Page 72 of Critical Strike
“Yeah. I guess I would, if I were you. I’d want to make the person responsible for my downfall suffer for what they did to me.”
“We can agree on that, then.”
“But killing her isn’t the answer. I’m serious,” he insisted when Ballard laughed again. “You end her life, it’s over. It’s finished. She’s gone. That’s not suffering, is it?”
Ballard was silent, though the gun remained unmoving.
“Now, shooting me? Killing me? That’s suffering.”
“No,” Claire whispered.
Luke shot her a look. This wasn’t the time for her to try to be heroic.
“Are you listening, Ballard? Do you hear what I’m saying? You shoot me and she’ll suffer.”
“Why would she?” There was that sneer Luke had expected. “Don’t tell me the two of you are in love.”
“I’ve loved her since we were kids. You were right,” Luke admitted with a sigh. “There was a connection. Thanks to a convenient name change when I was adopted, there was no way for you or your men to figure out how we knew each other. Your instincts were right on the money, though. I’ve loved her since we met in a foster program years ago. She remembered me and came to me for help.”
“I thought so.”
“Yeah, you’re a smart guy.” Luke looked at the gun in Ballard’s hand. “I love her, and I think she might love me, too. But even if she doesn’t, you know her well enough to know that she’ll blame herself for the rest of her life for getting me killed. Do you see what I’m saying? Kill her now, and it’s over.”
Luke pointed his pistol at the ceiling, his other hand raised at shoulder-height. “Vance. Look at me.”
“Don’t do this!” Claire begged.
“Quiet.” He maintained his focus on Ballard. It didn’t matter at this point whether he aimed at the man or not. Getting a shot off at Ballard would still put Claire in danger—he might squeeze the trigger as his body reacted to being shot.
Luke could just about see the wheels turning in the man’s head.
He wanted to hurt Claire; he wanted to see her suffer.
Wanted to watch her die in front of him for taking away everything he’d ever held dear. All his power. His prestige.
“Shoot me and she’ll crumple like a dry leaf,” Luke promised. “And let’s face it, Vance. I’m just as responsible for this as she is. More so, even. If it wasn’t for me, she never would’ve made it this far. You would’ve caught her long before now and put an end to this. I’m the one who hid her. I’m the one who worked the fake-out with the detectives.”
“And you know what?” he concluded with a grim smile. “I loved every second of it, because it meant giving you what you deserve—making you pay for what you’ve done.”
Ballard looked from Claire to Luke and back again.
The gun didn’t move. Didn’t even tremble.
It wasn’t working. None of what Luke tried was working.
“Stop trying to play the hero, Patterson.” Ballard snickered. “I’m not impressed with your mind games. And if you’re responsible for this, then you deserve to suffer just as much as she does. I think making you watch her die before you do should be apt punishment.”
“No!” Luke shouted and lunged, knowing he wouldn’t be fast enough.
He wasn’t fast enough.
But someone else was.
Khan.
“What the—” Ballard let out a cry of pain and surprise when claws dug into his arm. The cat had leaped from the backpack to protect his owner, latching onto Ballard’s gun arm, and holding on for all he was worth.
And that was all the time Luke needed.