Page 67 of The Survivor
“Please.” It was all she could choke out, but this man was beyond hearing her words.
“And this time, I’m going to sit here and watch you die.” His jaw stiffened. “You won’t survive this time, Annie. You won’t be on the news and flaunt your adultery to all those reporters and screw yet another man who isn’t your husband. Do you hear that, Anne? This time I’m going to kill you right.”
“Let her go, Grant.”
At first Sam thought she’d imagined Blake’s voice, that she was so desperate to escape this sick scenario that she’d conjured up the voice of the man she’d prayed would save her. But when the knife froze over her chest, when the madman’s head cocked in the direction of the door, she knew she wasn’t hallucinating.
Blake. Here. A gun in his hand and his eyes so menacing, so determined and unwavering that she almost sobbed with relief.
She’d known he would come. That he’d save her. That she could trust him to protect her.
She’d known he couldn’t walk away.
Blake took a cautious step into the small dark room, breathing in the scent of roses and mildew.
History repeating itself.
His eyes registered Sam on the metal cot, hands and feet bound, gorgeous face rigid with fear. His eyes saw Francis Grant, sitting at her side, knife in hand.
But his mind…his mind saw something entirely different.
A dark cavernous warehouse with high-beamed ceilings and exposed piping. A skinny man with a gun pointed at Kate Manning’s back. Kate’s green eyes, wide with horror, then flashing with agony as the gun went off. Kate jerking forward as she got hit. Kate falling. Kate dying.
* * *
Blake blinked. Forced his brain to focus on the present. He wasn’t in the warehouse anymore. Sam wasn’t Kate. And this time there would be no room for hesitation. Not when another woman he desperately loved needed him.
“You’re under arrest, Grant. Drop the knife,” he said calmly.
Francis Grant stumbled to his feet, his lifeless eyes widening with…recognition?
“You’ve got some nerve, showing your face here,” Grant hissed out. “Haven’t you done enough?”
Blake took another step forward. “Drop the knife.”
Grant gave a humorless laugh. “Why? If I don’t kill her, you will. Either way she’ll die because of you, Ted.”
In his six years on the Serial Squad, Blake had spoken to a lot of killers. Sane ones, crazy ones, delusional ones. Grant obviously fell under category number three.
“Your wife died ten months ago,” he said quietly. “The woman in this room is not Anne.”
Grant whirled around to look at Sam, then glanced back at Blake. “You’re crazy. You think I don’t recognize my own wife? You think the time I spent in the Gulf screwed me up that bad? You think the pills the doc gave me are messing with my head?Well, I’ve got news for you, Teddy. I never took a single pill. I didn’t need to. I’m not crazy.”
“Of course you’re not crazy. You’re grieving for your wife.” Blake watched Sam from the corner of his eye. The ropes binding her to the cot looked strong. There was no way she would be able to undo those knots.
“I’m not grieving for her,” Grant said with a firm shake of his head. “I’m punishing her.”
With a bored look, the Rose Killer drifted toward the tall metal file cabinet leaning against the wall behind him.
“Don’t move!” Blake ordered.
Grant ignored him. Set the knife on the top of the cabinet. Pulled open the top drawer.
“She has to pay for what she did,” Grant mumbled, reaching into the drawer. “I won’t let you interfere, Ted. I won’t let you—” Without finishing his sentence Grant spun around with a small pistol in his hand.
“Drop it,” Blake commanded. “If you don’t, you won’t get out of here alive, Grant. So drop the gun, raise your hands and follow me outside into the squad car. Nobody needs to get hurt.”
Grant’s eyes flashed with blind fury. “She does,” he snapped, jerking his head at Sam.
