Hush: A Thriller Part 5

FIVE.

Run.

The word ricocheted through her brain. Screaming until her lungs hurt, practically jumping out of her skin with terror, Riley flew through her apartment so fast her feet barely touched the carpet. Out of the bedroom, across the living room-it wasn't far, but the distance to the door seemed to stretch out endlessly. She felt like she was trapped in one of those slow-motion nightmares, being chased by a monster while making no progress at all.

Please G.o.d please G.o.d please.

A panicky glance over her shoulder found her attacker barreling through her bedroom door. His hand was clapped to the side of his neck. Blood flowed red between his fingers.

"Koorva! Suka!" he snarled.

That the foreign words he was hurling at her were curses, she had no doubt.

Oh, G.o.d, if he catches me...

Her heart thundered. Her pulse raced. Her feet felt like they had lead weights attached. He was closing fast: she could hear him, hear the breath rasping in his throat, the rustle of his clothing, the rushing thud of his footsteps. She could feel the hate and anger rolling off him in waves.

"Help! Fire!" she screamed, as a trick she'd been taught in a rape prevention cla.s.s years before burst into her mind. She grabbed one of the lightweight dining chairs as she pa.s.sed it, slinging it behind her to land with a crash in his path like it might actually slow him down.

It didn't. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him dodge around it even as she reached the door.

Hurry, hurry, hurry.

Dancing from one foot to the other, so frightened that she felt like her body was electrically charged with fear, she fumbled with the lock-the chain was off, thank G.o.d the chain was off!-and twisted it open. Then she grabbed for the k.n.o.b.

"Help! Fire!" she screamed as she yanked the door open.

Risking one more terrified glance over her shoulder, she saw that he was no more than a few feet away, his face contorted with fury, both hands-one horribly red and shiny with blood-stretched out to grab her. More blood covered the side of his neck, disappeared into the open V-neck of his shirt. She could see that it still poured from the wound she had made.

"Get back here!" He s.n.a.t.c.hed at her and missed, the rough warmth of his fingertips just brushing her back as she leaped out into the wide, dimly lit hall with its many closed doors, screaming "Help! Fire!" at the top of her lungs.

"I will kill you! Suka!"

"What the f.u.c.k?" The roar was loud enough to be heard even through her eardrum-shattering screams. It came from in front of her.

Head snapping around, Riley discovered that (thank G.o.d, thank G.o.d!) there was a man in the hall. A large man in a dark suit. He ran toward her from the direction of the elevators, responding to her screams, she thought, and he had a gun in his hand.

"Help!" She sped toward him with the urgency of a heat-seeking missile. Behind her, her attacker erupted through her apartment door with an enraged cry. Another terrified glance over her shoulder told her that he, too, had acquired a gun. He must have had it on him all along.

"Look out! He's got a-" She screamed a warning at the man racing toward her, breaking off before she got the all-important last word out as he lunged at her, hooked an arm around her waist, s.n.a.t.c.hed her off her feet, and whirled around with her.

Bam! Bam!

The gun-her attacker's gun-fired twice, in rapid succession. Face m.u.f.fled in her rescuer's chest, Riley screamed. The sound of two hands smacking the wall one right after the other not a foot to her left and the resultant shower of plaster chips told her where the bullets had hit. The man holding her-having already put his back between her and the weapon, she realized-threw her to the ground and dropped down on top of her, shielding her with his body. Hitting the floor hurt and having his considerable weight crash down on top of her hurt, too, but abject fear of her attacker was what had her screaming like a crazy woman into the suffocating curve of the wide chest that now arced above her face.

"Get down!" her rescuer yelled, presumably at someone who'd stepped into the path of possible gunfire.

A woman's cry. A man's shout. Running footsteps. A curse. The sounds were m.u.f.fled by the big body above her.

From his position-one arm was braced beside her, holding the bulk of his weight off her, while the other seemed to be extended back down the hall toward where her attacker should be-she got the impression that he was aiming his gun but for whatever reason he didn't fire.

As her scream died away, the silence was deafening. She could hear nothing except the thumping of her own-or was it her rescuer's?-heart. A silk tie-black? Dark gray?-dangled in front of her. A smooth white shirt front pressed down against her cheek. She could feel the heat of his body beneath it, feel his chest rising and falling as he breathed. His legs in their suit pants were long and muscular and heavy against hers. She could smell-what? A hint of something fresh: fabric softener? Along with the earthier scent of man.

"Shots fired. Be on the lookout for an armed white male heading down the west fire stairs," her rescuer barked. From the sound of it, he was speaking into a phone or maybe a radio, which confirmed her impression that he was some kind of law enforcement. "Caucasian, short brown hair, about six foot, one eighty, dark polo shirt, jeans. Bleeding from the neck. Get the locals, watch the stairs and elevators, pick him up if you can."

"Is he gone?" A woman's voice quavered from some little distance away.

"Yes, ma'am," her rescuer replied, and then added, "It's all right, I'm with the FBI," and moved, shifting to one side, restoring his gun to his shoulder holster before levering himself off her.

As her field of vision opened up she looked quickly, fearfully past the big body that still hovered above her toward where her attacker had been and beyond, down the long hall in the direction in which he must have fled. He was nowhere in sight, and the relief of it prompted her to draw in a shuddering breath. The college-age couple who lived two doors down-she didn't know their names-were straightening away from where they'd been huddled against the wall just outside their apartment's open door. Mrs. Grant, the nosy, elderly woman who lived across the hall, peered through the gap in her chain-secured, slightly open door. Farther down the hall, she could see a few more barely opened doors with the shadows of people standing cautiously inside them.

"It's over. He's gone. You're safe," Mr. FBI told her quietly, having paused in the act of lifting himself off her, checked by her death grip on him.

It was only as she saw her hands that she realized that she had a death grip on him: her fists were wrapped in his shirt front. There was a soothing note to his deep voice that both served to rea.s.sure her and, paradoxically, made her start to shake. Her teeth chattered when she tried to open her mouth. She deliberately clenched them to stop the sound. She was light-headed with reaction, and breathing way too fast. Her heart raced. Her stomach churned.

"You're safe," he said again, then added, "He's not coming back."

Riley could almost feel the adrenaline that had been rushing through her bloodstream begin to ebb. She took a deep breath, and just about managed to regulate her breathing. There was nothing she could do about the tremors that racked her. She had to work to let go of the crisp cotton of his shirt, forcing her fingers to open almost one by one.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, as, freed, he crouched beside her. He was a big guy, broad-shouldered, long-legged, muscular: it was like having a mountain crouch beside her. Riley refocused her attention from the wrinkles she'd put in his shirt to his face, and found that she was looking at the tall fed she'd seen earlier at the cemetery.

His eyes were a calm grayish blue, set beneath thick dark brows.

She gave a small, negative shake of her head, then took a breath.

"I saw you earlier. At the cemetery." Her voice was hoa.r.s.e, creaky. It hurt her throat to talk.

Before he could reply, the couple from down the hall walked up behind her. Glancing over her shoulder, Riley could see them looming just a few feet away. With her peripheral vision she caught a glimpse of more of her neighbors stepping cautiously into the hall. They moved closer, looking at her and the fed and the damaged wall in fascination, talking among themselves.

"Who is that?"

"The Cowan woman from fourteen G."

"Wowzers."

"What happened?"

"Did she get shot?"

"The wall sure did."

"Was it a robbery?"

"Oh my G.o.d, were you raped?"

That last horrified question, louder than the rest and addressed to her by her young female neighbor, was what slammed Riley with the up-to-that-point-forgotten fact that she was naked. It hit her then what she must look like, all pale skin and sprawled limbs, lying on her side on the p.r.i.c.kly gray carpet facing the fed, who despite the fact that he could absolutely see it all was, to his credit, keeping his eyes on her face. Her back was turned to her neighbors, but still they were getting quite a view.

Of my bare b.u.t.t.

The sting of embarra.s.sment gave her the strength to move. Defensively she pulled her knees up to her chest. She wasn't even sure it was enough to make her minimally decent, but under the circ.u.mstances it was the best she could do.

"All right, everybody back off," Mr. FBI said, as something warm and dry settled over her-his suit coat, she discovered as she clutched at it, pulling it around herself gratefully. "Give her some s.p.a.ce."

Riley got the impression of movement behind her as, not surprisingly, her neighbors obeyed and began to retreat into their apartments. She took a deep breath.

Time to get it together.

"You sure you're not hurt?" he asked, low-voiced, as, with a major effort of will, she sat up, careful to keep his coat wrapped around her. Fortunately, it was large enough to cover about three people her size, and longer on her than some skirts she possessed. Pulling her legs up beneath it, she left nothing of herself on view except her bare feet, and felt marginally better.

"Yes." Light-headed from the effort, which had taken more out of her than she would have imagined, Riley dropped her forehead onto her knees and concentrated on taking deep breaths. She was still shaking, and she suddenly realized that at least part of the reason was that she was freezing. Rivulets of now-cold water dripped down her back from her wet hair. Pulling her hair out of the coat, she slid her arms into the sleeves and hugged the garment closer still, willing the shivers to stop.

The man stood up and put his hand down to Riley. "Help you up?"

She had to tilt her head way back to see his face. On the way up, she couldn't help but notice his powerful athlete's build-and the black shoulder holster that bisected the left side of his white shirt. The gun protruding from it made her breath catch.

Welcome to your new life, Riley Cowan.

"Thanks." She put her hand in his and let him pull her to her feet, careful to keep his jacket closed with her other hand as she moved. As she had thought, it reached almost halfway down her thighs.

"How about we go back inside your apartment and talk?"

"I-"

As soon as he let go of her Riley realized that she'd made a mistake: her knees wouldn't support her.

"Oh," she finished on a note of surprise as they wobbled. Grabbing his arm for support, taking a staggering sideways step, she started to sink to the floor.

"All right, I got you." He caught her before she hit, scooping her up in his arms like she weighed nothing. Riley curled an arm around his shoulders as he carried her back into her apartment. He was solid muscle, and at such close quarters he was almost overwhelmingly masculine down to the hint of stubble darkening his square jaw. Having him carry her like that felt surprisingly intimate, but unless she wanted to stay out in the hall-which she didn't-she didn't seem to have a whole lot of choice.

He closed the door behind them, carried her to her couch, and set her down on it.

"Thank you," she said with a.s.sumed composure, as, straightening, he frowned down at her. Conscious suddenly of what she must look like wearing nothing but his sport coat with her bare legs on display, not helped by the knowledge that she was naked beneath it and he knew it and had already seen every inch of her without a st.i.tch on besides, she felt suddenly uncomfortable under that penetrating gaze.

She lifted her chin.

"You're an FBI agent?" It still hurt to talk, and her voice was still hoa.r.s.e, but she didn't want to just give him the upper hand in whatever interaction was coming. Her tone made it not quite a question. "Could I see some ID, please?"

His eyes narrowed slightly. Then he reached into his back pants pocket, extracted a wallet, flipped it open, and held it out to her.

"Finn Bradley," he said as she looked at the photo ID displayed behind the clear plastic film.

She nodded her acceptance of his ID, and he flipped the wallet closed and restored it to his pocket. "I'm Riley Cowan. But I'm guessing you know that."

He inclined his head. She took that as a big fat yes.

"I'm also guessing that you weren't just pa.s.sing by and happened to hear me scream."

"You're right, I wasn't. I was on my way to talk to you." His eyes swept her.

"What do you want to talk about?" If her tone wasn't quite hostile, it was close. She knew what he wanted to talk to her about: the money. That was what they all wanted to talk about.

He held up a hand. "Hang on a minute."

He turned, walked into her bedroom, and disappeared from sight. A moment later he reappeared carrying her bedspread and a towel.

"You're shivering," he said in response to the look she gave him, and Riley realized it was true. He dropped the towel on her lap, then draped the bedspread around her shoulders. Even as she picked up the towel he continued: "There's blood all over your bathroom. Suppose we start by you telling me what just happened."

- CHAPTER -

SIX.

"Like I said, I was taking a bath." Riley's thoughts raced a mile a minute as she pulled the bedspread more closely around her, appreciating its weight and warmth. She was shivering, long tremors that racked her body. Her throat hurt and her head hurt and she had various other aches and pains, as well, but none of those were her biggest concern at the moment. Far more urgent was this: How much should she tell him? How much could she tell him, without causing herself all kinds of trouble? "I looked up, and there was a man in my bathroom. He tried to kill me."

"Why?" The blunt question, coupled with the look that accompanied it, was disconcerting.

"You know, I didn't ask him. I was too busy trying to stay alive." She started blotting her hair with the towel as she spoke, relieved to discover that her heart was slowly regaining its normal rhythm. He watched her with unwavering focus. She found his gaze mildly-all right, who was she kidding, forget the mildly; acutely was more like it-unnerving, and used the excuse of toweling off the rest of her hair to duck her head and escape it. There was a b.u.mp on the back of her skull, she discovered with a grimace as she touched it, and recalled having her head slammed into the hard rim of the tub. It was tender, so she avoided it.

He said nothing more until, with her hair as towel-dry as it was going to get, she gave up and tossed her hair back. Their gazes met. His calm blue eyes told her exactly nothing.

c.r.a.p.

"He tried to kill you," Bradley prompted. He stood so close she could have reached out and touched him. Now that she was getting a good look at it, she saw that his tie was dark gray, a nice complement to his black suit. His pants leg just brushed the trunk/coffee table in front of the couch. His arms were folded over his chest. By the soft, pale light of her ginger jar lamps, he looked big and dark and dangerous-and way too focused on her for her peace of mind. Riley hated to admit that she found him intimidating, but the truth was she kinda-sorta did. There were damp places on his shirt, and she realized that they must have come from her, when she'd thrown herself naked and streaming wet into his arms. Not the most steadying memory ever. "What did he do, exactly?" Bradley pressed, pulling her out of her momentary diversion.

Remembering made her stomach tighten. The fear of dying was still with her, she discovered, even though she had survived. Probably because somewhere deep inside she was convinced that now that they had targeted her, they would never stop until- She couldn't finish the thought. Instead she looked him in the eye and said, "He forced my head underwater and held it there until I managed to get away."

"And how did you do that?"

That answer was easy. It even made her feel better. "I stabbed him in the neck with a comb. It's a rattail comb, with a long, sharp end."

His eyes flickered, she thought with surprise.

"Ah," he said, as if that cleared up something-probably the blood in the bathroom-for him. "You know him? Dated him, talked to him, seen him around, anything like that?"

"No." She wasn't just cold on the outside. She was cold on the inside, too. Freezing, actually, as though the blood that was circulating through her veins had been refrigerated. She had almost died, she was terribly afraid of the "they" that she knew was still out there, and now she was being interrogated by a man who looked like he got his jollies from strong-arming people. No wonder she had the shivers. "I never saw him before in my life." She took a deep breath and hurried into speech before he could ask her anything else. "He was wearing a ski mask, at first. Then he took it off. That's when I knew he was going to kill me."

At the memory, her heart lurched.