“You used me,” I accuse.
“To be fair, we used each other.”
I open the door.
19
The Dare
Grayson
Thirty-two steps to the service elevator. On a floor plan, that distance feels short and easy. In real life with a hostage and screaming nurses and police aiming guns at your head, each step might as well be a mile.
“Neither one of us will make it out of this alive,” London says. “They will shoot through me to get to you, Grayson. You’re a convicted serial killer twice over. You’re not leaving this hospital.”
I breathe in her scent. The sweet note of lilac bolsters my courage and frees me of the sedative, urging my adrenaline to pump harder. “They’re not shooting a renowned doctor. The state doesn’t want that lawsuit.”
Her laugh is hollow. “So you did use me. This was the plan. Somehow you figured getting me here would be your best chance at escape.”
I pull her closer and we inch another step backward. “This is a conversation for later.”
“Sullivan.” Detective Foster aims his gun upward. “I’m putting my weapon down.” He holds one hand up and hunches to set his piece on the floor. He then orders the other officer to do the same. “We’re not doing this here, or anywhere else. If you release Dr. Noble, then we’ll all forget this happened. It’s not as if you can be prosecuted any more heavily than you already have been.”
I smirk. “That’s not a very good argument, detective.”
His brow furrows as he realizes my point. “But you don’t really want to hurt your doctor, do you? She’s been the only one in your corner.”
I gain another two steps toward the elevator. “Again, not a good counter strike. She fed me to the wolves. Or did you miss her fascinating testimony?”
“Sullivan, don’t—don’t take another step…,” he warns.
I hear the elevated pitch in his voice; he knows he’s lost this round. I tug London toward the wall, using it to shield our right so I can focus on the officers to our left in the adjacent hallway as we ease toward the elevator threshold.
“Push the button,” I tell her. She does, and when the doors slide open, I jerk her inside. “See you at the bottom,” I say to Foster before the doors close.
I hit the Lobby button, then count down the seconds. At ten, I push in the Stop button. The car jerks to a halt.
“What are you doing?”
“Trust me,” I say, and oh, the beautiful look of pure hatred on London’s face heats my blood. She’s breathtaking when she’s livid.
“We’re not a team,” she grates. “I diagnosed you as delusional in open court. God, I was right.”
“I know. It was brilliant, by the way.” I stuff the gun behind my back and lift a section of the car ceiling, sliding it back. “You should feel proud of that—the way you callously led the jury to kill without remorse. They have you to thank for not losing any sleep over it. Took less than two hours to convict me.”
I step onto the bar and hoist myself through the ceiling.
“I did not—”
“You did. You can stop lying.” I look down at her. “Give me your string.” I extend my hand. Her eyebrows push together in confusion. “Now, London. Give me the damn string in your pocket.”
She curses and digs out the black thread.
“All of it,” I demand. “I know you keep more.”
She hands up the roll of string. I unravel it and hand her one end. “Tie this around the red button.”
She does. “You said you don’t want to harm me. Are you letting me go?”