Chapter Forty-Eight
A gun points at my forehead.
My Glock rises as though of its own volition, aiming between Ian’s eyes.
We’re in a standoff worthy of Hollywood. I’m more of an aim for the heart, and at worst, you’ll hit something vital kind of person—but this close, there would be no missing my target. We’re a mere five feet apart, his breath audible, my hands nearly trembling with adrenaline.
“You’re here for your husband.”
It’s not a question.
“Where is he?” The room is a huge storage space filled with the obvious items. Boxes, chests, spare furniture covered in white sheets—but I know what this unit’s really for, and it’s not housing extra household items. It’s meant to look normal in case anyone ever comes across it.
But really, weapons are stockpiled here.
A cache, one of many Ian has across the country. Heck, probably across the world.
Ian looks over the top of his weapon, removing his eye from where he can easily see through the sight. All at once, he lowers it, snorts, and turns away, shaking his head. “Seriously, Nadia.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s here.” He sets his gun down on a table—the same table where two years ago, he spread out guns the world hasn’t seen since the First World War, collector’s items. “But listen—” Ian leans against the edge of the surface and crosses his arms, utterly undeterred by the gun I’m still pointing in his direction.
“You should let me take care of this for you.”
“I don’t want you to take care of this for me.”
Ian watches me for a moment. “He’s been lying to you, Nadia. And I know you haven’t told him everything, but I’d say his deception goes a little deeper.”
“What does that mean?”
Ian smiles, and it’s not a nice smile. But before he can answer, another voice cuts through the storage room.
“Nadia?” I jolt at Brian’s voice, scratchy, like he’s just woken. The hope in it, the…fear.
“Shut the fuck up,” Ian bites out. “You weren’t invited to speak.”
Holding my gun on Ian, I skirt around the table, behind a chair, to see Brian, bloody, black-eyed, his face swollen.
Zip ties hold his hands tight behind his back, and he’s on the ground.
He must have just regained consciousness.
The look in his eyes says that he can see me, and that however I look—gun in my hand, resting killer face at the ready—he’s not comfortable with it. In fact, I’d say he looks scared.
“Where’s Victoria?” Ian asks, peering out of the unit, unconcerned with my gun.
That’s who he’s looking for, wondering if I’ve dragged her along with me.
If I were a different sort of person, if Gran hadn’t all but beaten it into me that innocents are to be left alone, I might have.
She would have made good collateral. Then again, maybe not, given that Ian wasn’t too concerned with the idea that I might kill her.
“She’s alive,” I say, spinning to face him again—never turn your back on the ocean, a two-year-old, or an assassin.
“Nadia?” Brian’s voice rises up, unsure. Like he’s just realized I am not who he thinks I am.
Ian’s mouth twists into a cruel smile. “Didn’t you know, Brian? You’re not the only one with secrets.”
I should just shoot Ian. Have it done with.
“You’re making it too easy,” Ian hisses. A series of pop-pop-pops shatters the silence. I drop to the ground, roll to one side, come up on a knee, and aim at him, finger on the trigger. But he’s gone.
Outside the storage room, the hiss of lights flicking on as he presumably sprints down the hall toward the staircase.
I bolt upright, gain my footing, rush to the doorway of the unit, and aim.
His silhouette races away, a spotlight of fluorescence illuminating his location.
But before I dart after him, a scuffle from behind yanks my attention backward.
“You’re like him,” Brian’s voice whispers through the room.
I spin, throat tight.
I’m nothing like him. I didn’t say Shoot my spouse when shit got hard. I didn’t force Victoria at gunpoint along with me. I don’t kill indiscriminately, I make sure they’re bad, I—
“Brian—” My gun is still raised. His dark eyes soak me in as he climbs unsteadily to his feet.
His gaze shifts to my gun, which I immediately drop to my side as I hold up a placating hand.
He ducks out of the way, disappearing behind chunky furniture.
He must have wriggled out of his restraints.
Regained consciousness enough to listen in on what was going on. And now he’s hiding from me.
In the hall, the brrrrring of the elevator captures my attention.
I hesitate for only a second, then dash to see if it’s not too late to nab Ian.
To stop him. But halfway down the hall, my feet slapping over concrete, it occurs to me I have no idea what I’ll do when I catch him. Shoot him? Kill him?
My steps stutter to a stop halfway down the hall, heart pounding in my ears. The other option is to let him go. But if I let him go, will Brian ever be safe again? Will I be safe? Will my daughters?
The hiss of lights halts my thoughts. I raise my gun, twist, peering through dim halls for Ian. Was the elevator only a distraction? I press my body to a wall, making myself less of an easy target. I aim back the way I came, waiting for his tall, lanky form to appear.
A man steps into the shadows. I raise my gun, shoot to his side, because I still can’t quite fathom ending Ian’s life.
He jumps, wheels backward, the motion-sensing light flickers on with a whoosh, and Brian’s face is suddenly illuminated, eyes wide but not afraid—no, a different emotion plays over his features. One of determination.
He raises his own gun.
Shock reverberates through me. I nearly shot him. Nearly shot my husband. And now—
I duck, sprint down the hall as gunfire erupts on the concrete walls behind me. Around a corner, then another, and another. Racing through this maze to escape my own husband as the lights overhead trace my path, making escape impossible. Fuck.
Shoving myself behind a concrete support beam, I fight to catch my breath. Soft footsteps over concrete. Another light flicking on somewhere far into the building.
What just happened?
I replay the conversation Ian and I had.
What exactly did we say to each other? He asked about Victoria, and he said he would take care of this for me.
Brian must have heard that. Must have presumed I wasn’t here to rescue him—but to kill him myself.
Add the fact that I just fired off a shot in his direction thinking he was Ian and—
But wait. It’s not that simple, is it?
Brian Davis is a stolen identity. Even if Ian lied to me, Brian’s been up to something…and I have no idea what it is.
“Nadia?” Brian’s familiar voice echoes through the halls, taunting. Or maybe that’s my imagination.
Adrenaline floods my veins. Dopamine too. A cat-and-mouse game with my husband? I hate it. I love it. My hands are slick with sweat, and I wipe them on my shirt, grip my gun tighter, listen for his footsteps. The light above me turns off, giving me some amount of cover.
“That was not nice, Nadia,” Brian bites out, indignant.
I keep my mouth shut, still thinking through the facts. He was in a weapons storage unit, for god’s sake. Ian’s an idiot, bringing him here. It might be hidden. He might have torture devices and weapons galore. But it also enabled Brian to get a weapon.
Lights whoosh on somewhere close. Brian? Ian? My pulse races. I have no idea who I’m up against. If this is one-on-one, or if all three of us are out for one another.
It’s entirely possible Brian wants me dead.
Half of me wants to leave. I could sprint for the stairwell, probably shove that door open and make it down the stairs before anyone can put a bullet in me. The other half wants to play. Wants to hunt. The monster welling up inside me emerging from the darkness for the most fun she’s ever had.
A footstep squeaks too close, and I react without thinking—spinning, my gun raised, firing off one, two, three shots. I can’t see his face, but he fires back, hitting the wall behind me. We both dash for cover.
“Is this how it ends, Nadia? Is this what you had planned all along?” Brian pants. “Who the fuck are you?” he bites out.
I breathe, do a mental inventory—no pain ricocheting through my body. No blood dripping down to the floor beneath me.
“I could ask you the same thing,” I call. I have three rounds left and no spare clip. It’s enough, but it would be better if I…
Peering past the edge of my own hiding spot, I catch sight of his elbow around a wall.
The lights are already on, already illuminating us.
It’s a risk, but I start forward with careful, slow footsteps.
When I’m close enough, I wheel around the corner, smacking his right wrist—the one that holds his gun—hitting him in a pressure point that forces him to drop it.
The gun clatters to the ground, and I use my own to smack him across the face with its butt.
He grunts in pain, and I yank my knee up, hitting him in the groin.
But he doesn’t double over in pain and fall to the floor—no, he doubles over and drives his shoulder into my abdomen, tackling me.
We hit the ground hard, my gun clattering to the concrete.
Brian straddles me in a position that usually means a very different type of play.
A thrill ripples through my body. I realize I’m grinning, wanting to yank him close and kiss him as much as I want to reach up and punch him.
He must see it in my eyes because he hesitates—which gives me just enough time to buck, throwing him off, leap atop his back, and wrap my arm around his throat in a choke hold.
The thing about choke holds is, if you do it right, you immobilize your victim in mere seconds.
It’s not about brute strength. It’s about technique.
Unfortunately, Brian saw it coming and dipped his chin, stopping me from getting my arm right up against his carotid artery to disrupt blood flow to the brain.
He shoves himself—and me—back against the nearest wall.
I gasp, pain shooting through me with the force.
I topple to the ground, and he’s on me in the next moment, yanking me up, raising a hand—but he hesitates again.
Because he can’t hit his wife. Luckily, I have no such inhibitions, and I twist my body around his, pulling one arm tight against my chest, throwing him into an arm bar.
“Maybe we could talk,” I pant, “before we kill each other.”
“Don’t you think it’s too late for that?” he growls. Brian yanks, then squawks as his shoulder dislocates. “God damn it.”
“What do you say?” I murmur. “As much fun as this is, I feel like it’s not going to end well for one of us.”
“You tried to shoot me—I say I don’t trust you.”
That’s entirely fair. I lick my lips, try again.
“In my defense, you tried to shoot me too.”
“You shot first.”
I sigh, lean close. “Tell you what, I’ll fix your arm if you promise to just talk to me. No guns, no knives, no hitting each other.”
He looks up, face red with pain, exertion. His glasses are long gone, and as much as he is my Brian, my husband, he also reminds me of a dangerous, unpredictable animal. The way he’s looking at me, I’d say he thinks the same thing about me.
“Temporary truce?” I ask.
He hesitates, then nods. “Truce.”
I release him. His arm hangs loose at his side, unusable. Aware this will not feel good, I carefully take his forearm and bend it at the elbow, then rotate the entire arm in a fast, jerking motion until the joint clicks back into place.
His whole body spasms, a grunt escaping his throat. “God, that hurts.”
“Yeah, well. Better than being shot.”
He grunts. “Easy for you to say.”
I step far enough back that I’ll have a moment to react if he reaches for a gun or a knife or rushes at me again.
“What do you mean, easy for me to say?”
Brian reaches for the wall, fights for an upright position. And that’s when I see it—blood pooling beneath his shoulder—or is it his chest?—turning his white shirt a bright, disturbing red.
“You got shot?”
“It ricocheted,” he mutters, wincing. “Your aim sucks.”
I scowl at him. “Or maybe I wasn’t aiming to kill.”
That makes him look up, makes him take me in again with his dark brown eyes, as though trying to sort out if he can trust me.
Even I’m not sure of that. I still don’t know who he really is, what he’s actually done.
It’s entirely possible that my husband still needs to die, that it will be my job to carry out that death sentence.
That knowledge makes my stomach clench. But he’s shot—bleeding enough that a puddle has formed at his feet.
“You need help. The hospital is just a few blocks away—”
“No.” Brian shakes his head. “There’s a number in my phone. It’s in the storage unit. Call that.”
I stare at him, trying to grasp what he’s telling me. He has a contact—a doctor on call or someone off-the-record, someone who won’t report a gunshot wound to the police. But I already knew that. I look him dead in the eye. “Who are you?”
He stares back, unflinching. “I could ask you the same thing.”