Wicked Games (McCade Brothers 1.50)

“Climb or die.”

“Okay, okay.” The words scraped along her tight, dry throat. Turned out her fear of bullets trumped her fear of heights. She clasped the nearest rung in a bloody grip. “I’ll climb.”

Working her way up the ladder took even more effort than she’d anticipated. Escape scenarios cartwheeled through her mind too quickly for her to get a solid hold on any one plan.

Stay calm. Easier thought than done, but she slowed the chatter in her head to something she could at least track.

Worst Nightmare was right behind her on the ladder. Could she land a good, solid kick to the bitch’s head and knock her off the ladder? Wouldn’t a fall from even halfway up incapacitate anyone?

She glanced down to gauge kicking distance. Big mistake. Not only was Worst Nightmare smart enough to stay a few rungs out of range, but the sudden awareness of how high she was made the ladder dip and sway like a rope dangling from a helicopter…during a category-five hurricane. She clung to the rungs and prayed. Thoughts about knocking anyone off the ladder flew right out of her mind. She needed to concentrate on keeping herself from falling.

“Keep moving,” an impatient voice ordered from below.

Gritting her teeth, she resumed climbing.

She had accomplished one thing with her aborted escape attempt. She’d gotten a better look at Worst Nightmare. The woman’s height, weight, and identity remained unknown, because the angle and the overall gloom made a clear view impossible, but now she knew her attacker wore a nun’s habit, like some sort of crazy, holy judge. The surreal image somehow made her predicament all the more terrifying. Dread shot threw her and she practically flew up the last few rungs.

Getting from the ladder to the platform involved twisting sideways, grabbing the rails surrounding the platform, and pulling herself over. As soon as she got her hands around the rails, a solid weight struck her from behind and sent her sprawling onto the platform. She landed hard on her left side. Pain flared, and then spread like wildfire as a body landed on top of her, forced her face down, and straddled her. Survival instincts trumped pain, and she struggled, trying to dislodge the nun from hell.

A hand fisted in her hair and slammed her forehead into the wooden floor. Fireworks exploded in front of her eyes a second before she felt the unmistakable imprint of the gun’s barrel digging into her right temple. The prospect of a bullet in her brain drained the fight out of her. She stilled and concentrated on catching her breath.

The grim voice echoed close to her ear. “I’m going to stand up. And then you’re going to do the same. Nice and slow. Got it?”

She nodded.

“One wrong move and I put a hole in your fucking head. Understand?”

Stacy swallowed hard and nodded again. The weight of the other woman’s body lifted off her and the hand tangled in her hair pulled viciously, forcing her to her feet. They did a quick shuffle, until Worst Nightmare had her where she wanted her. Once she did, the woman let go, pivoted right, and aimed the gun at her temple in a steady, two-handed grip. Somewhere behind her was the open side of the platform, which enabled the lighting technicians to access the network of bars and wires housing the stage lights.

A desire to turn her head and get a good look at Worst Nightmare proved nearly irresistible, but the proximity of the gun kept her from moving a muscle. You’re one twitchy trigger finger away from having nothing to lose. Don’t move. Relying on restraint from a homicidal nun struck her as crazy. Not homicidal-nun crazy, but right up there.

“I don’t know what you think you’re going to accomplish, but your big plans to ruin my reputation and career are over. My producers already knew about my past. I spoke to the press tonight and now my fans know too.”

“I’m aware. Why do you think I’m here?” Fury caused her voice to go high and ragged on the question. “I didn’t want things to come to this, but you made the choice, Stacy. I asked one simple thing of you—go back to the little shithole you crawled out of and stay there—but could you do it? No. You opened your big mouth, talked to the media, and tried to take charge, because clearly, you don’t understand who’s in control here. So fine,” she breathed deeply, “we’ll do this the hard way.”

From the corner of her eye, Stacy saw her tighten her grip on the gun. Sweet Jesus, was the conversation over already? “Wait! Tell me why? At least have the guts to look me in the face and tell me why you want to get rid of me.”

A tense silence stretched for several heartbeats, and then the gun began an unhurried journey around her forehead, until they stood face-to-face. Worst Nightmare drew the gun back a couple inches. Stacy’s universe collapsed to the single black hole directly in her line of sight. A twisting cramp turned her insides to liquid. It was one thing knowing some maniac had a gun aimed at her head, but staring down the barrel offered a whole different level of terror. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. She shifted her eyes from the gun to the woman standing wielding it.

“Oh, my God.” Recognition hit her like a fist to the stomach. “You?”

…

Ian bit back a curse as he examined the broken lock. Kicked in? He pulled his gun and crept through the door, keeping low. Since nobody shot him in the head the moment he cleared the threshold, he swept left with his gun, then right. No sign of anyone.

He straightened, stuck his gun into the back of his jeans, and debated his choices. Vern’s office and the dancers’ dressing room were down the hallway to the left. The hallway on his right led to the stage, and beyond that, another narrow hall led to the back door of the club.

Instinct told him to go right, since that direction ultimately led to an exit. He shot off a text to Trevor. Door’s busted. Get back here. Don’t bring Kylie. He didn’t wait for a reply, just tucked the phone in his pocket and started down the hall, scanning in every direction as he went. A few steps along, he glanced down and froze. What the hell…? He crouched and picked up a small white feather.

His heart thundered in his chest. Stacy’s wings were covered with white feathers. He continued down the hallway. A couple feet farther, he saw another feather…and another. He drew in a breath to call out to her, but then his gaze snagged on another clump of feathers, and his voice died in his throat. Something dark coated these. Something like oil…or… He picked one up and held it close to his face.

An invisible fi

st grabbed his gut and squeezed. Oh, God. Blood. He ran his finger over the wispy plumes. Claret red smeared his skin. Fresh blood.

He dropped the feather. Every instinct clamored to tear off down the hall, but the calm, logical detective inside him took charge and forced him to slow down. His tactical training dictated he take some precautions, like putting backup in place first. He spent a precious minute texting Trevor again. Where r u?

Come quietly, from outside door. Stay sharp. Then he shoved his phone into his pocket and pulled out his gun.