Vicki Pettersson - The Taken

She spotted him rushing a ladder that’d been obscured behind sheers, but then gunfire from Grif’s direction had Kit diving back behind the bed. “Grif!” She had to fight to hear her scream over the blood pounding in her ears.

“Stand up, Ms. Craig,” boomed one sure, singular voice throughout the now-empty room. “Stand up, unless you want him to die.”

“No, Kit! Don’t-” Grif’s voice cut off abruptly, a pained grunt curling at the end.

Kit stood. New chills broke out over her spine as she spotted Schmidt’s fully extended arm, and the gun grazing Grif’s temple.

“Do you know what you just did?” Schmidt’s words were as sharp and even as teeth.

“Stopped you all from hurting women.”

“You’ve stopped no one!” he roared, and he shook so hard she thought he’d fire for sure. But somehow he swallowed all of that hate and anger down.

Where did it go? Kit wondered. Where did a man put all of that inside of him?

“You can’t beat me, Craig. I am the police. And here’s what I’m going to say in my report. I found you here on an anonymous tip from a tourist-strange activity-and when I entered, you fired. Thank you for already providing the bullets.”

“No. I-”

Schmidt raised his voice. “So I was forced to return fire. And now Griffin Shaw, a man with no records on file-very interesting, by the way-is dead. After using you as a human shield, of course.”

“You’re delusional. No one will believe that,” Kit said, jerking her head at the mess around them. “And Chambers will turn on you.”

But Chambers was already gone, and Schmidt’s too-high laughter rattled through the empty room. “I’ll kill him, too.”

“So you’re just going to kill everyone? Destroy the entire world on your way to… what?” She shook her head. “What are you after?”

“Only that,” Grif said, sounding calmer, saner, than anyone had the right to with a gun pointed at his head. He cut his eyes sideways, as if tracking something that swirled and slid along the floor. “That’s what those destined for the eternal forest do. They destroy. And in doing so, they teach the Third exactly how to treat them.”

Kit frowned.

Schmidt cursed. “Jesus, Hitchens was right. You two really are weirdoes.” He looked back at Kit. “Now drop your gun, and kick it away.”

“No,” Grif said, before her fingers could loosen. “This is a forty-five and he already fired five shots. He’s only got one left.”

“One will do,” Schmidt snarled.

“Shoot him after I’m dead,” Grif told Kit evenly.

Kit saw Schmidt’s eyes narrow, still hard but less sure. “How noble. Letting the lady make the choice.”

“You can do it,” Grif said, ignoring Schmidt.

But Kit wasn’t sure she could. And how many bullets did she have?

And how could she live if Grif died because of her?

She looked at him, eyes pleading for him to understand, then took a step forward. “Kit,” Grif growled.

“Grif,” Kit growled back, inching toward him.

Schmidt laughed, his swagger back. “She doesn’t have it in her.”

Angling toward Grif’s other side, Kit raised her arms, sighting Schmidt’s head. “Drop when I say so, Grif.”

Both men’s eyes flared wide, but it was Schmidt’s voice that lowered. “I will chase you down.”

“You can’t chase everyone. Besides… I might not miss.”

That did it. Schmidt redirected his aim. Kit found her trigger, too, but he was right, it was too late. She knew it even as she fired, and she jolted backward before the bullet struck, anticipating the hit. She smelled smoke, tasted tin on her tongue, and saw a flash, burning hot, then black, before her vision returned.

Schmidt was still there, yet he’d fallen and was now staring at her through the clearing smoke… or at something he found equally horrifying. He should have been looking down because a red pool grew beneath his chest as his limbs went slack. Kit’s breath left her in a jagged exhale as she stared, but she couldn’t hear it through the ringing in her ears.

“Grif!” She couldn’t hear that, either, or his answer.

But she saw him. He was right there, somehow felled by the bullet meant for her, close enough to touch, yet like Schmidt, already drifting away.

The gun clattered to the floor as she dropped to her knees. “No!”

“Do you see it?” he asked, eyes wide on Kit’s face and dazed.

“No. No blood.” Not like Schmidt, not like a red pool he could drown himself in. “Where are you hit?”

“Not that. The plasma is gone. I think I did it…” His eyelids fluttered.

“Please, Grif,” Kit begged, palming his stubbled cheeks. “Just hold on-”

But Grif’s gaze had no hold left in it, and it floated before fastening somewhere on the ceiling. There it sharpened again. “The girl, Kit. She’s in trouble…”

Kit looked up, and her eyes widened, too. Then she squinted. “Is that Bridget?”

And Charlotte, too. Both had seen what had happened below, but they hadn’t left. Why?

“Chambers,” Grif said, spotting him at the same time Kit did. “That’s the only exit. He has a car waiting. But he needs…”

He needed Charlotte, Kit realized. She was the only real person connecting him to this night, this place. The others could be silenced, blamed, or explained away. “But Grif-”

He knew what she was going to say and shook his head, forcing away his pained wince. “Someone has to stop him, Kit.”

She knew that. Else they’d never be safe. And all of it, including Grif’s death, would have been for nothing.

“You’re the only one left.”

“Oh, God.” Kit wanted to cry. Instead she bent foward and kissed his forehead, perhaps for the last time. Then, standing tall, the last one left, she bolted for Chambers.

Give me the tape.”

Chambers’s voice wafted down as Kit climbed the hidden ladder, finding her well before she’d hit the landing, though Chambers had no idea she was there. He was already squared off against his eldest daughter.

Daughters. Because Charlotte was tucked close to Bridget’s left side, and while that side trembled, the knife glinting in her right hand remained steady.

“Drop dead,” Bridget said evenly.

“You first,” Chambers said and pulled out his gun.

Charlotte whimpered and covered her ears. “No, no, no…”

Bridget just shook her head. “You won’t get away this time. I have the tape.”

“I have the gun.” Chambers stepped closer.

“Stop,” Charlotte begged again. “Please.”

Kit inched onto the platform, and moved into the shadows directly below the overhead exit. But now what? Kit looked down, saw Grif still splayed below, still staring. Tears tipped over her cheeks. What did he want her to do? What could she do? If she showed herself now, Chambers might spook and shoot them both.

“Besides,” Chambers was saying, clearly feeling back in control. “You probably organized all this. You and Schmidt were running a prostitution ring out of the Wayfarer. You’ve been doing it for years.”

The knife in Bridget’s hand began to shake. “No one will believe that.”

“You’re a whore. Everyone will believe it.” He jerked his head. “Now come here, Charlotte.”

Charlotte automatically obeyed. Bridget gasped and reached for her, but only caught air, and Chambers straightened with a smile.

But Charlotte halted halfway between her sister and father. “Promise not to hurt her. No more killing. No more…” Her chin wobbled, then crumpled, and she couldn’t finish.

“Of course, dear.” He beckoned to her, and she took another step. Yet Kit knew that once he had Charlotte, there’d be no reason not to kill Bridget. She knew it, too, and without warning, she lunged for her sister. But Charlotte spooked and ran the opposite way, toward her father.