Page 112 of Fatal Pattern

The Charger’s engine ticked as it cooled, the only sound in the desolate parking lot.

He pulled out his phone, thumb finding Wells’s number. One ring.

“We’re here. Going in.”

“We’re in position. Go.” Wells’s voice was reassuring.

Blade slid the phone into his pocket and took the notebook from Tori. He shoved it into his back jeans pocket, the motion sending knives of fire through the gash in his bicep. Weak side. Liability. If he couldn’t even muscle open the Charger’s door, how was he supposed to shield her when someone came out swinging?

Tori lifted her hand between them, palm open. A scatter of red and white pills pressed into the crease of her skin. “Here, take these.”

“What’s that?”

“Acetaminophen and ibuprofen. One-two punch.” Her eyes didn’t move from his face. “Takes the edge off without fogging you. You’ll need that arm functional.”

He didn’t waste time debating. Dropped the pills on his tongue, chased them with the stale water from yesterday’s bottle he’d forgotten in the cup holder.

“Thanks, Doc.”

Blade stared at the building’s black entrance. Every instinct screamed at him to turn around, drive away, let the FBI handle this. But Stryker was in there.

And so was the man who’d destroyed Tori’s family.

“I want you to stay here and wait for Wells before you go in,” he said without looking at her.

“Not happening.”

“Tori—”

“We’ve been through this before.” Her chin lifted in defiance, ready for a fight. “I’m not staying behind while you walk into a trap.”

Blade turned to face her, memorizing the way her dark eyes held no fear. Only courage. If something happened to her in that building—if Barclay hurt her—

He wouldn’t survive it.

Somewhere between the stalker attacks and the evidence warehouse, between watching her patch his wounds and seeing her devastation over Stryker’s decision to hide the truth about her brother, Blade had figured out that he couldn’t live without her.

“We go in together,” she said. “Watch each other’s back. Just like always.”

He wanted to argue. Wanted to lock her in the car and face Barclay alone. Instead, he nodded.

“Stay close,” he said. “Trust the plan.”

Their boots cracked over loose concrete, each step snapping through the silence. The stench rolled out of the dark. Mildew. A sour tang that clung wet to the back of his throat. Inside stretched an empty husk of a store, shadows swallowing the floor, splintered racks jutting up like bones.

Blade’s Glock cut left, steady. Tori’s barrel tracked right.

The wide floor opened before them, tiles fractured like old teeth, steel frames with their guts rusted out.

Too much space. Too many places to hide a man.

Barclay wanted them in here. Wanted them hunting.

Blade pivoted, weapon raised toward the blind wedge behind a ruined counter. Drawers hung open like slack mouths, nothing moving in the dark beyond. He flicked his fingers, quick signal toward the rear. Tori caught it, pressed on creeping along a pillar.

A soft glow filtered down from the upper floors. Tori spotted it first, her hand rising in a silent signal. She pointed upward, two fingers indicating the second floor. He followed her signal and saw electric light spilling through the dead escalators. The long jaw of metal teeth ran up between the floors.

They approached the frozen escalators, metal steps locked in place like broken teeth. Blade went first, testing each step for noise before committing his weight. The steel held under his boots. Tori followed three steps behind.