Chapter Thirty-Six

Seth frantically lifted Vargas’s shirt. He expected stab wounds. Instead he found a light smearing of blood across Vargas’s abs. Not enough to conceal the words Prescott had etched into his skin below one of his tattoos.

He’s mine.

“Oh God.”

Seth had been right the first time. Prescott wasn’t going to kill Vargas. He was going to take Seth with him and leave Vargas there with those words on his body to torture him for the rest of his life.

The cuts were shallow, nothing life threatening. Most probably didn’t even require stitches. Which meant Vargas had simply been drugged like the others. Seth slapped him across the face. He tried again harder, hating that he had to do this, but he needed him to wake up. “Vargas.”

Vargas’s eyes fluttered, but he still didn’t come around. Seth slapped him again. “Vargas!”

That time he blinked, then opened his eyes wider. “Seth?”

“We have to get out of the club. Now. Prescott’s here. Can you stand?”

He mumbled something in response that Seth didn’t catch.

No time to waste. Seth lifted one of Vargas’s arms and looped it over his shoulders. Before standing, he retrieved the knife from the floor. He braced for the added weight and pulled Vargas out of the chair.

Once on his feet, Vargas held some of his own weight. That helped. There was no way Seth could get them to the exit if he had to drag him.

“Come on.” He gave Vargas a shake. “We gotta move.”

Vargas offered something unintelligible again. His head lolled from side to side, but he shuffled one foot forward. Then another. By the time they reached the locker-room door, Vargas was moving a bit faster but was still just as out of it.

Seth got them through the door and into the dining room. He scanned the vast open room. No sign of Prescott. He started for the hallway that led to the emergency exit he’d seen earlier on the video monitor.

“We’re almost there.” He shifted Vargas’s weight forward, and that got him lumbering along faster.

A door creaked open in the distance. Seth spared a look. Prescott stood in the kitchen doorway, his face beet red, his eyes squinting as he searched the first floor.

“He’s coming. We gotta go faster. Now.” Seth picked up the pace, having to offer more help to Vargas.

They were just three feet from the hallway with the exit.

Prescott’s voice rang out. “Stop!”

Footfalls came from out of the darkness behind them. They were two steps down the hall when Vargas tripped and fell, dropping forward to the floor. Seth scrambled to help him up, but Vargas shoved at him. “Seth,” he choked out. “Go!”

“No.” Seth shot a look behind them. Prescott was less than five strides away. Seth straightened and spun to face him, raising the chef’s knife at the same time.

In one motion, Prescott closed the distance and slapped Seth’s hand away. The knife fell from his grip, bounced off the wall, and landed out of reach. Prescott seized him by the throat. “You’re not going anywhere. You’re mine.”

“No!” Seth squirmed, trying to reach the front pocket of his jeans. “I’m not!”

“Yes.” Prescott swept his free hand over Seth’s right shoulder. He hauled the T-shirt sleeve up and ran his thumb along the word he’d carved into the flesh of Seth’s arm. “See. This says you are.”

“No. It doesn’t.” Seth got his hand inside his pocket and clasped on to what he’d stashed there earlier. “It says I’m a survivor.” He tugged the switchblade from his pants pocket, hit the release to extend the blade, and rammed the steel into Prescott’s gut as hard as he could.

Prescott let go of him and stumbled backward. Seth kept hold of the knife and watched it slide from the man’s stomach. Wobbling, Prescott caught himself against the wall. He glanced down as he tried to staunch the blood with one hand, then looked back at Seth, sheer astonishment in his eyes.

Seth held the blade out. “Back up or I’ll do it again.”

“No…” Prescott pushed off the wall. He wound his free arm around his back. “You’re going to do what I want.”

Seth jabbed the knife in the air. “Put your hands up!”

As if he was going to comply, Prescott brought his arm back around.

Before Seth could do more than register that he held a gun, Prescott had it aimed at Vargas where he sat slumped against the wall, his head tilted back, his eyes more alert. “You’ll do exactly what I want once he’s no longer an issue.”

“No.” Seth shook his head. “Don’t.”

With surprising agility, Vargas pushed off the floor onto shaky legs. He slid in between Prescott and Seth. Even though the gun had already been aimed at Vargas, Seth knew what he was doing. The exit door was at Seth’s back.

“Go, Seth. Run.”

Seth ignored him. “Please.” He took a step sideways so Prescott could see him from behind Vargas. “If you care about me at all, don’t do this.”

Prescott simply laughed. The sound was demented, and there was rage in his mad, watery eyes as he raised the gun higher. “Goodbye, asshole.”

Vargas lurched into Seth’s path again. A far-off voice called out for Prescott to stop, but whoever it was, he was too late. A shot rang out.

“No!” Seth screamed. He caught Vargas in his arms. “Oh God.” He patted at his chest, searching him for blood. “Where are you hit?”

“No…” Vargas sucked in a deep, ragged breath. “Nowhere.” He straightened, supporting his own weight once more.

“What?” Seth stepped around him and only then did he see Prescott on the ground. His red-rimmed eyes were wide, his breath shallow. Blood was soaking through the front of his shirt. He stared up at Seth. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a gurgling sound. Then nothing.

Heading down the hall from the club’s dining room was Tucker. He had a gun aimed at Prescott, but he spoke to Seth. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

Vargas slid down the wall to sit on the floor again. He was gaining color and seemed more alert, or maybe it was the lack of a bullet wound that had him looking so damn good.

Turning back to Tucker, Seth said, “We’re okay. I’m okay.” And more than at any other time in the past two years, he truly believed that. It was over.

Then he remembered something. “Oh shit.”

Vargas sat taller. “What?”

“Henderson’s body. It was gone.”

“What?” That was Tucker. He’d positioned himself between them and Prescott.

“Franklin Henderson was here. He tried to kill me, but Prescott shot him. When I went to the safe room to get the pepper spray and the other stuff…” Seth shook his head. “I just realized, Henderson’s body wasn’t there anymore. I thought he was dead but…” He gaped at Tucker.

Tucker turned and faced the dining room, his weapon raised, his body held in a taut protective stance in front of Seth and Vargas. “He probably took off, but just in case, no one move until the cops get here.”