*
Jane scrambled to get her own gun. She managed to fire a shot at the clown, but then the clown was gone. She jumped to her feet and moved carefully to the door—just in time to see the clown run across stage right. Ever wary that a bullet could come tearing at her again, she pursued the clown.
She got off a shot when the clown passed ahead of her in the bar area, but he threw open the door to the basement and tore down the stairs. She walked to the doorway, determined to guard the one entry until someone could come.
Then she realized that someone was behind her. She turned, ready to fire.
Her gun went off just as she was slammed in the head. As she went tumbling down the stairs, she heard someone cry out; she might not have killed her attacker, but at least she’d injured him.
It did her little good. She landed in the basement, staring up at the clown.
She hadn’t released her grip on the Glock.
She lifted her gun. The clown dived to the floor, knocking the wig stand on top of her. She struggled to free herself from the hair and heads with sightless eyes.
Footsteps were heading her way down the stairs. The clown, too, was trying to get free from the wigs. She fired again; the clown rolled across the floor and into the mannequin room.
Someone was nearly on top of her, coming down the stairs—and swearing in fury. Jane managed to get up and tear across the room, plowing into the rows of mannequins.
Once she was there, she went as still as she could...and she listened. Someone was breathing near her. And someone else was walking into the room.
In the near-darkness, Victorian madams stared at her, along with Mr. Hyde. A vampire held his cape above his eyes and in the dim light seemed real.
Why not? The clown was real.
And then she heard a voice she’d come to know well. “Agent Everett, you’re harder to kill than I’d thought! But you should just give it up. Those bullets won’t last forever, and quite frankly, you’re outnumbered. Give it up!”
She didn’t move, didn’t breathe. When she felt movement beside her, she turned and fired. She heard a gasp and a scream and then cursing.
She knew the voice. A woman’s voice. She hadn’t even begun to suspect that it could have been this woman!
Who was not alone.
Just how many people were involved?
Suddenly, the mannequins were shoved at her. They all seemed to be coming at her, their faces grotesque in the shadows.
Painted faces, wooden faces, laughing faces and the leering eyes of a Dracula...
She tried to remain steady, but tripped and fell. One of the arms struck hers, and the Glock fell with her in the chaos. She hit the floor.
And something soft.
A body.
Kelsey.
She managed to keep quiet.
“Have you found your friend yet, Jane? Such a conspiracy! And so easy to figure out. I mean, Sloan was friends with Logan. They sent you in, and then Kelsey and Logan showed up. So easy when lawmakers get involved. Just like before!”
Jane felt for Kelsey’s pulse. She was still breathing. In the darkness, Jane patted her holster. They’d taken Kelsey’s gun.
She realized they’d never been alone in the theater.
“We’re going to get you, Agent Everett! Oh, don’t go thinking it’s like the play—that the good guy’s going to save you. We’ve been waiting for him, and in a few minutes, well...the gang will all be here! And the gang will all be dead!”
*
Sloan let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He raced to the stage and was startled to run into Cy Tyburn, who seemed to be practicing a monologue.
“Cy! Where is everyone? Has the ambulance come? What the hell is going on?”
“Damned if I know! Everyone’s supposed to be in here. What did you say? Who needs an ambulance?”
“Brian. Brian Highsmith,” Sloan said. He started to go backstage. As he did so he heard the familiar click of a gun.
He spun around. Cy had a Colt aimed at him. “Yes, go on back.”
“You are not going to shoot me, Cy.”
“Oh, yes, I am. But...play your cards right, and you can hope for escape in the next few minutes.”
“What?”
Sloan moved toward Cy, itching to reach for his own weapon.
Cy shot the stage floor in front of him—barely missing his foot.
“Turn around and walk. We’re going down to the basement.”
“This place’ll be crawling with cops in about two minutes,” he said.
“I don’t think so.” Cy indicated the aisle along the side of the seats.
Someone was coming—and he knew who it was. Betty. His trusted deputy. Sweet, older, gray-haired.
And lethal.
“No, I just talked to Scotty and I called Newsome,” Betty said. “On your behalf, of course. I assured him that no ambulances were needed. You’re here, and everything is under control.”
“Kelsey called for the ambulance. Not me. A federal agent,” Sloan said.