Page 73 of Deadly Hope
“Listen. Everything ... since Prague. Getting close to Bing. Had to ... make him trust me.” A wet cough. “James wasright. About all of it. The shell companies. The weapons deals. I got ... proof.”
Somewhere above them, boots thundered on stairs. Axel was speaking into his comm, but the words blurred past her. All she could see was the growing pallor of Voss’s skin, the blue tinge to her lips.
“All this time you were playing Driscoll?”
Voss’s eyes focused on something distant. “For James and my p-partner. Couldn’t ... save them. But could finish it. Make it ... matter.”
The tremors started in Olivia’s hands, adrenaline crash hitting hard. Focus. Center. Like she taught her patients. But theory felt worlds away from the reality of holding someone’s life in her blood-slicked fingers.
“You did,” she whispered, not sure if Voss could still hear.
A ghost of a smile touched the woman’s lips. Then her grip went slack.
Olivia’s training kicked in—check pulse and airway. Begin compressions. But before she could move, Axel’s hand touched her shoulder. She knew. Had seen it enough times. That final exhale.
“Dear Jesus ...” The prayer came automatically as she closed Margaret Voss’s eyes.
Her brother had died alone, struggling for truth. But he’d had an ally after all. Someone willing to die to finish what he started.
“Olivia.” Axel’s voice, urgent. “We need to move.”
She looked up, saw him supporting a groggy Deke. When had he ... ?
Time unraveled. Fragmented. Shock, her clinical mind supplied. Early signs of traumatic stress response.
Kenji’s voice came over the comlink. “Hostiles are clearing the area. You’re a go for egress. Let’s do this before Driscoll changes his mind, kids.”
“We have to go. Now.” Axel’s voice held that edge she’d learned meant immediate danger.
Her knees protested as she stood. The room tilted slightly—vasovagal response, probably. She forced herself to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The technique she’d taught countless patients.
They made their way through the carnage of Driscoll’s office. Broken glass crunched under her heels. She shouldn’t have worn pumps today, part of her mind noted absurdly. The walls showed bullet holes, paintings hung askew. Papers scattered everywhere, some spotted with blood.
The hallway stretched endlessly, emergency lights casting everything in surreal red shadows. Kenji stumbled, and she automatically moved to his other side, supporting him. Her medical training finally proving useful. “Possible concussion,” she murmured to Axel. “We need to?—”
“Later,” he cut her off, but gently. “Stairs first.”
Four flights down. Her calves burned. Sweat or blood made her grip slick on the railing—she couldn’t tell which anymore. Their footsteps echoed in the stairwell, too loud. Every shadow made her flinch.
“This way!” Ronan’s voice carried across the marble-floored lobby. He and Deke had secured a position near the emergency exit, weapons ready.
Axel steered them through the once-pristine atrium, his hand firm at her back.
Deke blinked at her, his features clearing. “You’re bleeding.”
She looked down, surprised. The blood on her hands, her blouse—none of it was hers. All Margaret’s. The thought made her stomach lurch.
Through the glass ceiling panels, a shadow passed—once, twice. Metal groaned overhead.
“There.” Axel pointed. “East roof pad.”
The distinctive whine of rotors cutting air grew louder. Driscoll, escaping.
Every instinct screamed at her to stop him, to make him face what he’d done to James, to Margaret Voss, to all of them.
“Something’s wrong.” Ronan’s head snapped up. “That engine sound?—”
“Get down!” Axel yanked her behind a marble pillar just as the first explosion hit.
