The Wind Dancer. She could see the gleam of gold on the table above her. Would it lure him close enough for her to get a shot at him? Or would one of his bullets strike her first?
Another shot. Very close.
She gasped and then gave a low cry.
Deschamps grunted with satisfaction. “All right. You’ve gotten in my way for the last time.” Silence. “Did it hurt? I hurt your sister, didn’t I? I saw the blood spurting out of her before I ran out.” He stopped, listening.
He was testing her, hoping she’d break if the bullet hadn’t hit her.
“ I was hoping to be able to take my time killing Travis. I admit I’m disappointed. I wanted to see him hurt. I haven’t felt this much hatred for anyone since I killed my charming stepfather.”
Bastard.
“Did you see him bleed when the bullets hit? There are legends about the Wind Dancer having a fondness for blood. Wars . . . the guillotine . . . Do you think there’s anything to those tales?”
She didn’t respond. Come on, you son of a bitch. Let me see you.
“ You really shouldn’t have involved yourself. You’re not clever enough. It was pitifully easy fooling you at St. Ives.”
He was stirring, moving.
Yes!
She could sense him on the other side of the room. Come closer. See the pretty statue. Come and get it.
He was coming. Very cautiously, but he was coming.
Her hand tightened on the gun.
Another shot.
A hot, deep pain in her upper thigh.
Don’t scream. Don’t move. He had to think she was no threat.
“ I heard that bullet hit home. There’s nothing that sounds quite like that soft thud. You’re either a Spartan or you’re unconscious or dead. I wonder which it is. I’ll make sure as soon as I get the Wind Dancer.” He was closer, though not close enough. She couldn’t move quickly and she’d have only one chance. “My God, what a thing of beauty it is. I can see those eyes glittering at me in the darkness. It’s almost enough to make a man believe all the stories about it.”
Shock surged through her as sudden light illuminated the room. He’d relit the lantern. Christ, he was only a few feet away! She froze and held her breath. Her hand tightened on the gun half hidden beneath her body.
But he gave her only a glance, his attention focused on the statue with total fascination. “Alexander, Charlemagne, the Borgias,” he whispered as he gathered the statue in his arms. “And Edward Deschamps. It has a splendid ring, doesn’t— Shit!” He clutched the statue as he fell to the floor. “ What the—”
Travis had his arms wrapped around Deschamps’s ankles and yanked the legs out from under him. There was blood everywhere. Travis’s blood. On Travis, on Deschamps. But, sweet Jesus, Travis was still alive!
Deschamps recovered immediately. His gun swung to point at Travis.
“No!” The thirty-eight exploded in Melissa’s hand.
One shot.
Two.
Three.
Deschamps jerked as each bullet entered his body. Blood poured from the wounds in his stomach.
He looked down in disbelief.
She fired again and he dropped the gun. “ Bitch.” Tears ran down his face. He clutched the Wind Dancer with his bloody hands and crawled toward the door. “Doesn’t matter. You still won’t win. I’ve got it. That’s all that’s important. I’ve got it. . . .”
And he might still get to the helicopter and get away. She didn’t know how he was managing to even move. Yes, she did. He was obsessed and Jessica had told her fanatics sometimes seemed to draw on superhuman stores of endurance and strength.
Jessica.
No way was he going to get to the helicopter.
She shot him in the head.
25
“ That . . . hurts.” Travis opened his eyes as Melissa pressed a strip of shirt to the wound in his lower shoulder.
“Shut up. You’re lucky to be alive. Where’s Galen?”
“ I . . . didn’t need him.”
“ You ran out on him.”
“ No one knew he was mixed up in this. Andreas . . . he won’t be satisfied with . . . statue.”
“ You gave him Deschamps.”
“He’s dead?”
“ Yes, and you did it. Do you hear me?”
He tried to smile. “Strange, I don’t remember that. Are you trying to make me a hero?”
“ I’m trying to save your neck.” She moistened her lips. “ I never thought I’d get the chance. I saw you dying, Travis. I saw the wounds in your chest and your face. . . . You were dying.”
“ But you’d tackled me and pulled me down. The bullet didn’t hit my chest.”
“ You might not have been shot at all if I hadn’t been here.”