Unfortunately, Wilhelmina seemed to have learned this too.
She charged toward A.J. with a roar of anger, drawing Szymanski’s gun as she came.
An Olympic marksman couldn’t aim for shit on the run, not when her target was moving too. A.J. didn’t stop. She veered, ducked, and came up under the woman’s guard with an explosive shove. Wilhelmina’s back hit the wall and her gun went flying.
A.J. would have been happier about this if Wilhelmina hadn’t immediately caught A.J.’s arm to fight for control of her weapon. Her fingers dug between A.J.’s tendons, squeezing some nerve that made her hand go numb. Her gun fell too, skittering across the concrete and out of reach.
So no more wrestling
. A.J.’s opponent was too effective at disabling holds. Gritting her teeth against the numbness, she pummeled Wilhelmina with body blows. Her father had taught her to punch with power but not to count on a single strike to finish things. If you were hit, you just kept attacking as fast and hard as you could. Overwhelm and stun was his system.
A.J. opponent didn’t seem to appreciate this approach. Wilhelmina was a kicker—not as good as she thought, luckily. A.J. took a bruising knee to her ribs, but held her ground well enough to seize Wilhelmina’s arm and shoulder. The double grip allowed A.J. to twist her weight around and off balance.
Wilhelmina stumbled slightly, instinctively attempting to catch her footing. The opening was textbook. A.J pulled back on her forearm while at the same time thrusting Wilhelmina’s upper arm forward. Her overstressed elbow broke with a nasty snap. Wilhelmina screamed with pain but also fury. Sensing the woman would continue fighting if she weren’t shut down completely, A.J. grabbed her nape and muscled her facedown to the floor.
Panting, she pinned Wilhelmina’s spine with her knee, ruthlessly digging her weight in. A.J. had a zip tie tucked in her thigh holster, ideal for restraining the woman’s wrists. Though she couldn’t have known she was going for it, Wilhelmina thrashed wildly.
A.J. retrieved the tie regardless.
“Cut it out,” she ordered, finally getting hold of the masseuse’s uninjured arm.
In hindsight, A.J. would have benefited from the disabled cameras, not to mention the tech’s voices in her receiver. If she’d had them, she’d have known what was coming up on her six. She thought she was about to subdue her prize. Instead, what felt like twin explosions burst over both her ears. Someone who’d practiced the trick had slapped her on either side of her head. The double blow put her out. She actually felt her eyes roll as her limbs went limp and collapsed. Darkness swallowed her consciousness.
She had no thoughts at all for the next little while.
*
A.J. dreamed her father’s partner was soothing her.
“Just calm down,” Martin said. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
“You
shot
him,” accused a distinctive female voice, accented and high with stress.
Wilhelmina
, A.J.’s muddled brain computed.
“I have a phone. I’ll call an ambulance as soon as you put down the gun.”
“Do you think I’m stupid? No ambulance will help Sven. You shot him through the head. I
needed
him. We were going to double date with Christie and Luke.”
Whoa
, A.J. thought. The position of her body diverted her from why this disclosure was unsettling. She was upright, not standing on her feet but vertical. Something vised around her ribs, keeping her from falling.
Wilhelmina’s arm, she realized.
It was her injured arm, the elbow wrapped tightly in torn cloth—possibly from a man’s shirt. Bandage notwithstanding, the masseuse must have a serious pain threshold.
A.J. wished she were as resilient. In addition to her noodley legs, her throat felt weirdly bruised, as if someone had strangled her. They’d stopped, she guess, which Martin’s presence probably accounted for. She knew she’d been helpless to defend herself. She was nearly helpless now, her muscles not obeying her instructions. The need to see what was happening prodded her, but when she tried to lift her eyelids, her head wobbled. The tiny movement dizzied her intensely. Clearly, she had a mother of a concussion.
Maybe she’d rest just a minute more.
“I’m sure you’ll find another man,” Martin said reasonably.
“I invested time training Sven. He’d finally learned to do what I said.”
“So you’ve had practice. You’ll train his replacement twice as fast.”
Was it her imagination or was Martin’s voice closer? Wilhelmina seemed to think it was. She jabbed something hard at A.J.’s jaw.
“Stop right there,” she ordered. “Put your gun down, or I’ll shoot her.”
At the threat, A.J.’s eyes succeeded in opening. Pain lanced into her skull. The room was bright. She blinked rapidly, tears spilling past her lashes to wet her cheeks. As her vision cleared, she saw they were in Luke’s bowling alley. Sven was nowhere in sight but Martin’s once-white tuxedo shirt was drenched in blood splatter.
Whoa
, she thought for the second time. When he saw she’d regained consciousness, Martin’s gaze flicked to hers without a change in his expression.
A.J. sensed he was relieved regardless.
“I’ll blow her head
right off
,” Wilhelmina emphasized.
“Okay,” Martin said. He turned his gun sideways in his grip, lifting both hands into surrendering position. “My finger is off the trigger. I’m going to put it down.”
“Slowly,” the masseuse specified. “And kick it away from you.”
Martin was by the bowling lanes. He crouched and set the weapon gingerly on the polished wood. Then he rose again.
“Kick it,” Wilhelmina reminded.
Martin played soccer on his days off. His left leg kicked crossways like a pro, catching the gun neatly. Considering the circumstances, his aim was impressive. The pistol slid so rapidly down the lane it nearly knocked over the kingpin.
“Are you trying to be funny?” Wilhelmina demanded.
“Trust me,” Martin said without a particle of amusement. “My sense of humor is nil right now. Just tell me what you want in return for letting my colleague go.”
A.J. doubted the woman planned to release her at any price, but Martin could buy time bargaining.
“Take out your phone,” she said. “Call Luke and get him here. I need to talk to him.”
Martin knew Luke was in the safe room, where he’d have no cell reception. He pulled out his phone anyway. “Can I tell him what it’s about?” he asked politely.
“It’s about Christie,” the masseuse spat, like he was an idiot. “He needs to see reason. He’s her soulmate, the man she
has
to be with. She’ll never win the fame she deserves if she keeps getting tangled with those women.”
“What women?” Martin asked innocently.
“Those disgusting lesbians like Naomi Davis.”
“I think Naomi Davis is bi.”
“Like it
matters
,” Wilhelmina sneered. “Christie James Isn’t Meant For Them.”
Her injured arm tightened painfully on A.J.’s ribs. A.J. preferred Wilhelmina not know she was awake until her legs felt less like spaghetti. Despite the wish, not crying out required willpower.
“He’s not answering,” Martin said, holding out the phone to show her.
The distance was too great for Wilhelmina to read the screen.
“I’m not falling for that,” she said, deducing that he wanted her to approach. “You find a way to reach him or she dies.”
“You want me to call someone else?”
“No tricks!” Wilhelmina said, her patience—such as it was—reaching its limit. “Get him here or I shoot!”
A.J.’s feet began to tingle as the woman hauled her back a step. Fresh pain slammed into her head, but she took heart at the tiny sign of recovery.
“Wilhelmina,” said the last person she expected to hear right then. “Don’t hurt her. I’m here.”
Pins toppled. Surprise caused Wilhelmina to lurch A.J. around again. A.J.’s stomach clenched. Luke was emerging onto one of the bowling lanes, ducking out from the pinsetter’s area behind it. He must have snuck into the void through his damned secret passages.
“Luke!” Wilhelmina cried like a nun having a vision of her savior.
“I’m here,” he said. “You can let her go.”
Unfortunately, the masseuse wasn’t quite that irrational.
“You’re engaged to
her
now! You betrayed the dream.”
“That was a mistake. I promise I’ll undo it.”
“You’re lying to me! I wanted us to be friends. All of us. You were going to trust Sven and me like you couldn’t trust anyone. Christie was going to win an Oscar. We’d throw a party for her together.”
Luke’s face flickered at this news. A.J. noticed sweat glittering on his upper lip. Unlike Martin, Luke’s eyes betrayed concern when they cut to her. A.J. loved him for that even as she wished she could erase the expression.
He recovered a moment later. “An Oscar party is a nice idea,” he said soothingly.
“Stop lying,” Wilhelmina growled dark and low.
That wasn’t good. The woman’s body tensed, her muscles coiling for action. The muzzle of Szymanski’s pistol wasn’t pressed as tightly to A.J.’s jaw.
Jesus
. Was she thinking of shooting Luke?
“I think Luke is telling the truth,” Martin interjected. “How could anyone not love Christie if they had a chance with her?”
For a moment, A.J. thought he’d chosen the right argument. Wilhelmina went still behind her, her energy calming.
“I’m not in love with Christie,” she said in an odd flat tone.
Her arm straightened without warning, dead-aiming the weapon at Martin.
She wasn’t far enough to miss. A.J. tried to spoil the shot by flinging her weight away, but her limbs were as useful as chewed gum. Wilhelmina grunted and locked her knees, steadying her stance. When A.J. tried again, her captor simply let go of her. A.J. dropped and fell on her face.
A gun exploded like thunder.
“No!” A.J. cried, struggling futilely to push up on her hands.
“It’s okay,” Martin said, coming to help her.
Relief rushed through her like hot wine. He was alive. “
Luke
,” she exclaimed in a fresh panic.
“He’s okay too. He shot Wilhelmina.”
The words refused to add up. “
He
shot Wilhelmina. Jesus, why can’t I move?”
“I think she drugged you,” Martin said. “Or Sven did. You’ve got a puncture mark inside your elbow. Bonnie and Clyde must have decided to smuggle in a weapon the metal detectors couldn’t catch.”
Martin wrangled her around until she sat supported by his chest. His shirt was tacky from Sven’s blood, but she couldn’t care too much right then. Luke stood above them both, unscathed but noticeably dazed. He’d forked his left hand deep into his hair. The other hung by his side with the proverbial smoking gun.
“She’s dead,” he said, blinking fast with shock. “I shot her with Martin’s Glock.”
“I guessed he was behind the pins when I kicked it there,” Martin said. “Well, him or a klutzy mouse.”
A.J. hadn’t heard a thing. “You
guessed
he was there,” she repeated.
Martin shrugged. “It stood to reason. Tech couldn’t reach Luke on the landline in the safe room. Where else would he go but into those passages?”
Luke’s eyes widened. Maybe he was surprised she’d shared the fact of their existence with her colleague. Shaking that off, he crouched in front of her. “I had to help. Even if it meant defying your instructions. I couldn’t lose you.”
She tried to ignore how his words moved her.
“You shouldn’t have exposed yourself like that,” she scolded. “It’s our job to protect you.”
“Of course it is,” he agreed, obviously not sorry.
A.J. gave up. She was more amazed than angry anyway. When she shook her head at how events turned out, her brain didn’t spin. Whatever she’d been drugged with was wearing off. She didn’t like showing vulnerability on the job, but an impulse she couldn’t fight made her reach for Luke’s hand. He must have needed the contact too. He returned her grip, putting his second hand over hers. She looked past him to Wilhelmina’s corpse. The dead woman sprawled mostly on her back, her face lolling toward A.J. Her open eyes would have stared straight at her except the left was a grisly pit.
A.J. couldn’t help thinking Wilhelmina would have done the same to any one of them. Luke had put himself on the literal firing line.
“Wow,” she said, realizing something else. “You made a head shot from twenty feet.”
“I was terrified I’d hit you,” he confessed. “I mean, I train at the shooting range so I won’t look like a dork on film, but I’ve never pulled the trigger on a live person with a live round.”
“You hit the bull’s eye,” Martin observed with dry battlefield humor. He rubbed A.J.’s shoulder and then let go. “Just like Wild Bill Hickok. Speaking of which—” He stopped to exhale a gusty sigh. “We’d better call the real lawmen in.”
STANDOFF over, the two patrol cops who’d been assigned to Mayfair’s gate burst in like they’d been bottled up. Some of A.J. and Martin’s people trailed behind them. A weedy guy Luke recognized as a tech hugged Martin and A.J.
Though his bosses didn’t resist, this seemed to bemuse them.
Luke kind of wished he could hug the pair himself.
“Is Szymanski all right?” A.J. asked as soon as the tech released her.
“He woke up a while ago,” the young man answered. “The EMTs checked him out. I think Mr. Channing’s butler is watching him.”
Like the sheriff Martin had accused Luke of being, a commanding figure in a dated suit parted the bowling alley’s confused waters.
“All you Hoyt-Sands guys, back upstairs,” Detective Turner barked. “This floor is a crime scene.”
His jabbing finger radiated accusations. Despite believing he’d had no choice about shooting Wilhelmina, Luke swallowed uneasily.
“Are you agreeable to us giving our statements here?” Martin asked.
Please yes
, Luke thought, not wanting to trek to the police station. He felt flattened, as if a truck had somehow run him over from the inside. Still unsteady herself, A.J. had her hand on Martin’s shoulder. Marks from Sven’s meaty grip circled her slender throat, indisputable—and heart-tightening—evidence that they hadn’t been the aggressors here.