They moved through the front room, past the artwork on display.
They reached the hall and paused. A muffled murmur of voices in the back caught his ear. One was definitely female, and one had the lower pitch of a man.
Vander gave a hand signal. They slowly moved down the hall. The conversation became clearer.
“I just wanted us to be together, Susannah. The way it’s supposed to be.”
“No, Andrew, you’ve concocted a fantasy. You don’t even know me.”
The sound of her voice made Hunt weak.
She was alive.
“I love you!” Walkson yelled.
A muscle ticked in Hunt’s jaw.
“And I’m in love with someone else,” she said. “Someone good and honorable, someone who helps people. He doesn’t hurt them.”
Hunt’s chest locked. She loved him.
“Shut up about him!”
There was the sound of a scuffle. Hunt surged forward and bumped some canvases stacked against the wall. Several fell with a crash.
“Someone’s here!” Walkson yelled.
Fuck. Hunt and Vander leaped forward.
The door to the back room slammed closed in their faces.
Hunt grabbed the door handle and rattled it. Locked.
“Savannah!” He rammed his shoulder against it.
“Hunt! He’s locked the door—”
She broke off and there was the sound of fighting.
Fuck. He met Vander’s gaze. “We need to get this door open. Now!”
“Hunt!”
Savannah dodged Walkson. He’d locked the door, dammit.
“He can’t have you,” Walkson barked.
“I’ll give myself to whoever I want. You can’t just take someone; you can’t steal their life.”
Walkson grabbed a heavy, marble pedestal for displaying art, then with a grunt, tipped it over. It landed in front of the door.
There were two loud gun shots and Savannah gasped. She saw the lock was gone. The door rattled, but the pedestal blocked it from opening.
Walkson smiled. “It’s just you and me, Susannah.”
She snatched up some jars filled with brushes and threw them at him.
He screamed and lunged at her. She leaped to the side, and grabbed a small box and swung it at his head.
It crashed into his nose and blood sprayed.
Adrenaline surged through her veins. How do you like that, asshole?
With an enraged roar, Walkson charged again. He tackled her, and they tumbled to the wood floor.
Ow. Her head hit the ground hard, leaving her dazed.
She heaved and they wrestled against each other, each of them trying to get on top. She shoved Walkson off, and scrambled to her feet, her chest heaving.
The door vibrated under a heavy hit.
Hunt was trying to get in.
She needed to try and move that damn pedestal, but Walkson was between her and the door.
Her stalker stared at her, blood running down his face. “He can’t have you. I’ll kill him.”
Savannah laughed. She was so done being afraid of this man. “Hunter is ex-special forces, and a cop. He’ll wipe the floor with a coward like you.”
Walkson’s lips flattened. “I’ll cut him open in front of you, and make him scream.”
“He’s not alone, Walkson—”
“Andrew! You call me Andrew.”
“No,” she snapped. “It’s over. Hunt isn’t some defenseless, young woman. I’m not a defenseless, young woman. Not anymore.” She pulled the palette knife out of her pocket and brandished it. “Today, you go to jail. And I walk out of here with Hunter. Tonight, I’ll be crying out his name as he makes love to me.”
Walkson made a horrible, animalistic sound. “You’re mine.”
He rushed her again. She slashed out with the knife, but he rammed his hand into her arm. The knife flew out of her fingers and hit the floor.
No!
He grabbed her shirt and they spun. They rammed into another empty pedestal and the corner dug into her back. He shoved her again and the pedestal toppled with a crash.
“Savannah!” Hunt roared through the door.
“He won’t love you like I do,” Walkson said.
“God, I hope not.” She needed to get that door unblocked.
She grabbed a paint pot and the loose lid fell off. As Walkson advanced, she tossed it at him.
Blue paint splattered over his face and chest. She tried to dodge past him, but he sidestepped and blocked her.
Damn.
Walkson swiped the paint out of his eyes. “I’m losing patience with you, Susannah.”
“It’s Savannah. I left that younger, innocent artist behind. I’m tougher now, a survivor.” She smiled as the door vibrated under another hit. “And that man out there loves me. True love, not your obsessive version. Not the sick thing you’re offering. I have so much to live for.”
A bunch of emotions crossed Walkson’s face. “If I can’t have you, no one will.”
She froze. His voice was devoid of emotion.
The killer had made an appearance.
Oh, hell. She needed to get that door open.
Walkson lifted his knife, stained with Ella-Mae’s blood.
Savannah drew in a breath. Stay calm.
Her stalker ran at her.
She grabbed the chair Ella-Mae had been tied on and threw it at him. She raced for the door.
“No!” Walkson kicked her legs out from under her.
She hit the floor with an oof, belly first.
The door was only a few feet away. She spun and saw Walkson coming at her. She kicked at him, and he slashed down with the knife. She rolled.
He slashed again and she rolled the other way.
Her heart drummed in her chest and that’s when she saw the palette knife she’d dropped before. She snatched it and swung it up.
It stabbed into the side of his neck.
He staggered back, a look of blank shock on his face.
Savannah scrambled up. She had to move that pedestal. “Let me move the—”
A hand grabbed the back of her shirt and yanked her backward.
Dammit. She fell and rolled, and saw Walkson looming above her.
He sliced down with his knife and stabbed her in the stomach.
The wooden door finally gave way and Hunt broke through the splintered wood. He charged in, Vander right behind him.
A bloody, paint-splattered Walkson had Savannah pinned to the floor. Hunt watched in horror as the man stabbed his knife down and into Savannah’s belly.
No. A red haze covered Hunt’s vision.
He whipped his SIG up and fired. The bullet hit Walkson in the shoulder, and the man jerked.
Then Hunt closed the distance and slammed his fist into the man’s face.
Walkson yelped. Hunt punched the man again, and again. He kept punching, driving Walkson to the floor.
“Hunt,” Vander barked.
The haze cleared a little. The killer was sprawled on the floor, bleeding from the bullet wound in his shoulder, his face a bloody mess from Hunt’s fist, and sobbing.
Hunt wanted to keep going. Wanted to punish him—for the lives he’d taken, for touching and terrorizing Savannah.
“Hunter?” Savannah’s pain-filled voice snapped him all the way back.
He saw Vander crouched beside her. Hunt’s friend had a rag pressed to her stomach. A bloody knife rested on the floor.