London

“Drop the weapon!”

My hands still, the blade trembles with my restraint. A thin line of red beads and drips down Grayson’s throat. I stare at the blood, the poison flowing out.

I recognize the gruff boom of the voice. I hold my place, not lowering the knife.

I have to finish this.

“I said, drop it, London,” Detective Foster shouts, his gun aimed at me.

“She can’t.” Nelson turns his weapon on Foster. “She doesn’t have a choice. She has to kill him.”

I glance at the detective. Foster’s confusion results in his aim bouncing from me to Nelson. “What’s going on?” Foster demands.

Nelson makes a move to his left.

“Don’t—” The sound of the gun safety clicking off reverberates around the tense room. The agent halts movement, the standoff between them thickening the air, suffocating.

I use the distraction to gauge Grayson’s condition. He’s weakening. Sweat dots his forehead, his facial muscles tic, muscles spasm. I know the symptoms; I memorized them. Soon, convulsions will take hold.

He doesn’t have long.

This scenario has two contingencies: Foster’s arrival sets the first in motion.

“I’m ready,” Grayson says. “You’re ready.”

I suck in a fortifying breath. Then: “You’ve been chasing a copycat,” I tell Foster. I catch and hold his gaze. His Glock is still directed at Nelson. “The murders in Brunswick and Minneapolis. The second Rockland victim. Even the prostitute that you stumbled on to…” I let the truth of my words drift over him. “And you’ve been so close to catching the killer. Working alongside him nearly every day of the investigation.”

His thick brows draw together. As realization sets in, he focuses on the man in his sights. “I knew something was off with you.”

Nelson adjusts his stance, rolling his shoulders and lifting his chin. “You’re not a part of this, Foster. You’re a bumbling, reject detective, and you’re officially off the case.”

A gunshot fires.

The silence breaks. Gunfire cracks with a resounding echo, leaving behind a muted ringing in my ears. On startled reflex, I drop the knife. Grayson pulls me down against the container and positions his body over mine.

A loud groan of pain, and then another shot rings out.

“I hate guns.” Grayson’s voice is barely audible through the gauzy stuffing filling my ears. “This how you want to announce your legacy, Nelson!” he yells. “Gunning down your victims… Not very original.”

Then, Grayson’s comforting weight disappears. He releases a grunt as a booted foot makes contact with his ribs, then a sharp pain lances the back of my head. I’m yanked backward, my bare skin burning as I’m dragged along the cold steel.

“Get up,” Nelson seethes, pulling me to stand by my hair.

I lash out, nails aimed at his face, but he easily blocks my attack. He smashes the butt of the gun against my temple. Pain splinters my head, darkness blinks before my eyes. He draws me against his chest. Pushes the muzzle to my throbbing head.

My feet kick at the steel despite the pain it causes my injured flesh, seeking purchase as he drags me over the container. Nelson grips my shoulder, securing his forearm across my chest. Grayson watches the moment through a haze of pain and helplessness as the aconite ravishes his system.

Incensed, I regain my composure and latch on to Nelson’s arm, digging my nails into his skin. “Let me go—”

“Not happening,” he says near my ear. “You’re good at being a hostage, London. Don’t let me down now.”

As my vision clears, I glimpse Foster below. Leaned up against a support beam, he uses it as a shield. He’s holding his casted arm. Red seeps between his fingers. He’s been shot.

Grayson is dying. Foster is injured. How badly, I’m not sure—but he won’t be able to make a stand against Nelson. I’m a sacrificial lamb for Nelson’s escape. Fighting to live only long enough until I transition into a burden. Where he’ll dispose of me.

The moment is crystal, pristine. So clear, I can taste the acid infusing the air.

I catch Grayson’s gaze and stop struggling. The clarity I feel is reflected in his sheer blue eyes. He’s losing the battle, his awareness slipping away. Now.

When Foster steps from behind the beam, gun drawn and aimed, I act.

I go limp like a rag doll. Nelson growls his frustration as he tries to hoist me up. Foster takes his shot. The bullet wizzes past Nelson, just missing its mark. Nelson abandons the fight for a hostage and releases me. He takes aim at Foster.

Grayson is forgotten in the chaos.

He rises up now, the last of his strength concentrated into one final burst. Nelson notices too late. Grayson attacks Nelson, and the gun skitters across the container. I crawl toward it, but by the time I’ve closed my hand around the weapon, I’ve already lost too much time.

Grayson has Nelson locked in a vise-grip, his arm latched around his neck. “The knife,” Grayson says.

A moment—one clear moment—where our eyes meet, and I know what I have to do.

The knife is in my hand. I look for Foster. He’s ascending the side of the container, slowly. His broken arm a hindrance. Steps deliberate, I approach Grayson. His struggle with Nelson is diminishing him further. He can’t restrain him much longer.

I meet Nelson’s eyes and, with a smile, drive the blade into his sternum. He sputters a shocked, incomprehensible admonishment—something with a muttered bitch. I twist the blade deeper, up beneath his rib cage.

From my peripheral, I glimpse Foster’s hand reach over the top of the container.

Only seconds now.

As Nelson quickly becomes dead weight, Grayson nearly topples over. “I’m too weak…” He trails off.

“I’ll see you soon,” I tell Grayson.

“In hell, baby.” He winks.

I brace my bare feet against the metal and slam my hands into Grayson’s shoulder.

Grayson and Nelson go over the edge together. The momentum knocks me off balance, and I slip on the blood coating the container. “Grayson—”

It happens so quickly, in a blink.

I scramble toward the edge of the container and look over the side, my hands gripped to the metal like it’s the only solid force holding me together.

I flash back to how fast the predator in the maze dissolved—how, within minutes, I could no longer distinguish his body parts. Flesh and bone liquefied.

Below me, the mixture of sulfuric acid churns violently. The fumes irritates my eyes. A thick film already bubbles over the top, blocking my view of the carnage happening within.

Then I’m pulled back. Foster’s thick arm locks around my waist as he wrangles me away from the edge. He’s telling me not to look. Don’t look.

I fold myself against him, my bones weak. Every ache and pain alive and fueling my oncoming breakdown.

“Don’t look, London,” Foster says again. He grunts from the pain of his gunshot wound. “It’s over now. They’re both gone. You’re safe.”

I squeeze my eyes closed. I’m not sure if he’s trying to reassure me or himself. He puts the call in, and within minutes the police arrive, followed by the FBI. I’m soon draped in a coarse blanket, just like the morning I awoke and Grayson was gone.

Death and freedom are sometimes described as one and the same. Death is a form of freedom—freedom from the prison of life.

I aimed to set Grayson free. In the end, I succeeded.