Page 18 of Fast Fury

Diane gazed out over the distant horizon, her heart heavy as lead in her breast. There were no more tears. Her grief was too deep, too terrible. All that was left now was the need for vengeance, and deep, aching emptiness that would never go away.

Taking a deep breath, she lifted the lid off the urn and reached out over the side of the catamaran. “I love you, sweetheart. Sleep well and be at peace.” Every time she saw the water from now on, she would think of Bailey.

With trembling hands, she tipped the urn. A stream of white ash spilled from the vessel, falling toward the rippling surface of the water. The wind caught it, spreading it into a fine mist. She reached up and closed the fingers of her right hand around the locket hanging from her neck. The one containing a tiny amount of Bailey’s ashes.

Her mind remained blank as she stared at the film of ash while it settled onto the water and vanished. After a respectful amount of time, footsteps approached behind her.

“Mrs. Whitehead?” the captain asked. “Are you ready to go back now?”

She nodded without turning around, her gaze fixed on the spot where her daughter now rested, mixing with the wind and waves.

The ride back to shore passed in a blur, but as the shoreline became clearer and clearer in front of them, her mind began to whirl. Bailey had been laid to rest. Her suffering was over.

But for the people who had wrought this pain, their suffering was about to begin.

In the parking lot she changed clothes, in the privacy of the shadows alongside the building that the charter boat rides were run out of. There were no security cameras here. The rental car she’d secured under a fake name was nondescript, her outfit of capri jeans and a plain gray T-shirt chosen because they wouldn’t draw attention.

Everything else she needed was already in the trunk.

Funny now, to think that the one positive thing from her childhood—her marksman father teaching her how to shoot—would pay off this way. It had been the one thing they had in common, though she’d done it only to spend time with him. Over the years she’d become an expert shot. Today, that same skill would become her weapon in meting out the justice Bailey had been denied in life. She had nothing left to lose. She was willing to go to jail as long as she could kill at least one monster responsible for this.

Diane had failed her daughter while she was alive. She’d be damned if she’d fail her in death too.

Ten minutes later she pulled into the parking lot of the medical building and parked in a spot off in the corner, closest to the exit. There was only one other car there, a silver Mercedes that belonged to her target.

She’d done her homework carefully over the past several days. Doctor Bradshaw’s last patient was a seventy-one-year-old woman scheduled for seven o’clock. He generally ran behind at the end of the day. His staff left out the front of the building, and he always came out the back, where his Mercedes was parked beside the steel door.

His parking spot was ideal. The security cameras installed on the building had a view of his car, but only the front of it. The trunk, where he always placed his briefcase before climbing behind the wheel, was out of view. And with the trunk up, it gave her the perfect amount of concealment.

Her hand was damp but steady as she gripped her pistol, hidden in her handbag. The plastic, disposable raincoat she wore would keep her free of any splatter.

Movement in her peripheral vision caught her attention. An elderly woman with white hair came out of the rear entrance, leaning heavily on the cane. Dr. Bradshaw’s final patient.

Diane’s heartbeat quickened as she waited, her gaze locked on the steel door. She’d killed pheasants before. An occasional deer. But never a person.

Her conscience pricked at her, but she wrestled it back. This man was a monster. There were no real consequences for people like him, for the people who made and sold and prescribed the drugs that destroyed so many lives. The world would be a better place with him gone.

Minutes later the lights on the second floor turned off. She slid out of her car, careful to remain in the shadows and out of view of the camera, or anyone who came out the back door.

It opened. Heart in her throat, she stared at the opening. The good doctor himself emerged, briefcase in one hand. He didn’t bother looking around as he locked the door behind him and made for his car.

Diane shoved her nerves back and stalked toward him on silent feet, the pistol grip solid in her hand. She was twenty feet away and Bradshaw still hadn’t noticed her. As if in slow motion he hit the button on his keyfob that unlatched the trunk and turned toward it, his back to her.

The moment the trunk swung upward, Diane acted.

“You killed my daughter,” she said in a low voice, raising the pistol. It was like an extension of her hand, the weight and feel of it perfect in her grip.

Bradshaw whirled to face her, his startled expression turning to fear when he saw the weapon pointed at his chest. He jerked his eyes to hers.

It was what she had been waiting for. That moment of recognition.

Grip steady, she fired three fast shots. Each bullet hit their mark, dead center in Bradshaw’s worthless chest.

She barely saw him hit the ground before she whirled and hurried away in the shadows. The shots had been loud, but necessary. People would come to investigate at any moment.

Pausing at her vehicle only long enough to strip off her plastic raincoat, she stuffed everything in the beach bag and drove out of the lot at an unhurried pace even though she was scared to death of being seen. Of being caught on some security camera she didn’t know about.

Her heart hammered in her throat, a queasy sensation roiling in her stomach. If Bradshaw wasn’t already dead, he soon would be.

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