Page 115 of Fatal Pattern

“You may be pretty smart, Barclay,” Blade said, taking half a step. “But you made one very big mistake.”

Barclay’s grip tightened. “And what would that be?”

“Your mistake,” she said, pressing her temple harder against the barrel, “was letting me within reach.”

Her heel smashed down, crushing the bones in Barclay’s instep. She could feel the crack jolt up her leg. She snapped her head aside, slipping the barrel by inches. Barclay jerked and screamed. A guttural sound ripping loose as the gallery walls caught the noise and hurled it back.

She didn’t pause to savor it. Her elbow rocketed up and back, targeting the soft space between his ribs. Air punched out of his lungs in a wet grunt that sprayed against her neck. His grip loosened for a half second.

Tori twisted hard left, using his forward momentum against him, spinning out of his grasp like water through fingers. She over-rotated. Her feet tangled and she crashed to the concrete floor. Her shoulder slammed first, then her hip. Pain shot through her arm.

She scrambled backward, putting distance between them, concrete scraping her palms. Her eyes blazed as she gained her feet, ready to fight again.

Barclay pivoted and ran, his limp barely slowing him down as he disappeared through a doorway into the adjacent room.

Tori and Blade dove for their weapons. Her fingers closed around her Glock’s grip as Blade snatched his service weapon from where it had skittered under a canvas.

They came up armed, training their weapons on the empty doorway.

“Side exit,” Blade barked, nodding toward the doorway in the far corner.

Tori’s chest heaved as adrenaline flooded her system. The taste of copper filled her mouth. She’d bitten her tongue during the fall, and she was pretty sure the cut on her arm had broken open. Her shoulder throbbed, but everything moved correctly. Functional damage only.

“He’s setting up another ambush,” Tori whispered, keeping her gun trained on the doorway, finger indexed along the frame.

Blade moved toward the wall, using the shadows for cover. “Be careful. He has Stryker.”

Tori pressed her back against the doorframe and nodded to Blade. His fingers counted down—three, two, one—and they moved as a unit around the corner.

The training kicked in. Pie the corner. Check your sectors. Trust your partner. But the reality felt nothing like the simulations at the FBI’s National Academy at Quantico. Her heart hammered against her ribs, and sweat made her grip slippery. Every shadow could hide another gun. Every step forward increased the chance she’d freeze at the wrong moment, hesitate when Blade needed her to act.

He trusted her. That had to be enough.

They rounded the corner and froze.

The sight punched through her chest like a fist through paper. Stryker sat slumped in a wheelchair, his salt-and-pepper hair falling across his forehead, hospital gown hanging loose on his frame. Leather restraints around his wrists and chest held him upright. Without them, he’d collapse to the floor like a broken marionette. His breathing was shallow.

The man who’d earned MMA championship titles and built warriors looked like he might shatter if someone spoke too loudly.

He shouldn’t be here. Moving him from the hospital could trigger another stroke. The stress alone, his blood pressure spiking, his heart racing, it could kill him fast as any bullet.

Barclay stood behind the wheelchair, his service weapon pressed to Stryker’s temple. The same spot where he’d held the gun against her minutes ago.

This wasn’t a chess move anymore. This was checkmate.

“Drop your weapon,” Blade’s voice boomed. “Now.”

“That’s not how this works.” Barclay’s finger rested on the trigger, casual as a man adjusting his tie. “You see, if you kill me, you convict your girlfriend.”

Blade’s eyes flicked to Tori for a split second. Confusion, then understanding, then something that looked like the world ending.

Barclay didn’t mean her.

“The moment Ms. Kerns’s credentials opened that sealed file, it triggered a deep-system script,” Barclay said. “I had my programmer create something special. It’s not just dumping files. It’s fabricating a history. Creating a digital trail that proves that Kiara’s been the one covering cases and switching files for months.”

Blade’s weapon never wavered, but Tori watched something die behind his eyes.

“You’re lying,” he said.