Page 23 of View from Above

“I believe what Dr. Kotite is trying to say is I’m still here.” A distorted outline rounded behind him. “Don’t worry, Detective. It won’t be much longer now.”

“Payton!” Mallory’s fear pierced through muscle and straight into bone. She couldn’t hold on forever. At this height, nobody on the ground could hear her screams. The medical examiner could rule her death another suicide, but Payton would know the truth.

Unless she killed him, too.

Warmth trickled down the back of his head. He pressed one hand into the mass bubbling beneath his skin and tried to gauge the damage. Blood spread into the creases of his palms as he struggled to his feet. Shaking his head, he tried to keep the killer in focus, but she’d hit him too hard. Dark hair, blue blazer. Not much else. He stumbled back, reaching for his sidearm. His holster was empty. When had she… “Didn’t catch your name.”

She tossed a 2x4 to the cement, most likely found up here on the roof, and raised his weapon. “Names don’t mean anything unless you intend on keeping them. I don’t.” He blinked against the mid-morning sun blacking out the intricate details and tried to clear the haze as his vision adjusted. “I can see why she likes you. Handsome, protective, and those eyes… A girl could get lost in eyes like that. Too bad you’ll never know.”

“It doesn’t have to be like this. You can still walk away.” He raised his hands in surrender. Sobs from over the side of the building punctured through the urge to take the killer out right here right now, possibly getting himself shot in the process, but he couldn’t risk it. Not with Mallory losing her grip. “Live to fight another day.”

“Funny. I was about to say the same thing to you.” The killer loaded a round into the chamber of his weapon. “Now, I don’t want to shoot you, Detective Nichols. Guns can be far too messy and traceable, but I will do whatever it takes to see this through to the end. What do you say? Friends?”

“I’m not looking for any new friends right now, but if you want to give me your name and number, I can put you on the waitlist.” The haze clouding his vision cleared, but his eyes hadn’t adjusted to the onslaught of sunlight. Air burned along this throat as the wind picked up. Mallory’s sobs had quieted, and everything in him demanded he get to the side of the building. But he couldn’t. Not yet.

“Shame. I think we could’ve made one hell of a team.” A chunk of long hair blew into her face, blocking her vision.

Payton lunged. He twisted his weapon out of her hand and slammed his free hand to her chin. Her head snapped back a split second before her own counterstrike did the same to him. Stinging agony trailed along his face and neck as she clawed through his skin.

Faster than he thought possible, she took control of the weapon and turned it back onto him. The killer squeezed the trigger.

He managed to curl to one side, the bullet missing him by less than an inch, and clamped his hand around the barrel. Burning pain ignited across his palm from the heat of the weapon, and he ripped the gun free. Metal met cement as his sidearm skidded across the rooftop, out of reach.

His attacker spun, her back to his front, and rocketed her fist toward his face. He caught her arm, but not before she’d ducked to unwind herself and kneed him in the gut.

Payton fell back. Air crushed from his lungs as he hit the ground. Hell, this wasn’t a run-of-the-mill stalker turned killer. No. This was something more. Something he’d only read about in the files the Bureau had given him access to study. Forensically knowledgeable, professionally trained in hand-to-hand combat, intelligent, desperate, power hungry. It was all there in the way she moved, the way she talked, the way she killed.

She positioned herself in front of the blazing sun, her features still too dark. That, combined with the injury to his head, meant he wouldn’t have anything to go off of to track her down or find the next piece in the massive puzzle he feared would swallow this city whole. If he survived.

He leveraged his feet into the pavement to add distance between them, squinting up into the sun. “You’re one of them. You’re working with them. What the hell do you people want with my city?”

Her light laughter broke through his last kernel of doubt. “The same thing you want, Detective. Justice.”

“Bullshit.” Blood collected in his beard. His heart worked overtime to catch up with the adrenaline carving through him. “I think you just like hurting people. You drug people, you throw them off buildings, because you’re scared they’ll expose you for who you really are. A coward. Just like the others who’ve come before you.”

The killer cocked her head to one side. “Do you hear that, Detective?”

Payton willed his pulse to calm. Echoes of the city reverberated off skyscrapers around them. A siren peeled through the streets. Wells was on her way. “Hear what?”

“Exactly.” The killer turned her back to him, striding across the rooftop, and collected his weapon.

Mallory.

“No.” Denial clawed up his throat. Payton shoved to his feet. Rage uncoiled and burned a searing path beneath his skin. Not Mallory. She wasn’t gone. She wasn’t dead. He closed the distance between them, every muscle he owned on fire. “No!”

It was his job to protect, to serve, to neutralize the threat, but right then, all he could think about was Mallory. The woman who’d showed him he wasn’t alone, who bled confidence and affected his own. He wasn’t finished with her. He’d never be finished with her. Just as he could never really be finished with his father’s disappearance. His vision wobbled a second time, blurring everything in front of him. It wouldn’t stop him.

The killer turned the gun on him, but this time, he was ready.

He shoved it back in her hand as hard as he could. The snap of bone reached his ears in tandem to her scream. Twisting her around, he wrapped his forearm around the killer’s neck and squeezed. Her chin notched higher, but she didn’t make a move to escape. Couldn’t. A hint of perfume drove into his lungs, something familiar and gut-wrenching. Mallory’s perfume. Her heartbeat pulsed against his arm, and it took everything he had not to silence it permanently. Her inhale shuddered against his chest. “I could break your neck. I could make sure you never get the chance to hurt anyone ever again and that you pay for every life you’ve taken.” The rage faltered as grief for his failure to protect Mallory surged, but he wouldn’t let go. Not yet.

“But you won’t. Not like this anyway.” Her voice strained against his arm. “You’re not like me, Detective. You became a cop to save lives, not take them. I don’t think you’re capable of going through with this.”

He loosened his grip around her throat. He listened for something—anything—that told him Mallory was still alive, but he was only met with the white noise of passing cars and voices. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know enough. I know your greatest fear is failing those for whom you seek justice. I know you go home every night alone and obsess over the cases you couldn’t solve. I know Mallory is the only woman you’ve brought back to your house and that you haven’t slept for months.” The killer hauled her elbow back into his ribs. “And I know you’re not going to be the one to stop me.”

Payton’s hold released, and he doubled over as his ribs cracked from the impact. A heel connected with his right knee. His leg twisted, and he dropped to the ground. Cement bit into his knee. Faster than he thought possible, a strike slammed into the left of his face, and he landed face-first against cold stone.

---