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“I’ll get it done.” She got up from her desk.
“That damn punk hit me first!” Brewster said again, more forcefully.
“He’s being released, and you’re not pressing charges.” Grayson was immovable.
“Oh, yes, I am! I don’t care whose kid he is! And I don’t like his influence on my daughter. And I want him to know it.”
“I suggest you give this some more thought,”
Grayson said pointedly.
Brewster bit back what he was going to say and Alvarez, hoping to defuse the situation, said, “Nate Santana called. Wanted to be part of the investigation. I told him to let us do our job, but he sounded unconvinced.”
“Jesus, what a loser,” Brewster muttered, and Selena wondered if he meant Santana or Jeremy. Didn’t really matter.
She had to push Brewster out of the way of the door as she headed into the hall.
“And send Hicks home, too,” Grayson said to both Brewster and Alvarez. “Call his son.”
“I already left a message for Bill,” Brewster said.
“But the old guy’s probably sober enough now to release on his own.”
Grayson grunted. “Get ’em both out of the drunk tank and let’s concentrate on what really matters: who this bastard is, and where he’s keeping Pescoli.”
“Are we staying here all night?” Brewster asked.
“Leave, if you want,” Grayson said.
“I was just thinking we didn’t need to pay out more overtime,” he said lamely.
Alvarez turned down the hall, knowing she wouldn’t
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be heading to her apartment anytime soon. She couldn’t. Not until she was beyond exhaustion and she felt there was nothing further she could do to help Pescoli.
Regan lay on the cot, beaten and battered. She hurt all over, but not as much as her mind told her she ought to. Maybe she was dying. Maybe the fight had ruptured something inside her that was slowly killing her.
No. No, she didn’t believe that. There was something she had to do. Save them.
She opened her eyes to almost total darkness. The fire was nothing but glimmering red coals. She was clutching the blanket with a death grip; she’d grabbed it for warmth in a twilight state of floating pain.
She had to save the other victims. Had to. She couldn’t let the bastard win.
Carefully, she lifted her right wrist, about all the energy she had left. It was scraped raw, through more layers of skin than she believed a human possessed. Blood was everywhere. Hers. His, too, undoubtedly. But as much as she hurt, as injured as she was, she couldn’t give up.
Setting her teeth, she slid to the edge of the cot and looked down at the weld. Her fight with her captor had taken a toll on it. An unexpected bonus for her. It looked very weak. Maybe weak enough to break?
Regan’s heart started pounding a deep, painful 300
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tattoo. If she could summon her strength, she might be able to free herself.