“I put your clothes right here,” he said as he turned away. “On the chair.”
Rio canned the water, the dripping loud into the silver drain. There were no towels—because, hello, this wasn’t a Hilton—so as she stepped out from the little tiled section, she sloughed off her arms, her legs, her butt with her hands.
Getting her bra on took some maneuvering because the straps stuck on her wet skin. When it was in place, she pulled the shirt he’d given her on, and then did the same with her pants. The underwear were completely unusable. She wadded them up and shoved them into her back pocket.
The ruined t-shirt and fleece, the ones she had had on before, she left on the floor.
As she came around the partition, she saw Luke over by the bed, tucking a gun into the waistband of the combats he’d put on.
“You can’t go out there,” he said gruffly. “If you’re found, it’s going to get bad.”
That was when she heard the voices. Outside the door. Loud and insistent.
“Where’s your gun?” he demanded.
Rio went over to the table and picked the weapon up. “I’ve got it.”
Luke stared at her. Then came across to her.
She didn’t even hesitate. She threw her arms around him and held on tight for a brief moment.
“Please be careful,” she said.
God, the idea she might never smell his cologne again . . . and the fact that she wasn’t now because he’d sprayed something on himself, something that was like the incense in the clinic.
She pushed back urgently. “Better than that, let’s leave together. We’ll just go out the back and—”
“Rio, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can. I’m serious about getting out of the life. You could be free of this—”
“It doesn’t work like that, and you know it.”
“But I can help you.”
“No, you can’t, and besides, how would it be for you? If I’m out, and you’re still in? Have you thought about that.”
“You don’t need to worry about me.”
“So you think I’m going to come work for your Mozart? Not going to happen.” He drew a hand through his hair and looked over at the bloodstain on the floor, which was still bright red. “I don’t know, maybe I can get out in a little while, who knows. But it won’t be to Caldwell. Your world . . . is not mine.”
“It could be.”
“No, it couldn’t. And you know that.” His broad, warm hand stroked her shoulder gently. Then he lifted something up. “By the way, this dropped out of your pocket when I was getting your clothes.”
Dangling off his forefinger was the key fob to the Chrysler.
With a locked jaw, he put the the thing in her hand and closed her grip around it. Then he nodded. “I want you to leave now. Go through that back door and drive away—”
A gunshot rang out in the hall and she jumped.
“Goodbye, Rio.”
Riding a swell of emotion, she lifted her face for his kiss. But it didn’t come.
He brushed her cheek. “Take care of yourself and don’t look in the rearview. It’s the way of survivors, remember?”
“I don’t want to just survive.” Without you, she added to herself.
“Sometimes it’s the best deal a person gets.”
As he turned away, she raised her voice. “You said you loved me.”
Well, not exactly. But in her desperation, she was willing to play any card she had.
Luke paused. Then he glanced over his shoulder. “You can still love someone, even if you’re not with them. And no matter how painful it is, I’m not in any hurry to get over you, Rio.”
His smile was heartbreaking, full of pain, and yet no regrets.
Rio teared up as he walked away. He didn’t look back when he got to the door. He just punched in the code—and stepped out into chaos.
Lucan made sure the door to the private quarters closed behind him—and then he assessed the seven guards who had lined up in front of Apex and Mayhem.
“Okay, who shot who,” he said to the group as he palmed his gun. “I’m not seeing anybody on the floor.”
“Misfire,” Apex drawled. “The one on the end was cleaning his gun. He didn’t mean to try to put a bullet in me.”
Lucan looked down the line to the guard in question and bared his fangs. “You gotta be careful. Accidents can be deadly.”
The guard took a step forward. “You want to explain that?”
It was pretty obvious what the “that” was. The Executioner was where he’d been left, no change there, and it was clear the decomposition process was starting, the blood pooling in the feet and ankles, which were now purple; the face utterly white; the blood no longer flowing out of the piercings of the pegs, but congealing beneath him on the floor.
“Explain what,” Lucan murmured amicably. ’Cuz sometimes it was good to make people say things out loud.
“That.” The male pointed. “Right there.”
Lucan glanced over. “Why, that’s a door. You use it to go in and out of when you—”
“You’re in deep shit, Lucan. I wouldn’t get cocky.”
Down at the end of the hall, the stairwell door opened, and prisoners started to file through. The lineup of lowered heads, and wrinkled, dirty clothing, and desolated shuffling was a reminder of where they all were. No freedom. Just servitude.
The fact that none of the workers looked up at the congregation in front of the Executioner’s dead body was a commentary on how tired and ill they were.
Lucan thought of what Rio had said. About getting out.
He retrained his stare on the guard.
“Well, if I were you”—he walked right up to the guy—“I’d remember who did that. And enjoyed it while it happened. You know what my kind is like. We relish the kill and it doesn’t matter the context—sometimes it’s to defend our territory. Sometimes it’s to settle a score. And sometimes it’s for fun.”
“Wolf.”
The female voice cut through everything, including the footfalls of all the prisoners filing into the workrooms.