“Breathe. Don’t talk. Just breathe and stay with me. Look, here come the
paramedics.”
In truth, Nikki wanted him to talk. But she wanted him to live first, so he could
talk a whole lot. When the EMS crew took over, she stood by, bloody to her elbows
and knees, not wanting to leave his side, in case he said anything more. It didn’t
seem likely. Even without medical training, Heat had been around enough trauma
scenes to know from a paramedic’s tone of voice, when the medic verbalized vital
signs, when things were dire. They were having trouble stabilizing him. The
paramedic said, “We gotta transport, and now.”
Heat rode down with the gurney and got in the back of the ambulance for the ride. If
Tyler Wynn were going to die, she wanted to be there when he did. And, yes, she also
wanted to make sure he didn’t get away again.
No sooner had the double doors closed than he rolled his head to her. He raised the
hand on his good arm, the one without exposed tendons and bone showing, and beckoned
her close. She held the rail of the gurney to steady herself and leaned forward
inches from his shredded, monster face. “I’m sorry,” he said. She could see him
whimpering a cry and put a hand on his good wrist. “I loved your mom. I…” He
choked a sob back and closed his eyes, which made her think he’d died, but then he
flashed them open, and they were wild, full of some found strength and
determination.
“I sold myself. They made me rich.” He sucked in a gulp of air. “But they made me
do awful things. So damn sorry. They made me…”
“Who?”
“Him!” The old spy coughed the name out on frothy blood: “Dragon.”
Heat remembered. The person Salena Kaye had called from the stolen helicopter. “Who
is Dragon?” she asked. “Aren’t you Dragon?”
He wagged his head vehemently and moaned a no. The effort drained the fight from his
eyes and he blinked. Then in a sudden exclamation, he shouted, “Terror!” And then
he sucked more air. “Death, mass death here in New York. Worse than…” He
shuddered down a breath. “… Worse than 9/11.” He gagged and labored to swallow.
“I’m cold.”
“My mother found out about it? Is that why you—”
“Yes!” he blurted. “I am so sorry.” He sobbed again and said, “She almost
stopped them.”
“Who did stop them? Nicole?” she asked. It felt logical that her mom’s friend and
fellow agent intervened—and then ended up a frozen body in a suitcase.
His head wagged urgently side to side on the sheet. “Nobody stopped them.”
“I don’t understand. When was it supposed to happen?”
“Not was.” His neck wound gurgled and red froth formed around it. Then he grunted
out, “Is!”
“What is? Tyler, what?”
Nikki had to put her ear to his lips to hear him, his voice had grown so weak.
“Mass death. It’s coming.” She rose up a few inches to see his face, to try to
comprehend. And to believe. With a gaze fixed on hers from under flayed eyelids, he
nodded with a message of certainty and warning. “You, Nikki. You stop it.”
Another shuddering, labored breath. Heat could see him slipping away, and the
injustice of his exit enraged her. “Talk. Tell me.” She put her face right up to
his. “You killed her, you goddamned bastard, and it’s not going to be for nothing.
Talk. Tell me what’s coming. When?” The old man didn’t answer. He reached for her
cheek, but his hand never got there. It dropped lifelessly to his chest.
The paramedic swept in to try to revive him. For the second time in a month Nikki
watched Tyler Wynn paddled by cardiac jolts on his deathbed. And, as before, a
shrill flatline tone from the cardiac monitor called it a day.