Chapter 23 – Morgan #2
I pressed it hard just as Amber tackled me to the ground.
We hit the floor in a tangle of limbs, the impact driving the air from my lungs. She was stronger than I'd expected, and clearly trained, but I'd spent weeks learning to fight dirty.
I got one arm free and clawed at her face, my nails drawing blood. She cursed, rearing back, and I used the space to drive my elbow into her ribs.
"You little bitch," she snarled, raising the knife.
I rolled left just as the blade came down, scoring across my shoulder instead of finding something vital. Pain flared, bright and sharp, but adrenaline kept me moving.
My hands found the fabric shears I'd dropped. I swung them wildly, more desperate than skilled, but the blade caught her across the forearm. Blood splattered across my cutting table.
"Fuck!" Amber stumbled back, clutching her arm.
I scrambled to my feet, shears in one hand, the other pressed against the burning line of pain across my shoulder. My face was already swelling where she'd hit me. I could taste blood in my mouth.
"Alex!" I screamed, hoping my voice would carry to the street. "Alex, help!"
Amber laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Your little bodyguard can't hear you. This room is soundproofed, remember? For the pottery wheels."
Shit. She was right.
But the panic button. Lance would have gotten the alert by now. Help was coming.
I just had to survive until then.
Amber circled me again, blood dripping from her arm, but her movements still controlled, professional. "You know what the best part was? How grateful you were for my friendship. How desperate you were for someone to understand your pain."
She feinted left, and I swung the shears, but she'd already moved right. The knife sliced across my forearm this time, not deep, but enough to make me gasp.
"I actually felt sorry for you at first. Such a pathetic little widow, clinging to her dead husband's memory." Her voice dripped with false sympathy. "But then I realized how perfect you were. So isolated. So needy. So easy to manipulate."
Keep her talking. Tire her out. Wait for backup.
"Was any of it real?" I managed, dodging another swipe of her knife. "Our friendship?”
"You were always the mark." She pressed her attack, forcing me back toward the wall.
My back hit the wall. Nowhere left to retreat.
"Charles has had people watching you for over a year. It’s Hector’s fault, really. When he found his brother, he should have done the right thing and told the family. I was the one who got the fun job of playing bestie and pretending to care about your little seamstress hobby."
The knife came up toward my throat, but I was ready this time. I grabbed her wrist with both hands, using the shears to block, then drove my knee up into her stomach.
She doubled over, gasping, and I broke free. But instead of running, I spun back around and hit her across the face with the blunt end of the shears.
The impact sent her staggering, blood streaming from her nose. "You fucking—"
The door burst open.
"Morgan!"
Alex rushed in, weapon drawn, taking in the scene in seconds. But Amber was ready for him. She dove behind a cutting table just as Alex fired, the bullet splintering wood where her head had been.
"Stay down!" Alex shouted at me, moving deeper into the room with tactical precision.
But Amber was already gone. She'd rolled behind the industrial sewing machines and out of sight. I could hear her moving, fast and fluid, through the shadows of the storage area.
Another gunshot. Then the crash of something heavy hitting the floor.
"Alex!" I screamed.
Silence.
My pulse hammered in my ears as I crept toward where Alex had disappeared. I found him unconscious behind an overturned table, blood trickling from his temple where something had struck him. Still breathing, but out cold.
"Morgan!" Amber's voice echoed from somewhere near the exit. "Give Lance a message for me. Tell him Charles is waiting. Tell him it's time to come home."
I heard the back exit slam shut, the sound echoing through the empty studio like a gunshot.
She was gone.
I knelt beside Alex, checking his pulse with shaking hands. Strong and steady. The bleeding looked worse than it was. Head wounds always bled like hell.
My phone. I needed to call for help.
But when I reached for my bag, my hands were shaking so hard I could barely grip the panic button. I pressed it anyway, knowing Lance would get the alert.
Then I called 911, my voice surprisingly steady as I reported an assault and requested paramedics.
It wasn't until I was giving my statement to the police twenty minutes later, Alex conscious but groggy beside me on a stretcher. We could have both died today. All because of her.
"Ma'am?" The detective was looking at me with concern. "You said the attacker knew you personally?"
I touched the bruise forming on my cheek, tasted blood from where she'd split my lip. "She's been pretending to be my friend for months."
Pathetic. That's what she'd called me. Ordinary.
Maybe she was right about that.
But pathetic or not, I was going to make sure Lance knew what was coming for him. And when this was over, when Charles DuLac was no longer a threat to anyone I loved, I was going to find Amber and return the favor.