing. “The killer is at her apartment. I know he is. My men are on their way to her place and—”
Alex pointed to his car. “Get your asses in there, and let’s go.”
He didn’t have time to waste, and Trace knew a cop would get them there hell fast.
They got their asses in.
***
“I-I did what you wanted…” Sara’s whole body shook. “Please…let me go.”
Instead, he spun her around to face him. “What the hell was that about your sister?”
Claire. Claire would be alone if anything happened to her. Sara had been desperate when she’d made that plea. She’d promised her parents that she’d always look after her sister…
Trace will take care of Claire.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Don’t worry, I won’t hold that against you.” He smiled. “Weston is coming. We have to give him something to find, don’t we?”
No, they didn’t. “Let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I swear, I won’t ever tell them who you are.”
His gaze searched hers. “You know, I think I believe you.” He pulled the knife away from her throat. “I didn’t originally intend to bring you into this, but you were so close to Weston. And I promise, it’s not personal.”
Fucking her hadn’t been personal?
Beneath Sara’s fear, anger boiled. The lamp on the end table was just four feet away. She could lunge for it. Throw it at him. Maybe gain enough time to make it to the bathroom. Then she could lock the door and stay barr
icaded inside until help came.
She knew Trace would get to her as fast as he could.
“I like you,” he told her, “and you were so useful.”
Her breath heaved out as she understood. She’d been useful because of her access to Trace—and Trace’s office. She was the only person at Weston Securities who had free access to Trace’s inner domain. She’d let him in just days before, when Trace had been out. She’d thought nothing of the encounter until now.
“Passwords, files…” He shrugged. “You gave me everything I needed. Thank you.”
He still had the knife. Sara knew, with utter certainty, he’s not going to let me go.
So she could die easily or she could fight.
Sara dove for the right, surging toward that lamp. Her fingers stretched. She almost had it. Almost—
His body collided with hers, and she fell to the floor. They hit the end table on their way down, and the impact sent the lamp crashing down with them.
“Goodbye, sweet Sara,” he whispered to her.
She opened her mouth to scream.
His left hand clamped over her lips and his right—his right drove the blade of the knife into her heart.
Chapter Eleven
They arrived on the scene silently. No siren. No screeching brakes. Skye knew that they were trying not to alert the killer who could be waiting with Sara.
Alex and Trace jumped from the car. Skye hurried right after them. Two more vehicles pulled up behind Alex’s car, braking to a quick stop. Black SUVs. Three men and two women in suits climbed from those vehicles and immediately headed toward Trace.
Trace’s agents.
“Cover the back stairs,” he said, pointing toward half of that new group. “Then you guys cover the front.”
The remaining agents nodded.
Trace glanced at Alex. “And I’m guessing you’re going to want to lead the charge inside.”
“With you right behind me, huh, Weston?”
“No,” a sharp voice called out. Skye turned to see Reese rushing toward them. “With us right behind you.”
Alex pulled out his gun. He nodded and took off.
Skye hesitated. What was—
Trace caught her fingers in his. “You came here, and I’m damn well not leaving you alone for a second. That SOB could be watching us right now, waiting for another attack.”
They hurried inside the complex. An old converted warehouse, the place was now full of high-end condos. Trace got them immediate access to that building. He had Sara’s key code, and that code opened the entrance gate in seconds.
They hurried up the stairs. Stopped on the second floor.
“She’s number two-oh-six,” Trace said.
Alex stopped in front of the indicated door. That door was ajar, open just a few inches.
Alex and Trace shared a hard look, then the detective rushed inside. “Sara Kramer!”
There was no answer. There was only thick silence, then, Alex snarled, “Dammit, no!”
Trace leapt inside. Skye and Reese were with him, and they only had to take a few steps before they saw Alex. He was bent on the floor, crouched over the prone body of Sara Kramer.
Skye’s hand flew up to cover her mouth, an instinctive reaction. Blood soaked Sara’s robe. And there was a big, gaping wound where her throat should have been.
Just like Parker.
Sara’s throat had been slit open, a wound that stretched from ear to ear.
Alex yanked out his phone. As he surged to his feet, she heard him say, “This is Detective Alex Griffin, badge number four—one—one—eight. . I’m at a murder scene. Brighton Condominiums, number two-oh-six.”
A soft knock sounded at the door behind them.
Skye whirled around.
The unlocked door swung open. A woman stood there. A woman with hair the same light blonde shade as Sara’s. Her eyes were like Sara’s, too—a deep blue.
The woman hesitated as she stood there. “I, um, I’m looking for my sister—”
No, dear God, no. Skye rushed toward her, trying to grab the woman before she could see the body on the floor.
“Her name’s Sara Kramer,” the blonde continued, stepping forward, “and she’s—”
Skye shoved the woman back toward the door. A hard shove that sent the other lady stumbling with a yelp. “No!” Skye snapped. “You can’t—”
“Who are you?” The blonde demanded. “What’s happening? Where is Sara?”
She’s dead on the floor. And you don’t need to see her that way. You don’t. “I’m sorry,” Skye said, dropping her voice. “Something has happened.”
The blonde grabbed Skye’s hands. “To Sara?”
Trace came to stand behind Skye. “You’re Claire. Sara told me that you were coming to town.”
Claire frowned at him, then her eyes widened with recognition. “You…you’re Mr. Weston, Sara’s boss, right?” Claire appeared to be about twenty-five or twenty-six. She was slender, her skin a soft gold, and her expression was slowly becoming terrified. “Please tell me what’s happening.”
Sirens screamed from outside.
“I’m sorry,” Skye whispered. Claire was still holding her hands in a tight grip. Claire’s gaze was now full of fear and desperation. Tell her. “Your sister is dead.”
Claire shook her head. “No.”
“A detective is in there now. More police are coming.”
“No!”
“We need to go downstairs,” Skye said. “The apartment…it’s a…crime scene.”
Claire tried to lunge past Skye, but Trace caught her, stopping her before she could burst back into Sara’s place. “You don’t want to see her like that,” he told her, voice soft, sad. “You don’t.”
“Sara!” Claire screamed.
Then the tears broke from her.
***
Trace stood in his office, his gaze on the city that spread out before him. Noah and Drake were seated behind him. After Sara’s death, he’d had to call them both in.
“He used Sara,” Trace said, his shoulders stiff. “In order to get close to me. He gained access to my personal phone line.” He turned toward them. “The SOB hijacked the line to make a call to Skye. He could’ve lured her any place.”
Noah swiped a hand over his face. “And you think he might be using people at my organization, too? Doing the same damn thing to me?”
It was a definite possibility. “The guy sure as hell seems focused on me right now, but the two of you needed to be warned. If he hasn’t already gone after you, he will.”
Drake gave a grim nod.
“I think he stole my shirt right out of the office.” The back-up clothing that he normally kept at the office was gone, so there really wasn’t any thinking about it. Now he knew how his shirt had wound up at Parker’s crime scene. You wore it while you killed him, didn’t you, bastard? “I’m sure he used Sara to get access to the clothing.”
Poor Sara. She’d been caught in a battle for nothing. Used. Thrown away.
“Your security footage got his face, right?” Noah said as he leaned forward. “I mean, this is Weston Freaking Securities that we’re talking about. This place is wired from the floor to the ceiling.”
It was, but… “Sara Kramer had access to all the security information here. She was my right hand.” Grief was there, painful, twisting grief that clawed inside of him. Sara had been a friend. “I trusted her, and it looks like, a few days ago, she took the security offline for fifteen minutes. The whole building went dark.”
Drake swore.
Yes, that was just how Trace felt. He’d been distracted—the security breach had happened right after the car crash. He’d learned that his team had reported the problem right away, only they’d reported to Sara, not him because he’d been getting stitched up at the hospital.
“So we’re saying a dead man is doing this?” Noah surged up from his chair. “Because I don’t believe that crap. No way. I don’t—”
“You
were flying the chopper that got us out of there,” Trace told him. Because that had been Noah’s job that day. Trace had barely made it to the rendezvous point. “The snow was coming down hard, and you could barely get the bird back in the sky.”
Noah glanced over at Drake. “I was convinced he’d die before we got him to a doctor.”
Drake’s gaze strayed to the window. “Do you two ever think…maybe I should’ve been the one to die? Maybe Trace made the wrong choice out there. He grabbed the wrong friend.”
Noah’s eyes narrowed to chips of golden fire. “Stop being a dick, Drake. You both told me what went down out there. Tucker turned on you. He would’ve killed you both in an instant.”
“Instead, I thought that I killed him.” Trace flattened his hands on the desk. “But if he’s dead, then how’d my dog tags wind up in Chicago? How’d Parker get them? They should’ve been frozen in Siberia, with Tucker.”
“And with Anna Jean,” Drake said, his voice tight.
Trace frowned at him. There had been a different note in Drake’s voice then. Pain.
Anger?
Well, the guy was entitled to his anger at Anna Jean. She’d tried to kill him. She’d screwed them all.
“You’re the best shot I’ve ever seen,” Noah said, as he braced his legs apart and studied Trace. “From what you told me all these years, it was a point blank shot.”
Trace inclined his head.
“So how would you miss?” Noah demanded. “You hit his heart. You know he was dead.”
“Someone found the body,” Drake said as he straightened. “The snow melted. Someone was digging—the damn bodies were found, and with them, the dog tags.”
Trace’s lips curved in a mirthless smile. “You think I didn’t consider that?