She pushed it open. “She’s out. She killed the cop on duty, got nurses’ scrubs and walked. I need to go. Now.”
“Two minutes.” He hunkered over his comp. “Two bloody minutes. I’m nearly there. She’ll go to McQueen. Let me find the bastard.”
“Add Maxwell to the search. Don’t ask,” she snapped. “Just do it. Add Maxwell and look for a transfer of funds on the twelfth of the month.”
“Feeney sent me the same data. It’s in. Be quiet.”
She gritted her teeth, fisted her hands. But she knew that look—the cold, clear eyes, the scowl. If he said he was close, he was close.
He snapped out orders even as he worked the keyboard and the screen manually. From her angle she could see data—incomprehensible to her—flashing by.
She answered her signaling ’link with a snarl. “What?”
“A Sampson Kinnier just reported his all-terrain stolen out of the first-level visitors’ lot. A red ’fifty-nine Marathon,” Bree continued, “Texas plates, Charlie-Tango-Zulu-one-five-one. BOLO’s issued.”
“Roarke thinks he’s closing in on a location. I’m taking another couple minutes here. If he hits, I’ll relay on the way.”
“Don’t bloody hell think,” Roarke muttered. “Bloody hell know.”
She went with instinct. “It’s going to hit. Advise your lieutenant we’ll need SWAT, tactical, crisis negotiator—all the bells and whistles, Detective—on alert.”
“Yes, sir. Dallas, if he runs—Melinda.”
“The best thing we can do for her is the job. Now go.”
She shoved the ’link away. “Roarke—”
He shot up a hand, clearly telling her to be quiet again.
Do the job, do the job, she told herself, rolling to the balls of her feet and back. When doing the job meant waiting, it could tear pieces off the guts.
“Got him, buggering bastard. Copy location to vehicle navvy,” Roarke ordered. “And get the bloody vehicle out front now.”
As the computer acknowledged, he picked up a holstered weapon—one he’d had no business transporting over state lines—strapped it on as he moved.
“Where?” she demanded as she jumped into the elevator with him. “Where?”
He rattled off an address as he shrugged his jacket over the weapon. “It’s only minutes from here according to the computer.”
“She’s already there.” Eve relayed the address to Ricchio.
The adrenaline and whatever mild blocker they’d given her at the hospital burned off before she sped into the parking garage. The way pain radiated from her ribs she feared she’d snapped the fused bone. Her heart beat so hard she could barely get her breath as she headed toward the elevator in a limping run.
They’d said something about a hairline fracture in her ankle. Hairline, my ass, she thought. She could feel it puff out like a pus balloon over the nurse’s ugly shoes.
She just needed to get to Isaac, just needed to get some candy. Oh God, yes. Needed him to take care of her, like he promised, like nobody else ever had.
He’d give her what she needed—the drugs, the drugs—and buy her flowers.
Tears of pain, rage, withdrawal leaked from her eyes as she stumbled into the building. Sweat poured down her face.
A couple of days, she thought, just needed a couple of days to heal up. Then they’d go after Dallas. God, she couldn’t wait to get her hands on that bitch. She wouldn’t look so fucking tough when they got through with her.
And she wanted to go first, wanted to pay the bitch cop back for the pain, for the fear.
Her breath came in wheezes as she limped into the elevator.
“Hold the elevator!” someone sang out.