The door swung open, pieces of it scattering the floor inches from her face. A bullet had done that. Without the report of gunfire.
His weapon had a suppressor, like something out of a fucking mafia movie.
He was going to kill her.
She slapped a hand over her mouth, smothering the burst of her breaths as she slid the knife across the carpet in front of her.
The intruder strode in, making a beeline for the bathroom. Shiny dress shoes blurred by. Soundless footsteps. Determined. Deadly.
If she slipped out of hiding now, he would shoot her. Not that she could move. Ice encased her joints. Tears leaked from her eyes, her dread so cold and heavy it pressed her into the floor.
He stopped at the bathroom door and quietly opened it. Then he stepped back and fired into the cloud of steam.
Phut. Phut. Phut. Phut. Phut.
She flinched with each muffled shot, shaking violently as bullet casings dropped to the floor.
He paused. She stopped breathing.
Right about now, he was coming to the realization that a body hadn’t fallen in the shower. He would have to go in there and investigate, and that would be her only opportunity to escape.
Her muscles clenched, her entire being fraught with fear and braced to run. How many bullets did he have left? Was he carrying extra magazines?
His shoes pivoted, angling toward the bed.
No, no, no. Oh, God. Please, don’t walk this way.
He stalked straight toward her, sending her into a hyperventilating fit of terror.
A tear trickled down Rylee’s cheek and dangled from her chin with maddening endurance. More fell as the gunman closed in, his shoes following an invisible line to her hiding spot.
Lying on her stomach in a puddle of breathless terror, she readjusted her grip on the knife and poised it just out of view.
He paused at the foot of the bed, and her pulse went berserk. He lowered into a squat, and her adrenaline kicked in, muffling all sound. Then she lunged, slashing the knife, fast and deep, across his ankles.
With a guttural cry, she hacked again, less effective this time as his legs whirled, soaking her hand in hot blood.
The gun fired with a suppressed pop. She didn’t slow her attack. Swiping the blade across his shins, she scrambled out from under the bed. The metal frame ripped along her back, but she didn’t feel the pain. Right now, all she felt was the driving urgency to eliminate the threat.
She kept the knife in constant motion, lacerating his legs again and again. Raging fear and frustration constricted her chest. How was he still standing?
A dry click sounded from the pistol. Out of bullets.
His body crashed onto hers, heavy and uncoordinated. She’d maimed him, but he wasn’t giving up.
“Who are you?” She twisted beneath him and buried the blade in his thigh. “How the fuck do you know me?”
He roared in agony and grabbed for the knife. She yanked it away and stabbed him in the stomach.
His hand collided with her face, smashing her jaw with a force that sent her flying backward. She didn’t have time to control her landing. The impact with the floor snatched the breath from her lungs, and her head bounced off the corner of the wall, shooting stars across her vision.
She blinked rapidly, panting and disoriented. When her eyes came into focus, he was on his knees, crawling toward her with a hand wrapped around the knife in his gut.
“Why won’t you fucking die?” she screamed and threw herself at him, pounding her fists in his face. “What do you want? Why are you here?”
He fell onto his back, choking and smiling through a gurgle of blood. “The bridge.”
Her heart stopped and restarted. “How do you know about that? What does it have to do with you?”
With a strangled laugh, he grabbed her throat and wrenched her ear against his mouth. “Thur…nnnn…eee.”
She tried to jerk away, but he had a death grip on her neck. He’d lost too much blood to be this strong.
Her hands moved without thought, grabbing the knife, sliding it from his belly, and thrusting it back in. Again. Again. The fist on her throat dropped away as she continued to stab him.
Over and over, she aimed for vital organs—stomach, heart, neck, lungs. She was hitting ribs, struggling to spear the blade past bones. But he wasn’t moving. Didn’t appear to be breathing.
With a jolt, she broke out of her fugue and scooted away, taking the knife and his gun with her.
Numbness spread over her as she sat in the dark, gulping, unmoving in a crippled state of shock and horror.
She needed to do something. Close the door. Wash her hands. Turn off the shower. Check his pulse.
No. Fuck, no. She didn’t want to touch him.
Blood soaked his clothes, the floor, her fingers, the knife. So much of it. Everywhere. He couldn’t be alive. No way.
Still, she didn’t twitch a muscle, too terrified a sound might resurrect him.
He’d come here to kill her. If she hadn’t checked the window, he would’ve succeeded.
Who in the hell would go through the trouble of killing her? Why? He’d mentioned the bridge, but it didn’t make sense. Was someone offended that she contemplated suicide ten years ago?
Mason didn’t know about that. No one knew about it.
Except Tommy.
No. It wasn’t possible. Tommy wouldn’t have sent this man. If he wanted her dead, he would’ve done it himself.
Minutes passed, and the flow of her adrenaline slowed, bringing awareness to her body, to the pain in her face and back and the uncontrollable shaking in her limbs.
She wiped the knife on her pants, cleaning off the blood. More covered her hands. She needed to get moving.
The sound of an approaching car pierced through her daze. Headlights illuminated the open doorway. Doors slammed. Footsteps advanced.
Her stomach tightened, and she whimpered.
More hitmen? A backup team for the man she’d just killed? Goddammit, she couldn’t fight off another attack.
Scooting backward in the dark, she slid between the mattress and wall, set the knife under the bed, and aimed the gun with both hands. It was out of bullets, but they wouldn’t know that.
Hidden by the bed, she ducked down low, tucking into a ball, and tried to control the torrent of her breaths.
The tread of heavy boots crossed the threshold. Multiple intruders.
Oh, God, I’m dead. I’m dead. So fucking dead.
The overhead lights illuminated, blinding her eyes. Curled up on the floor, she aimed the gun upward, and another gun pointed back.
“Rylee.” Tommy stood over her, his face set in stone, eyes bloodshot, and posture vibrating with unleashed fury. “Lower the gun.”
Relief, distrust, fear, anger—so many emotions battled inside her. She didn’t move.
“He’s dead,” a deep, masculine voice said. Chillingly deep. “No wallet or ID.”
“Rylee, lower the gun,” Tommy said in his domineering tone.
“Fuck you.”
The owner of the unfamiliar voice stepped into view and snatched her next breath. “You’re one woman against a gang of bloodthirsty savages.”
Savage was one way to describe him. Short brown hair. Razor-sharp eyes. Powerfully built. The faded scar that divided his cheek didn’t detract from his chiseled beauty. His smirk did. A lethal smirk, that curled arrogantly around a toothpick.
Van.
The monster who had captured and raped Tommy nine years ago.