Willing to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

Shit!

In a flash, everything she’d worked for was about to be lost. S

he’d dreamed of tormenting Pescoli for years and now it was going to end here? No way!

She worked fast, thankful that the kid had finally worn himself out and for once wasn’t screaming his fool head off.

She figured she still had the upper hand for a little while longer if she played her cards right. She unlocked the back door, would make her escape down the path that cut along the steep hillside to a parking garage where her vehicle was parked near the river. Her eyes were used to the dark and so she eased over to the fuse box, as old as it was, and pulled the main lever, cutting electricity to the box, insuring that no lights would turn on if they hit the switch. She slipped her small mag light into her pocket, and with her gun in one hand, she slid her high-intensity flashlight out of her pocket and held it between her teeth. She lifted the baby from his crib just as he was starting to wake and fuss and eased around an old wringer washer with a huge tub. When she looked over the rim, she had a full view of the door.

She heard the key turn in the lock.

Then she pinched the kid.

* * *

The door opened just as Pescoli heard Tucker scream.

Without thinking she flew inside the room and heard Santana call out, “Regan! Stop!” as he pounded against the wall, fumbling for the switch. “Shit, there’s no lights!”

“Tucker? Baby?” she cried, banging her shin into something, a washtub? Pain ricocheted up her leg. It was dark as pitch in here and her child was crying, screaming. Her heart wrenched.

“Regan, it’s a trap! I can’t get the lights—”

“I’m here. Honey, I’m—”

A spark of light simultaneous with an ear-splitting blast.

Blam!

The laundry house boomed with the sound. Regan flew backward, the gun flung from her hand, her body slamming into wooden cupboards. Pain screamed up her back and she slithered to the floor.

She’d been hit. Hit.

The gun . . . where the hell . . . ? She turned in the direction that she’d heard it skitter across the concrete.

“Regan!” Santana yelled.

Blam! Another shot, this one to the wall where chips of concrete sprayed the area.

Oh. God.

Blood oozed from her torso.

“Oh, Jesus, Regan!” Santana yelled.

The baby shrieked.

“Don’t move, Santana, or I swear to God, I’ll kill your kid right here and now.” Padgett’s voice was low. Evil and thick, as if she were drunk, but the meaning was clear.

“Let him go,” Pescoli yelled, but her voice was faint, and though she was scrambling to get up, to strip her son from Padgett’s arms, to break free . . . she couldn’t get her feet beneath her.

Her feet slid in something slick.

Was it her own blood? She touched her abdomen and felt the wetness, warm and oozing.

She sensed Santana moving closer in the dark. Could he jump Padgett? Risk it?

If only she could get to her gun, if only—