Chapter 19
THE DARE
GRAYSON
Thirty-two steps to the service elevator. On a floor plan, the distance looks short, easy. In reality, with a hostage, panicked nurses screaming, and officers aiming guns at your head, each step might as well be a mile.
“Neither one of us will make it out of this alive,” London says. “They will shoot through me to get to you, Grayson. You’re a convicted serial killer twice over. You’re not leaving this hospital.”
I breathe in her seductive scent. The sweet note of lilac bolsters my resolve and frees me of the lingering sedative in my veins, my limbic system working harder. “They won’t shoot a renowned doctor. The state doesn’t want that lawsuit.”
Her laugh is hollow. “So this is why you came to me, this was your plan. Somehow, you thought getting me here would be your best chance at escape.”
I draw her closer as we gain another step backward. “This is a conversation for later, a stóirín.”
“Sullivan.” Detective Foster appears ahead of us, gun drawn.
“I’m putting my weapon down.” He holds one hand up and crouches to set his piece on the floor.
He then orders the other officer to do the same.
“We don’t need to do this. If you release Dr. Noble, then we’ll all forget this happened.
It’s not as if you can be prosecuted any more heavily than you already have. ”
I smirk. “That’s not a very good argument, detective.”
His brow furrows as he realizes my point. “But you don’t really want to hurt your doctor, do you? She’s been the only one in your corner.”
I gain another two steps toward the elevator. “Again, not a good argument as she fed me to the wolves, or did you miss her fascinating testimony.”
“Sullivan, don’t—don’t take another step…,” he warns.
There’s a clear waver in his voice; he knows he’s lost this round. I tow London toward the wall, using it to shield our right while I focus on the officers to our left in the adjacent hallway as we ease toward the elevator threshold.
“Push the button,” I tell her. She does, and when the doors slide open, I pull her inside. “See you at the bottom,” I say to Foster before the doors close.
I punch the Lobby button, then count down the seconds. At ten, I push in the Stop button. The car jerks to a halt.
“What are you doing?” London demands.
“Trust me,” I say—and, oh, the look of pure loathing on London’s beautiful face heats my blood. She’s breathtaking when she’s livid.
“We’re not a team,” she says through clenched teeth. “I diagnosed you as delusional in open court. God, I was right.”
“I know. It was brilliant, by the way.” I stuff the weapon behind my back and lift a section of the elevator ceiling, sliding it back.
“You should feel proud of that, the way you callously led the jury to kill without remorse. They have you to thank for not losing any sleep over it. Took less than two hours to convict me.”
I plant a foot on the hand bar and hoist myself up through the ceiling.
“I did not—”
“You did. You can stop lying.” I look down at her. “Give me your string.” I extend my hand, and her delicate eyebrows push together in confusion. “Now, London. Give me the damn string you keep in your pocket.”
She whispers a curse and digs out the black thread.
“All of it,” I demand. “I know you keep more.”
She tosses up the roll of string. I unravel it and hand her one end. “Tie this around the red button.”
She does and lifts her gaze to me. “You said you don’t want to harm me. Are you letting me go?”
I show her the gun. “Don’t lose that sharp brain of yours just yet. Give me your hand.”
I haul her onto the top of the elevator, and we’re seconds from finding out if this plan will work. I guide her toward the ladder on the side of the shaft and then seal my body around hers.
I yank the thread.
The elevator jolts and propels downward, continuing down on its descent to the lobby. “Climb,” I order her.
We reach the roof of the hospital. Once I have London out of the shaft, I dispose of the weapon, and she anxiously watches me hide it behind a skylight.
“I never liked them,” I admit. “No art in shooting someone.”
She starts to retreat. “I’m leaving now, Grayson.”
With a sigh, I glance up into the darkening sky.
“What time is it?” When she doesn’t respond, I grasp her arm and wrench off the thousand dollar watch she wears, ignoring her fight as I check the time.
Then I flip on the radio, gauging how close the search is to us.
“You have less than one minute to make your choice,” I tell her.
“In ten minutes, they’ll have downtown secured and blocked off.
We’ll then only have twenty minutes to make it out of the state.
So you get one of those minutes, London. Decide.”
She stares up at me, that pretty mouth parted. “You’re giving me a choice?”
“I give everyone a choice. You’ve been making choices since the first day we met.” I offer her my hand. “You can go back, try to insert yourself back into your life of lies, or you can come with me and find out how far the rabbit hole goes to get your answers.”
She shakes her head slowly. “I can’t.”
I breathe deeply. “You can,” I say. “You can do anything you want. And I’ll promise you this, I will let you go afterward.”
She releases a manic laugh. “This is fucking crazy. You’re crazy.”
I touch my chest, stricken. “Is that your professional opinion, doctor?”
Gaze shifting out over the horizon, she crosses her arms. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Even if it means discovering the truth?” I say, and her sharp eyes nail me. “Uncovering everything your father kept from you, that’s what I’m offering, London.”
It’s there in her thoughtful expression, the longing, the desire to unmask those cryptic secrets that have haunted her. She’s terrified. Curiosity alone isn’t enough—to a narcissist like London, this is the promise of her story. Her. her. her.
She grips the strap of her bag. “They’re going to put you to death, and I swear to god, Grayson, I will be there to watch.”
My mouth tips into a smile. I can’t help it, she’s stunning when she’s mad. “I hope you will be,” I say honestly.
She inhales a trembling breath. “What does a stóirín mean?” she demands to know.
I cross the small distance to her and lick my lips, staring down into her dark gaze as I clear a strand of hair from her eyes. “Come with me, and there will be no secrets between us, love.”
I lift my hand between us.
And she takes it.
I close my fingers around her palm, tenderly grazing my thumb over her scar as I pull her behind me, taking us toward the edge of the building.
Her physical pain will slow us down. I’ve accounted for that, thought about how to get us out of downtown the fastest with the least effort.
The rhythmic chop of helicopter blades grows louder, hovering close.
I let London descend the fire escape first. “Don’t look at the ground,” I instruct her. She curses the whole way down the side of the building, but she makes it.
Police sirens echo off concrete and brick, the hospital nearly barricaded. I grab her wrist and lead her toward a dense copse of trees and bushes, halting just before the highway.
“We have less than a minute to reach the bridge before the dogs pick up our trail.” I scan both lanes, gauging traffic. The darkness will give us some cover, but not for long.
“Grayson, I can’t do this,” she says, panic threading her voice.
I cup her face. “Yes you can, London.”
A tear escapes down her cheek, and I gently brush it away with my thumb. She’s not breaking; her adrenaline is running high. Good. She can use it to help cancel out her pain.
“Let’s go,” I tell her. “Now.”
The race to the bridge is our biggest challenge. We leave behind the commotion of the search as we bolt across the highway. Cars screech to a halt, headlights flash, horns blare.
Thirty seconds to go.
I quicken our pace once we reach the median, her cries of pain slicing through me. If I could take her pain for her, I would. Our destination is ahead, close now. Another five seconds, and we’re here.
She grabs her side, doubles over. “We’re out in the open,” she says, catching her breath.
I peer over the side of the bridge. “We’re going down.”
Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head. “No. I’m not dying for you—”
I grab her around the waist, pulling her tightly against me. She struggles, kicking and fighting as I back us up against the concrete guardrail. “You already made your choice.”
Then I take her with me over the edge.
The creek hits us like an icy fist, the impact knocking air from my lungs. My shoulder tears against a rock beneath the surface. I aimed for the deepest part of the Brandywine, yet the water is still too shallow.
“Oh, my god—” She sputters and wipes at her face. “I hate you so much.”
I circle my arms around her and haul her close. “You act like you’ve never swam in a creek, country girl.”
The sides of her fists beat at my arms, water splashing. “Jesus, Grayson, this is madness.”
I palm her face, forcing her gaze up to mine. “This is beyond madness—this is what obsession does to a man.” I swallow hard, my throat raw. “From my first taste of you, I knew I’d never get you out of my system…knew I’d risk insanity to have you.”
She blinks the droplets of water away, searching my face through the dark. “Grayson…” she whispers my name hesitantly, the pressure of her fingers cautious against my soaked shirt. “What you want is impossible. You have to know that.”
“You and I are connected, London. We belong together,” I say, obstinate. “I’m already a dead man. I’d rather die chasing something impossible with you than rot behind bars.”
Her hand trembles against my chest. “I can still help you,” she says, a dangerous mix of pleading and pity filling her eyes. “You’re confused, Grayson. You’re sick.”
My jaw clenches, and I tighten my grip possessively around her wrist. “Then we’ll be sick together.”
I push off the creek bed to stand, drawing London up alongside me. “Stay close to the bank, move through the water. The dogs can’t track us that way.”
She’s managing, but I sense her exhaustion. She’s fading fast. Once her adrenaline wears off, she’ll be in too much pain to continue.
With a groan, I bend and hook an arm beneath her knees, my other around her back, and lift her against my chest.
“Shit—Grayson.” Her weak protest fades just as quickly, and she settles into my arms. As her head rests against my shoulder, I cradle her closer, something foreign tightening my chest.
“I got you,” I say to her.
I smile to myself. Nurture is a strange thing.
Over the past year, my objective hasn’t always been clear, yet there was one constant:
Her.
She’s become my singular purpose in this world—a world that deprived me early on, that fashioned me into a killer, and now wants to punish its own creation.
I owe this world nothing.
But for her, I have something to offer, something only I can give.
She is my salvation.
And I am her long-awaited consequence.