Page 71 of Critical Strike
He knew she was telling the truth.
Which was why he reached into his pocket for the gun and leveled it at her chest. “You’re dead.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
It had been too long.
He’d left Claire alone for far too long.
“Luke, slow down.” Weston took the stairs behind him, urging him in a soft voice.
Easy for him to say. Could Weston slow it down if it meant leaving the woman he loved unguarded for even a minute?
He didn’t take the time to answer; instead, he opened the door to Claire’s floor and swept over the area in front of him with narrowed eyes. It looked empty, just as it had been before.
But something was different.
The air...there was a charge in it. Someone else was there, out of sight.
Claire was talking. He could just make out the sound of her voice. And while Luke wouldn’t put it past her to hold a full conversation with the cat—
He took off, moving as swiftly as he was able while staying silent.
He should’ve known. How had he not seen this happen?
His gun was drawn; the sound of his brothers whispering in his ear as they kept track of one another’s locations was mere background noise as he zeroed in on his target.
And the man who’d just aimed a gun at her chest.
“You’re dead,” Ballard spat.
Luke took it all in at once, all in the time it took his heart to beat.
Ballard looked like death, which was fitting considering who he was and what he’d done. Soaked in sweat, shaking, chalky.
And Claire. In spite of the semiautomatic that was now pointed at her chest, she looked...
Triumphant.
Luke mimicked Ballard’s position, aiming at the man’s head. He didn’t want to have to go that far, especially since he didn’t want to take the risk of Claire being shot, but if it meant distracting Ballard long enough to spare her life, then he’d stop at nothing.
Which, he feared, was Ballard’s mode of thinking as well. He would stop at nothing to end Claire’s life.
“Ballard. It’s over.”
Ballard turned his head just enough to take in the sight of Luke aiming at him. “You’re right. It is. But not for me.”
“Yes. For you.” Ballard returned his gaze to Claire. “Hey, I’m talking to you,” Luke barked. “Look at me, Vance.”
Ballard snorted. “Don’t turn that tactical knowledge on me. Using first names, trying to talk sense. Letting me believe you’re on my side, that this can all end well. We both know it won’t.”
“I need you to look at me, Ballard.” If he felt more comfortable with last names, then so be it. “You’re right. We both know this won’t end well. But you’ll only make it worse if you shoot her.”
“Worse?” Ballard laughed—it had an edge to it, threatening to cross over into something like madness. “Worse than what? If what she told me is true and the entire police department has the files now, I’m finished. But I can at least know I made her pay. I can take that memory with me, at least.”
“You wanna make her pay?” Luke glanced at Claire just long enough to take in the sight of her, trembling and wide-eyed. He didn’t dare take his eyes off Ballard longer than that.
“Wouldn’t you?”