It’s the most important question. Every contingency to follow rides on his answer.
He feathers my hair over my shoulder, rough fingers stroking my neck. “Shh. You’re going to ruin the surprise.” Then he presses hard against me, making me aware of the gun tucked in his waistband.
I wrench out of his hold and spin to face him straight-on. “What are you going to do? Shoot me?” I look around at all the people in the club. “This isn’t some cliché movie, Nelson. You’re not going to stick a gun in my side and lead me to some remote location. If you’re going to kill me, do it. Right now. In front of everyone here.”
He chuckles. “God, you really are a snotty bitch.”
“And you’re merely a pathetic imitator,” I sling back. “At least we can be honest with each other now.”
He stalks forward and lowers his voice. “Do you really want to make a scene? What are your chances to discover what I’ve done with your lover then?”
The rules of psychological warfare are different for everyone. How far someone will go to demoralize and dominate their opponent is dependent on their level of commitment. Their desire and need to win—to make their enemy suffer.
So the question becomes: Who wants it more?
Me.
“Take me to him,” I demand.
I don’t give him another moment. We’re already drawing too much attention. I start off the dance floor, and Nelson’s hand slips into mine. “So we don’t get separated,” he says.
The cool night air is a strange comfort as I push outside. The chill chases away some of the sickly dread festering inside that the heat of the club allowed to thrive. I remove my hand from Nelson’s grip as I start down the steps.
“Your phone, London.”
Without turning around, I dig my cell from my suit pocket and hand it to him from over my shoulder. “Is he alive?”
The question leaves behind a sour aftertaste. I squeeze my eyes closed.
I hear the distinct crunch of my phone beneath his boot. Then the former agent moves in front of me. In the dim glow of the streetlight, I discern the scratches I put on his face. Now faint and healed over, but they’re there. He notices my inspection with an irritated scowl.
I smile. “Everyone has scars, Nelson. It’s what defines us.”
Without a rebuttal, he forces me to walk. We’re heading in the same direction, following the exact path I took once before. I know he’s going to turn the corner into the alley before he directs my course down the darkened lane between the buildings.
“Being on the run from the authorities…” I hedge. “You’re really taking this copycat thing to the next level.”
Still no response.
“Why do you do it, Nelson? For the rush? For the sheer satisfaction of outsmarting the Feds?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Understand is what I do. Try me.” When he remains silent, I add, “I know about your family. What happened to them.”
“You don’t know anything,” he snaps, driving a hand through his u
nkempt hair.
“Then explain it to me. Make me understand.”
He chuckles, incensed. “You’re so fucking annoying.” Only he delves into his story. “I was working a case,” he says. “I should’ve been there. But this perp… With all the regulations and red tape, I couldn’t bring him in. So I had to sit on him, and wait. Just wait for him to make a move so I could catch him in the act. I thought I couldn’t live with myself if he killed another girl while I wasn’t looking.”
I slow my steps, and Nelson matches my pace.
“I was wrong. I found out that what I couldn’t live with was the guilt of not being there for my wife. For my little baby son. Had I been there, that accident never would’ve happened.”
“You don’t know that. You can’t.”