Kate shouted now, panic rising. “I’m Lieutenant Wever, a detective with Zantrax Police Department, and I’m placing you under arrest for assault.”
But he ignored her as if she had not spoken at all. She couldn’t just stand there and do nothing while one man killed another—as she watched. So she fired. The bullet struck the man’s shoulder and propelled him back. He shook his head and shrugged, as if shaking off a muscle twinge and glanced at the blood spreading down his sleeve and across his white sweater.
The victim struggled beneath the man she’d shot, but before he could get out of reach, his attacker caught him again. His hands, his long fingers stiff like claws, closed around the man’s throat. Despite the bullet in his shoulder, he had lost none of his strength.
Was he on something? Drugged suspects were sometimes harder to subdue and apprehend because they tended to be more violent. And superhumanly strong.
So Kate fired again.
This bullet propelled him back farther, his hands slipping from his victim’s throat. Finally, he turned toward her, as if just noticing that she’d joined them in the alley. With that murderous intent directed at her, he lurched to his feet, and she noticed the gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans.
He was armed and he was heading straight toward her.
Heart hammering with fear, Kate fired again. This bullet struck him directly in the chest—in his heart. He pressed his hand to it as if pledging allegiance. Then he pulled it away and looked down at his bloody palm—seeming surprised to see the blood.
Had he thought she was firing blanks? Couldn’t he feel the wounds in his shoulder? Blood saturated the sleeve of his white sweater and spread like a red wave across his chest. Finally, his legs buckled beneath him, and he dropped to his knees on the asphalt.
While he fell to the ground, another man rose from it—albeit with a lurch and a groan. The man he’d been pummeling stumbled forward.
Instinct had Kate swinging her gun toward him. But he had no weapon at his waistband and was in no physical shape to assault her or his attacker.
“Stay back,” she said. She wasn’t sure who she was protecting—herself or the man she’d shot. She stepped between them.
“He needs medical help,” the beat-up man murmured, his voice weak—probably from nearly having his throat ripped out.
She’d had no choice. She’d had to shoot.
But even with three bullets in him, he was reaching out as if trying to grab for his victim again. “No...”
She put her hand on his shoulder. “I’ll get you help,” she said. She’d had to shoot him, but she felt guilt hanging heavily over her like the night sky. “Save your strength...”
However, he must have used his last because he slumped forward, his chest and head hitting the asphalt.
“Oh, God!” she exclaimed in horror. What had she done? She hadn’t wanted to kill him. She’d just wanted him to stop. During her career, she’d had to shoot other suspects—had even killed a couple of them. But she hadn’t felt like this then. She hadn’t felt any doubt and certainly not any guilt.
Her hand shaking, she reached for her cell. Where the hell was the backup she’d called? If she hadn’t shot him, she might have been the one lying in the alley bleeding out if he’d grabbed for his gun. He still had his weapon on him, but he hadn’t pulled it. He wouldn’t have needed the gun to kill her, though; he could have used his bare hands like he had on his victim.
She gripped her gun tighter in one hand while she used her other to press the call button on her cell. Before anyone answered, she heard the sirens. Help had arrived.
But was it too late? Was he already dead? There was so much blood, pooling like tar beneath his body. She dropped down next to him. His face was to the side, his strange topaz eyes staring up at her. She couldn’t help him. Her only medical training was CPR, and he was breathing. His heart was beating. She couldn’t help him.
“You let a killer get away,” he said.
She glanced around the alley. Even in daylight it was dark between these buildings. Now, close to midnight, the blackness was thick and impenetrable. The other man could have been standing beside her and she might not have seen him. But she knew he was gone. While she’d been distracted, he’d slipped away.
“A killer?” Had she shot the wrong man and let the real perp escape?
“Yes,” he murmured, and blood gurgled from his mouth now. It was amazing he was still alive—given where she’d hit him. But he wouldn’t last much longer.
“Hang in there,” she implored him. “Help’s coming...” Would they be able to find the narrow entrance to the alley? “I’ll get them...”
She moved to stand up, but he caught her wrist in his hand. His incredibly large, strong hand. He could have easily snapped her wrist—if he’d wanted, if he wasn’t near death.
“I’ll get you medical help,” she promised.
“You made a mistake,” he said, his voice a low growl. “A fatal mistake...” He seemed less concerned about his wounds than the fact that the other man had slipped away.
His words—his last words—chilled her. His eyes had closed, and he was no longer breathing. She could administer CPR now, but it wouldn’t be enough to save him. He needed the paramedics and a fast trip to an operating room. She pulled her wrist from his weak grasp and ran from the alley.
It wasn’t until she returned with the EMTs and patrol officers that she realized her mistake.
He was gone.
“No!” As frustration and anger and shock rioted within her, she screamed the word. “No!”
The scream burned her throat and jerked her awake. Her heart pounded furiously, hammering at her ribs. She gasped for breath and clawed at the sheets that had tangled around her thrashing body.
No matter how many times in the past couple of months that she dreamed about that night, the intensity of that encounter never lessened. She relived every emotion as well as every action. But still, she could not figure out exactly what had happened to his dead body.
She had seen the blood gurgling from his mouth to join the dark pool of it lying beneath him on the asphalt. He had stopped breathing and closed his eyes.
He had died.
He hadn’t walked out of that alley. But somehow in the short time that she’d gone to the sidewalk and led the uniforms back to the alley, his body had disappeared. Maybe the other man, the one he’d been beating, hadn’t left the alley when she’d thought. Maybe he’d waited until she’d left.
And done what? Killed a man who was already dead? Dragged off his body? He hadn’t been in any shape to do that.
But how had the body disappeared? The alley dead-ended into a third building; none of the doors opening onto it had been unlocked. There was nowhere he could have gone even had he been alive. But dead...
She had even tracked down the homeless
