Page 93 of Once a Killer

“Why? Because he’s loyal to you and he’d give me up in a heartbeat,” McKay said. He scowled. “My advisor didn’t give a shit if I lived or died. I avoided him as much as possible. All I needed from him was to sign off on my degree.”

Jameson watched as the gun shifted. Him. Bree. Him. Finally Bree. McKay’s hand was a little unsteady, and he hoped it meant McKay was rattled. Jameson held very still. He didn’t want to give the bastard any excuse for pulling that trigger. He noticed that Bree stood equally still.

McKay held the gun steadily on Bree. “We’re going to walk down the stairs. Slowly and carefully,” he said. He nodded at Jameson without moving the gun away from Bree. “You first, Ford. Then your reporter. You make one wrong move, and she’s dead. You understand?”

“I understand,” Jameson said. He clenched his fists. Forced himself to relax his hands. Bree had assured him she knew what she was doing. That she could take care of herself. Take McKay down. But he hated seeing that gun pointed at her back.

Gripping the handrail to prevent himself from tripping and startling McKay, realizing that Bree was doing the same, they all walked slowly down the three flights of stairs. When they’d walked through the outer door and into the parking lot, McKay stopped and turned to Jameson.

“You’re coming with us as far as my car. I don’t want you calling the cops or doing anything else stupid. When the reporter and I are in my car and out of sight, you do whatever you want.”

They moved slowly through the parking lot until they reached McKay’s fancy Porsche.

“You’re at your car. You said you’d let her go once you got away,” Jameson said through clenched teeth.

McKay smirked. “I lied.”

Bree stared at Jameson, and it was as if he could read her mind. ‘Don’t do anything stupid. Follow his orders. And stay back so he doesn’t have two targets.’ In a low voice, she said to him, “I’ve got this, Jameson.”

McKay laughed. “Not yet, you don’t. But you will.”

Jameson curled his fingers into fists, then shoved his hands into his pockets. Swallowing hard, he switched his gaze from Bree to McKay. “Let her go, McKay. She’ll only slow you down.”

“Not happening, Ford. I’ve had my eye on your little reporter for a long time.” His eyes glittered. “Once I have my fun, I might let her go.”

As McKay watched him, Bree shook her head at Jameson. Her message was clear.I have this. Step back.

Jameson took one step back. Then two more. His feet felt like they were encased in cement. Too heavy to move. But he needed to give Bree room to maneuver.

“A few more steps back, Ford,” McKay ordered. He lifted his gun. “I can’t miss at this range. It’s the end of the line for you, you arrogant bastard. I’m going to enjoy the money I get from this program of yours.” He patted his pocket.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jameson saw Bree getting into position. Trying to keep McKay’s attention away from her, Jameson smiled. “Joke’s on you, McKay. That’s a blank hard drive you have in your pocket. You think I would be stupid enough to put the real thing in that safe when I knew someone was after it?”

McKay’s face turned red and his hand tightened on the gun. It began to quiver. Just enough for Jameson to know he was rattled.

“You fucking bastard, Ford.” He lifted his hand so the gun was pointed right at Jameson’s chest. “For that alone, you’re gonna die.”

Without warning, Bree exploded into action. Her left foot lifted in a too-fast-to-track move, and she kicked the gun out of McKay’s hand. Flying into the air, it bounced on the roof of his Porsche, then fell to the pavement on the other side of the car.

McKay spun to face her. “What the hell?” He charged at her, his hands curled into claws in front of him. Sidestepping him at the last moment, she swept his legs out from under him. But instead of falling, he grabbed the car door’s handle, wobbled for a moment but stayed on his feet. Turned to face her.

“I outweigh you by at least seventy-five pounds,” he said. “Give up now and avoid a lot of pain.”

“I don’t believe in giving up,” she said. She wiggled her fingers at him. “Do your worst.”

Enraged, McKay’s focus was completely on Bree now. Jameson moved farther back and pulled out his phone. Dialed 911, and when the dispatcher answered, whispered his address. “A man is attacking a woman in the parking lot. Hurry before he hurts her.”

Jameson heard typing in the background. “Squad cars are on the way to your location,” the dispatcher said. “Stay on the line.”

Instead of obeying, he ended the call. He didn’t want McKay to realize he’d called the police.

Without warning, McKay charged Bree. She waited until he was too close, in Jameson’s opinion, before she moved. Then, moving so fast she was a blur, she bent and took out his legs, flipping him into the air, arms and legs pinwheeling, until he landed on his back. Air left his lungs with a whoosh.

Instead of staying down, as Jameson expected, he jumped to his feet. His face a mask of rage, he charged at Bree again. She stood her ground until his fingertips brushed her. Then she kicked him in the groin. When he bent over, screaming, she swiped his legs out from under him, sending him ass over teakettle through the air. He landed on his chest and abdomen with a grunt of pain as his chin hit the asphalt and the fall knocked the wind out of him.

As he gasped for air, struggling to breathe, Bree was on him. She yanked his arms behind his back and slid on flex cuffs. When he tried to yank his hands away from her, she tightened the cuffs, pulling them so taut that they cut into his skin.

She stood up and reached for another flex cuff. But as soon as her weight was gone, McKay rolled onto his side and scrabbled against the concrete, moving like a cockroach. But before he could rise, Bree put her foot on his cuffed hands and pressed down.

---