“Sit up,” I command.
She tries, but she’s weak, either from muscle stiffness or the head wound. I grab her ankles, haul her toward me, and swing her legs over the side. I pocket the fabric I used to cushion her binds. Taking her by the arm, I heave her out of the vehicle. She sways. I give her a minute. Thankfully, there isn’t a soul anywhere nearby. I’m excited to get started, but there’s no immediate rush.
The anticipation will build my enjoyment.
Her eyes scan the meadow. She’s thinking about running.
“Don’t do it.” I open my jacket and point to the pistol, then lift the stun gun from my pocket.
Clearly remembering her experience, she recoils and shakes her head.
“That’s right.” I half drag her toward the door. “If I can’t stun you, I’ll shoot you. You can’t outrun a bullet. You wouldn’t get twenty feet away.”
Even if she managed to escape, where would she go? She has a head wound and isn’t wearing a coat.
I tug her inside and close the door behind us. We move through the living area and into the studio. Her head snaps up as she sees Adam tied to the chair. She trips. My jerk to her arm to keep her upright isn’t gentle.
“Sit,” I command.
She obeys, crying and whimpering behind the gag. I tie her to the chair as securely as I did Adam but taking care to pad the binds so they won’t leave marks.
“What the hell?” Adam mumbles. He shakes his head, as if clearing it.
I ignore him, speaking to Farah. “You’re going to watch your lover die.”
“We’re not lovers,” Adam croaks, his voice faint.
I point the gun at him. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”
Self-control begins to fade, disappearing like taillights in the darkness. I want to pull the trigger so badly, but I resist. A few deep breaths restore my composure. They’re both restrained. I shove the gun into my waistband.
I pick up the artist’s worktable and use it to lay out my duct tape and plastic wrap. The pistol is digging into my waist. I set it on the table within easy reach. Then I pick up the duct tape and slap a piece over the artist’s mouth. Satisfaction blooms.
The stage is set.
I’m free to carry out my grand finale.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Clammy sweat slicked Bree’s palms as Matt slowed the SUV near her brother’s driveway. She wiped her hands on her thighs. Fear surged like ice water through her veins. Adam’s house sat on the other side of a football field of empty meadow. She studied the structure, then fished her binoculars out of the glove box. “The light is on in his studio.”
“There are two vehicles parked out front. Can you ID them?”
She lifted the binoculars and adjusted the focus. “Adam’s Bronco and a slick-looking compact SUV, which is probably the Porsche Cayenne he just bought.”
“No other vehicle?”
“Not in sight.” She shifted her attention to the studio window. “I can see Adam’s painting, but I don’t see Adam.” She lowered the binoculars.
Matt tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “Do we drive up to the house or leave the vehicle here?”
“Rhys had a head start,” Bree said. “He could be inside right now.”
Murdering my brother.
A slideshow of Spencer’s and Julius’s bodies ran through Bree’s head. Sickness rose in the back of her throat. “If Rhys is in there, he can see us if we park here. There’s nothing to block his view.”
Matt shifted into drive, clicked off the headlights, and turned onto the narrow dirt lane that led to Adam’s converted barn. Halfway up the driveway, he eased the vehicle to a stop. They were out of direct view of the studio window but not close enough that Rhys would hear their approach.
She turned off the interior dome light. She glanced at Matt. “Ready?”
He adjusted his earpiece. “Let’s go.”
She reported their location and status to dispatch. Backup was still a full ten minutes away. They couldn’t wait. A person could suffocate in six.
Matt tugged on a black knit cap and leather gloves. Bree did the same, then slid out into the darkness. They eased their doors closed. The wind ripped across the meadow, cold enough to make her eyes water and her teeth ache. Matt carried the AR-15 across his chest. Bree held her Glock as they ran across fifty yards of frozen earth. They slowed at the head of the driveway. Bree veered left. She jogged to the corner of the house, stopped, peered into the side yard, and saw Rhys’s Jeep. Fear weighted her heart. They’d been right. He was inside.
With Adam.
She drew her head back and whispered in her earpiece, “There’s Rhys’s Jeep. Looks empty.”
The wind muffled Matt’s response, but it sounded like, “Fuck.”
Was her brother still alive? Bree fell back on one of her greatest strengths. She compartmentalized. She locked her terror for her brother into the back of her mind and focused on saving him.
Weapons raised, she and Matt rounded the corner and circled the Jeep. The barn blocked the wind. Bree shined her flashlight inside. Empty. Matt pulled a folding knife from his pants pocket. He opened the blade and slashed all four of the Jeep’s tires.
Then they continued around the next corner to the back of the barn. The wind hit her full in the face, but she barely felt the cold. Windows were at head height. Crouching, they approached each one and peered over the sill. The first two looked into the living quarters, which were dark. Adam’s studio had big windows on the back and side of the building.
Bree approached the studio windows, all her senses tuned. She crouched beneath the sill, her back to the wood siding, shoulder to shoulder with Matt. They exchanged a glance. Light glowed through the window, and she could see Matt’s face clearly. His eyes were as grim as she felt. They nodded, afraid to even whisper for fear of alerting Rhys.
Sticking their heads into a potential line of fire wasn’t the brightest move. If he shot them, there would be no one to rescue Adam. Bree pulled out her cell phone. Shielding the screen to contain the light, she opened the camera. Switching the perspective to selfie mode, she raised it until the top inch—the camera lens—was just above the sill. She and Matt could both see into the room. She rotated the phone until three people came into view.
Bile rose into her throat at the sight. Adam and Farah faced each other, tied to chairs. Blood dripped from a nasty gash on Farah’s head into her eyes. She saw no visible wounds on her brother. He looked disoriented.
But he was alive.
Rhys stood on the other side of Adam, a box of plastic wrap in his hands. He was going to kill Adam the same way he’d murdered Spencer and Julius.
Like hell.
Anger surged, hot and heady, through her. She wanted to put a bullet or ten in him right then and there, but she wouldn’t have a clean shot. Adam was between the window and Rhys. She turned the phone to scan the rest of the room. A pistol lay on Adam’s worktable.
She lowered the phone and turned to Matt. They both knew Adam didn’t have much time.
Bree had a key, but Rhys would surely hear her enter through the front door. They could break the window and charge in. Could they get inside before Rhys grabbed his gun? Not likely. Better to sneak up on him. Bree could go in the front door, while Matt covered her from here. He could enter through the window if necessary. His long gun was a more accurate weapon in case they needed to risk a shot at Rhys.