CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
"FBI! Don't move!"
Miles burst through the bathroom door, his weapon raised.
The space was small, just four stalls and a row of sinks with an ornate mirror.
Because it was so intimate and quiet, he had no trouble hearing the sound of a muffled moan coming from within the space.
It was weak and desperate, coming from the far stall.
Miles rushed forward and yanked the stall door open.
A woman in an emerald gown sat slumped on the toilet, fully dressed.
Her head lolled to one side, her eyes wide with terror but her body completely unresponsive.
Next to her, positioned between the stall wall and the back of the toilet, stood a man in a white server's jacket.
One hand was positioned at her throat. A small black bag sat open on the tile floor, partially unzipped.
Something inside caught the bathroom light and a dull shine… likely something metallic.
Miles took all of this in within the space of a second. It was also within this single second that he saw that the man was David Hartley. His eyed had turned toward Miles with an expression of pure rage.
"Step away from her," Miles commanded, keeping his weapon trained on Hartley's center mass.
Hartley's hand moved toward the bag on the floor, but Miles recognized the motion for what it was. "Don't,” he commanded.
For a moment, everything froze. Miles could see the calculations happening behind Hartley's eyes.
Then Hartley lunged forward, not toward his bag but directly at Miles, using his body as a battering ram.
It was perhaps the last thing Miles would have suspected, a man held at gunpoint rushing directly for the gun in such a tight, enclosed space.
Miles tried to sidestep but Hartley caught him in the shoulder, shoving him backward through the stall door.
Miles stumbled a bit, falling hard against one of the sinks against the wall behind him.
into the sink. Miles's weapon swung wide as he fought to keep his balance.
By the time he had his feet centered and his gun back up into a firing position, Hartley was already past him, sprinting for the door.
At the same time, Miles watched as the comatose victim slouched on the toilet. She tilted to the left, and her head hit the stall door with a dull thud.
“Shit,” he breathed as he ran for the door. He passed through it so hard and so fast that he nearly knocked Vic down as she came rushing from the gala-side.
“Miles, are you—”
“The victim is alive and in one of the stalls inside,” he said, calling over his shoulder as he gave chase. "Stay with her!"
He didn’t take time to hear Vic’s response.
He was already running back into the larger room to the right, the only direction to go.
Many of the party-goers had parted and stepped aside, making it easy to see Hartley’s progress.
Hartley was twenty feet ahead, his white jacket stark against the dark walls.
He turned right, heading deeper into the museum rather than toward the exits.
Miles sprinted after him. His rental shoes slapped against the polished floor as he ran past startled guests who pressed themselves against the walls. Someone screamed and others let out surprised curses. Somewhere nearby, he heard a few champagne glasses shatter.
"Federal agent! Move!" Miles yelled.
Hartley cut through a gallery filled with medieval armor, weaving between display cases.
Miles followed, catching glimpses of white jacket between the steel and glass.
A suit of armor rocked on its stand as Hartley clipped it with his shoulder.
One party-goer didn’t move aside fast enough, and Hartley body-checked them like he was playing hockey.
They emerged into a larger space, vaulted ceilings soaring overhead.
Renaissance paintings lined the walls, but Miles barely registered them.
Hartley was pulling ahead, taking advantage of the confused and alarmed crowd.
He turned sharply with cat-like reflexes and disappeared through another archway.
Miles pushed harder, his lungs burning. He rounded the corner and found himself in a gallery of French Impressionists.
Monet's water lilies blurred past. Guests scattered, some dropping to the floor, others running for exits.
Somewhere behind him, Miles could hear security personnel shouting.
Everything was devolving to chaos behind him but he had to keep his attention turned forward.
Hartley vaulted over a velvet rope and cut through a restricted area. A security guard tried to intercept him but Hartley shoved the man aside without breaking stride. Miles followed the same path, hurdling the rope and nearly colliding with the guard who was stumbling backward.
"Sorry!" Miles gasped.
They were moving through the American wing now, past landscapes and portraits of founding fathers. Hartley knocked over a standing display sign, sending it clattering across the floor. Miles jumped over it and kept running, intensely focused on Hartley’s back and every single stride the man made.
Hartley burst through a set of double doors and Miles followed him into the Greek and Roman galleries.
Towering marble statues filled the space, their blank eyes staring down at the chaos.
Columns rose like trees in a stone forest. The ceiling was glass, letting in moonlight that painted everything in shades of gray.
A couple in formal wear stood frozen near a statue of Apollo. Hartley ran straight toward them, and the man tried to step aside but wasn't fast enough. Hartley's shoulder caught him and both men went down in a tangle of limbs.
Miles took advantage and closed the distance right away.
Hartley scrambled to his feet, but he was trapped now.
The layout of the gallery formed a dead end behind him, with statues blocking the side exits and only one way back the way they'd come.
Miles stood between Hartley and escape just as three museum security guards came rushing into the room.
Miles marched forward, his face a stone wall of determination. "Get on the ground. Now."
Hartley stood among the statues, his chest heaving. His white jacket was torn at the shoulder. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead. He raised his hands slowly, palms out in a gesture of surrender.
"Okay," Hartley said. "Okay…yeah, okay. I'm done."
He lowered himself to his knees, keeping his hands visible. Miles approached carefully, his weapon never wavering. Something about this felt wrong. Too easy. Too quick.
"Hands behind your head," Miles ordered.
Hartley complied, lacing his fingers behind his skull. Miles was three feet away now, reaching for his cuffs with his free hand.
Hartley's right hand moved so fast Miles almost didn't see it. A syringe appeared from somewhere, probably his pocket, the needle glinting in the moonlight. Hartley lunged forward and up, driving the syringe toward Miles's neck.
Miles twisted away and the needle scraped across his jaw instead of finding its target. He grabbed Hartley's wrist and yanked it down, but Hartley was fighting like a man with nothing to lose. They grappled, spinning between the statues.
Miles couldn't shoot. Not here, not with marble and guests and priceless artifacts all around them. A stray bullet could kill someone or destroy something irreplaceable. He holstered his weapon and focused on controlling Hartley's wrist, keeping that needle away from his skin.
Hartley swung wildly with his free hand, catching Miles in the ribs. Pain flared but Miles held on, forcing Hartley backward into a statue of Athena. The marble didn't give, making the impact all the more brutal.
Images flashed through Miles's mind. He saw news footage of Kane escaping from prison. He saw all of the victims, all the families destroyed—not just in this case, but for each and every one of the disciples they’d tracked down.
And as all of this broiled and unraveled in his head, something inside of Miles snapped.
Anger surged forward like a flood of lava, taking over his mind, every nerve and muscle.
He wrenched Hartley's arm with both hands, twisting it at an angle no joint was meant to go.
Hartley screamed. The syringe clattered to the floor.
But Miles didn't stop. He pulled harder, feeling tendons strain and bones grind.
"Miles!" Vic's voice came from somewhere behind him, but it sounded distant.
Miles pulled Hartley's arm further, past the point of pain into the realm of damage.
The anger was a roaring in his ears. All the therapy sessions, all the careful control, all the pretending he was fine when he wasn't. It all evaporated in the face of this killer who had been so close to murdering another innocent person.
The bone broke with a sharp crack that Miles felt more than heard.
Hartley's scream went up an octave, raw and like that of an animal. He collapsed, trying to cradle his ruined arm, but Miles still had hold of it. Miles kept pulling, kept applying pressure, watching Hartley writhe and knowing he should stop but unable to make his hands release. He pressed down harder on the man, ensuring he could not escape, making sure the bastard knew he’d been caught just like Kane had been caught, just like all of the other wretched disciples had been caught.
"Miles, let go!" Vic was there now, grabbing his shoulders. "Let go!"
She pulled him backward and Miles finally released Hartley's arm.
The killer remained on the marble floor, curling around his injury, sobbing and screaming.
The sound echoed off the stone statues and glass ceiling.
Some of the on lookers looked quite disturbed.
A few had taken out their phones to video it.
“Put your fucking phones away,” Vic snapped.
At the same time, Miles staggered backward into Vic. His hands were shaking and his breath came in ragged gasps that he was pretty sure came from much more than just running. He looked down at Hartley writhing on the floor and felt something break loose inside his chest.
Tears came suddenly, hot and unwelcome. They replaced the anger he’d been feeling so quickly that he felt dizzy for a moment.
Miles tried to stop them but couldn't. His vision blurred. The adrenaline was draining away, leaving behind only the realization of what he had just done. He’d completely lost control and would have done far more damage if Vic had not appeared when she did.
"I've got you," Vic said quietly. In hearing her voice, he realized that he was moving; she was escorting him away from the crowd, away from Hartley.
The security guards were blocking him off from the crowd.
Vaguely, he was also aware that Detective Linhart had come into the room.
But those details were fuzzy and muddied as Vic guided him away from Hartley, away from the screaming and the broken man on the floor.
"I've got you," she said. “It’s okay…you’re okay, Miles…”
Miles let Vic led him to the far side of the gallery, away from all of it. He pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to force the tears to stop, but they kept coming. His whole body was shaking now.
"I'm not okay," Miles said. His voice cracked on the words. "Vic, I'm not okay."
"You’re fine," Vic said. She kept one hand on his shoulder, grounding him. "It’s going to be okay."
Behind them, Hartley continued to mewl in pain, the sound mixing with the approaching sirens outside the museum.
The noise of it all painted a clear picture; it reminded him that despite whatever emotional turmoil he was currently feeling, he had done his job.
They had caught another disciple and had saved a life.
But standing there weeping in the Greek and Roman gallery while Vic held him upright, Miles realized that Dr. Mitchell had been right all along.
Something had to change. Because whatever was happening inside him, whatever had broken inside of him at some point during this string of cases, it was getting worse.
And he had no idea how to fix it.