Page 93 of Ground Truth

“What about Greta Campbell? Did you kill her so you could sell her organs, too?” Flint pushed, seeking to provoke Brand.

“Why do you think Greta’s dead?” Brand said easily, a knowing smirk on his face. “They never found her body, did they? No body, no murder.”

Flint raised the Glock and held it steady. “You’re right, Phillip. Greta’s not dead. We thought she might be living here with you. But of course she knows what a monster you are now. She’d never live with you again.”

Brand shrugged, but he’d gone pale when Flint confirmed Greta was alive. His voice was weak and breathy when he croaked, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Nice try,” Flint replied, shaking his head. “You staged the boating accident. You left Greta in the water. You believed she’d drowned. But like you, she survived.”

Brand shook his head slowly, denying Flint’s accusations.

“You came here. You started up your depraved organ-selling business. You thought you were safe. Because you thought Greta had drowned,” Flint pressed on. “But she didn’t. Greta’s alive. And she’ll testify against you.”

“What do you mean?” Brand asked, astonished.

“Shut up. I can’t stand to listen to you.” Flint reached into his pocket for the handcuffs he’d brought along. He moved toward Brand to lock his wrists in the cuffs when another bout of dizziness overwhelmed him. He staggered slightly.

Brand saw his chance.

Quickly, he stepped forward and jammed his shoulder into Flint’s sternum, putting all his weight behind the maneuver.

Flint attempted to balance on one foot, both hands occupied, overwhelmed by dizziness.

Brand’s hard shove took Flint down and stole his breath away. He hit the floor. Blackness circled his vision. He struggled to remain conscious.

Brand grabbed the Glock and jumped across Flint’s body.He pointed the pistol at Genevieve and fired a quick round into her head.

Flint scrambled behind a chair.

Brand pivoted toward Flint, moving the gun as he tried to aim.

He couldn’t get a clean shot.

He fired twice but managed only to hit the furniture before he gave up.

A few quick strides to the door and Brand ran out into the corridor. Flint could hear his footsteps pounding on the marble floors.

Flint struggled to stand. His sternum felt like he’d been head-butted by a bull. He’d have a bruise blacker than a bowling ball tomorrow.

But he could breathe.

Once he was able to draw air into his lungs, he overcame the nausea.

And quelled the dizziness.

He scrambled to put one foot in front of the other, loping to the cadence of his pounding head.

He picked up the pace after a few steps and ran toward the rear exit, in hot pursuit of Stephen Brand or Phillip Reed or whoever the hell he really was.

Two good thoughts battled in his mind.

First, Greta Campbell was not dead.

If she were, Brand wouldn’t have been so spooked by Flint’s flat certainty.

Brand would have laughed it off. Boldly maintained his innocence.

Which he didn’t.

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