“Everything,” he whispered, anguished. “The mayor wanted…and Fielding said…”
God, he’d ratted all of them out. All that nosing around Fielding had done at Dartmoor, asking about old crimes, stirring up records that had nothing to do with the Carpathians. The mayor wanted the Dogs behind bars, and he was taking no chances. If the Carpathians didn’t get them, and the feds didn’t have enough to make a RICO case, then he’d pick them off one by one, fed by the confessions of rats.
Maggie took another step. She didn’t think she could get around him and to the door. She didn’t know if he’d be able to catch her as intoxicated as he was.
“You have to help me,” he burst out, head lifting suddenly, unfocused eyes pinning to her face. “You have to–” He saw her foot shift back, and his lips skinned back off his teeth. “Don’t walk away from me!”
She bolted.
Maggie took off at a sprint toward the opposite end of the hall, chucking the water bottle over her head, not knowing if it hit him, not daring to slow down and check. His boots thundered after her and she wished running was still part of her workout routine. She concentrated on her calves and thighs, willing the muscles to stretch and work. Jace panted behind her, gaining ground it sounded like. Her heart jackhammered and her lungs burned. She wouldn’t allow herself to think about what would happen if he caught her.
The hall ended in a T and Maggie swung left, making an empty grab at the wall for balance as she skidded around the corner. She tripped, staggered. Gasped. “God!” She landed on one knee and the impact rattled up through her spine, hitting her in the teeth and the base of the skull, knocking the breath from her.
She tossed a frantic look over her shoulder as she climbed to her feet.
Jace wasn’t looking at her. He’d ground to a halt, back at the intersection of the halls, staring back the way they’d come, toward the doors.
His mouth opened as if to speak –
And a gunshot blasted through the cinderblock hall, a blast like dynamite in the close confines.
Maggie watched, frozen, as Jace caught the round in the chest and glanced down in disbelief at the red stain spreading across his shirt. Like a toy running out of battery power, he sank back in slow motion, legs finally going to rubber, and slumped back against the wall. His head lolled onto his chest. Dead.
Maggie heard the heavy tread of boots coming toward her and began to shiver, gathering herself for another run.
It was Collier who stepped into view, his gun in hand, not a trace of sympathy on his face as he looked down at his slain brother.
He glanced over at Maggie. “You okay?”
She nodded.
Then there was the sound of the doors flying open with screeching sounds. A tumble of voices, footfalls, moving toward them.
“Hands up!” someone shouted. “Drop your weapon and put your hands behind your head!”
Collier complied without hesitation, turning to face the stampeding noise of the police.
Fielding stepped into view, face a thunderhead. He forced Collier down onto his knees and cuffed him as two officers went to Jace, and a third came toward her, saying, “Ma’am, come with me please.”
“I killed Jace Bagwell,” Collier said, calmly. “And Andre Preston. And Mason Stephens Jr. and Ronnie Archer. I killed all of them.”
Forty-Nine
“Fucking traitors,” Mercy grumbled, and Ava glanced over at him sharply.
She waited until she had his attention, then lifted her brows in silent question, daring him to dig the hole deeper.
“Well, you are,” he muttered.
She snorted as she resumed packing. Her cross-body purse was large enough to fit their cash, her gun and extra clip, all four of their phones – real and prepaid – and her wallet with all their insurance information. “You look like death warmed over,” she said, “but I’m a fucking traitor. Not your concerned wife, no. A fucking traitor.”
“Don’t forget your brother. He’s one too.”
“Right. Can’t overlook that.”
She zipped the bag closed, slipped the strap over her head, and gave him a frosty glare.
His fever was stronger today, a hot pulse that thumped against her palm when she pressed it to his forehead. “Your hand’s cold,” he’d complained earlier, when she’d felt for his temperature. His color was worse, his skin clammy. The wound looked angry and ragged. At the very least, it needed debriding. She was beginning to worry about the infection becoming even more serious, leading to sepsis.
