Escape (Last Chance Series, Book 3.5) (7 page)

*****

The corridor lights flickered as Seth stepped off the elevator.  He’d already been to Tracy’s office.  But it had been empty. No sign at all that she’d been there.  Of course that wasn’t really surprising.  If Tracy had it her way she’d handle every case Braxton took on herself.  Delegating wasn’t her strong suit. 

Frankly, he wasn’t even sure why she had an office. 
Except maybe to soothe the minds of potential clients.  People wanting answers about deceased loved ones weren’t inclined to interviews in a morgue.  Much better to have plusher surroundings.  For all her practical know-how, Tracy was also really good at dealing with distraught people.  She truly cared.  It was one of the things Seth loved about her. 

He opened the door of the first lab, his gaze moving across the pristine space. 
Everything in its proper place.  And no sign of Tracy.  Maybe this was a wild goose chase.  Maybe she’d gone to Madison’s.  He wouldn’t put it past her.  Tracy might not be willing to commit to him, but she certainly had done so with her friends.  And in turn they were loyal to her as well.

In fact, he’d always felt like a bit of a third wheel—even though he considered both Madison and Harrison friends.  Push come to shove, they’d side with Tracy. 
Even if she was dead wrong.  Which begged again the question of what the hell he was doing here.   She’d made it clear where she stood.  And now that his head was clearing he realized he was probably setting himself up for another fall.

But then he always had been a glutton for punishment.  Hell, Tracy was worth it.

The next lab, like the first was also empty.  With a sigh he turned, to go, but stopped, his gaze landing on the desk in the corner.  He recognized the pile of files.  He crossed the room in two strides, flipping open the top.  It was the co-ed who’d been murdered outside the bar.  He remembered Tracy talking about the case.  The file had been on the bedside table when they’d… he shook his head, clearing his mind.  This wasn’t the time for reliving their passion.

The relevant point was that Tracy had been here.  Recently.

But she obviously wasn’t here now.  Which meant that she’d either gone back to the apartment or she was in a different lab.  He walked back out into the hallway, past the closed door of the housekeeping closet toward the final lab.   She probably wasn’t there, but in for the penny and all that. 

He opened the door, his mind already dismissing the empty space, but then he froze, his gaze dropping to the floor.  Shattered glass littered the area near one of the examination tables.  And
there among the glittering shards, drops of something liquid.  His heart did a stutter-step, years of experience correctly identifying what he was seeing even before he knelt to touch one droplet with his finger.  Blood.

Son of a bitch.
 

Instinct screamed that he needed to hurry, even as his mind assured him that she’d probably only cut herself when she’d dropped the petri dish.  But if that were the case why the hell hadn’t she just cleaned it up and bandaged herself.  There was a first aid kit in every lab.  And Tracy was a doctor.  More than capable of handling a cut no matter how bad it was.

His brain joined forces with instinct, and he whirled around, searching for something more.   One of the bays was ajar.  Again, uncharacteristic for Tracy—who lived for order in both her workspace and her life.  He slid the drawer farther open, the man inside unfortunately beyond providing guidance. 

Urgency pressing now, he turned again looking for something—anything—to help him understand what was happening.  At first there was nothing.  Not a goddamned thing.  But then just when he was beginning to panic, he saw a smear of blood near the door.  He’d missed it when he’d walked in.

Kneeling, he examined it more closely, the blood defining the partial shape of a foot.  A small one.  Tracy’s.  But worse.  The print was smeared.  As if another foot had brushed across it.

Tracy wasn’t alone. 

Maybe it was just Charlie, but as much as he wanted that to be the case, in his heart he knew it wasn’t true.  He’d spent most of his adult lifetime honing his ability to cut through emotion to find the reality of a situation. 

Tracy was in trouble. 

He moved back out into the hallway, wishing to hell he’d brought his gun.   There was another smear of blood near the elevator.  He blew out a frustrated breath, if she’d gone that route it would take an act of God to find her quickly.  But then he saw another stain just beyond the elevator, in front of the stairs.  “Good girl,” he whispered.  “At least you’ve left me something to follow.”

He moved into the stairwell, praying that there’d be more blood, recognizing in some deeper part of him just how fucked up that wish might be.  But there was another
stain three treads down on the stairs leading to the floor below.  And another a few more below it.  Taking the stairs two at a time, he quickly moved to the landing, stopping to search for some sign as to whether she’d exited on this floor or continued down the stairs.  

There was a smear on the landing, but nothing on the first five treads of the continuing stairwell.  Moving now with caution, he inched the door open, allowing himself a quick look into the hallway beyond.  It was empty.  And like the floor above, it held three labs.  Now all he had to do was find the right one.

He stepped out into the hallway, intent on the floor, searching for blood stains.  And then just as he saw one leading into the lab to the right, pain shattered through the back of his head, and his last thought was that when it had really mattered—he’d been too damn late.

Seth’s head hurt like hell.  Served him right for putting away all that whiskey.  He opened his eyes, for a moment confused to find himself in Tracy’s lab. What the hell?

Then memory came crashing back.  

Tracy. 

Damn it all to hell.

He tried to push to his feet, his vision still blurry.  But he couldn’t find his footing, the world still spinning alarmingly.

“Let me check on him.  Please.” Seth recognized Tracy’s voice, heard the
undernote of fear. “If Henry hit him too hard, he could be suffering from a concussion.”

“If we don’t find that microchip,” a man’s voice replied, “he’s going to be suffering from a lot worse than that.”

Seth forced his eyes open, wincing as the light stabbed through his vision, the spinning slowly abating as he found focus.  Tracy was standing at one of the autopsy tables—someone’s body laid out on top.   Across from her, a wiry man, with a shock of red hair, held a lethal looking Sig-Sauer. 

Again he tried to rise, but as before someone impeded the process, sending the world full tilt again as the barrel of a gun slammed into his temple.

“You’re going to kill him,” Tracy protested, the note of fear rising to full blown panic.

Seth’s vision cleared again, this time his attention drawn by the second man. 
A big brute with a .44 magnum.  Tracy’s Henry if he had to call it.

“Please, Marshall,” she said, her voice low and urgent, as she spoke to the second assailant.  “I need to check on him.  If he dies, then you’re on your own here. 
Because I’m not going to lift a finger to help you. And I think you’ve already proven that you’re not capable of finding the damn chip without me.”  She crossed her arms over her chest, stepping back from the body. 

Marshall’s eyes shot fire as the two of them silently dueled for control.  It should have been laughable considering Marshall and his cohort held all the cards, but that didn’t seem to faze Tracy.

God he loved this woman.

“Fine.”  Marshall said finally, waving her toward where Seth was sprawled on the floor.  “But be quick about it.”

Tracy nodded once, grabbed a roll of gauze and crossed the floor in two strides, dropping to her knees beside him as Henry moved closer, waving the .44.

“Are you all right?” she whispered, as she deftly ran her fingers along the throbbing hematoma springing from just behind his temple.

“I’m fine.  It’s you I’m worried about.  I saw all that blood and I…” he trailed off, his stomach clenching in anger.

“It’s just my feet,” she assured him, shaking her head.  “I cut them on some glass.  It’s nothing that won’t heal.” 

He winced, biting back an oath as she probed deeper. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, using some of the gauze to wipe away the blood.  “This is all my fault.  If I hadn’t gotten so angry—”  

“Cut the chit-chat,” Marshall threatened.  “Or I’ll finish what Henry started.”

Tracy bit her lip, winding the gauze around Seth’s head, binding the wound.  “The cut is only superficial, but it’s possible you’ve got a concussion.  How’s your vision?” she asked.

“I’m fine, Tracy.” Anger made his response sharper than he’d intended.  “At least as fine as I can be sitting here with dumb and dumber.”  Henry growled menacingly at the slight.  Marshall just looked amused.  “You should know that I’ve called security,” Seth said, looking over Tracy’s shoulder to meet Marshall’s gaze.  “It’s only a matter of minutes before the whole of the NYPD descends on this building.”

“A for effort,” Marshall smiled, the movement of his lips not matching the expression in his eyes.  “Only problem with that is that there’s no phone or
internet service in the building.  I know this, because we  cut it off.”

Seth looked to Tracy, who nodded confirmation. 

“And before you bother with the next lie, you should also know that Henry’s already checked to see if you were carrying a cell phone.”

“I left it with Charlie, the security guard.”  Tracy’s hands trembled suddenly as she taped off the bandage, a tear leaking down her cheek.

“Wrong again,” Marshall sneered.  “The security guard is dead.  And now that Ms. Braxton is convinced that you’re not, why don’t we get back to the business at hand?” 

He waved his gun at Tracy, and she pressed the last of her makeshift bandage into place before pushing back to her feet.   Seth sat up, ignoring Henry’s renewed growl, as his gaze swept the room looking for something that might offer a way out.  Tracy had moved back to the table, and was running her hands along the length of the dead man’s arm.

“So since I’m obviously the last one to the party,” Seth said, “does someone want to let me know what this is all about?”

Silence held for a moment and Tracy lifted her gaze from the body on the table to meet Marshall’s.   The other man seemed to consider her unasked question and then, with an exasperated sigh, shrugged his approval.

“They’re looking for a microchip.  Apparently, this man, Fitzpatrick, was supposed to be selling their boss some information.  And he died before he could make delivery.”

“And you think the information is on the body,” Seth said, addressing the comment to Marshall.

“I know it is.  It’s just a matter of finding it.  But that’s turned out to be a little more difficult than we’d anticipated.”

“Which is where Tracy comes in,
”  Seth said as she shot him a look, her gaze reflecting a hell of a lot more than just concern.  His heart tightened.  Perfect time for her to come around.

“Exactly.”  Marshall nodded once and turned back to Tracy as she continued to search the body for the microchip.  “Although if you can’t find it in the next few minutes we’ll have to move on to plan B.  Which I might add doesn’t include either of you walking out of here alive.”

They weren’t walking out of here at all if Seth couldn’t think of something.  And fast.  He knew Tracy well enough to know that if the microchip was really there, she’d already found it.  Her searching was merely a way to give them both a little extra time to make a play.

Best then that he give her every advantage.  If he was out for the count, then both men were going to relax, and maybe there’d be an opening for—hell he didn’t know what—but at the moment it was all he could think to do. 

He slumped back against the wall with an exaggerated sigh.  Tracy’s head popped up, but Marshall shook his head, waving the Sig.  “Keep working.  You’ve got sixty seconds or your boyfriend’s dead.”

For just a moment, Seth allowed his gaze to lock with Tracy’s.  Then with a sharp
exhale, he let his head fall back, praying that she’d gotten the message. 

“Oh my God,” Tracy said.  “He’s passed out.  His head wound must have been worse than I thought.  He’s gone into
ademic arrest.”

Seth fought against a smile.  There was no such word as
ademic.  As long as they believed he was out—there was a chance.  Tracy just had to find a way to deliver it.

“You have to let me help him,” she begged.

“Stay where you are,” Marshall ordered.  “Find the goddamned chip.”

Seth shifted slightly so that he could see the assembled company without Marshall or Henry realizing he was still conscious. 

Tracy twisted the dead man’s arm, palm facing up, and ran her finger along the muscle running from wrist to elbow.  “I’ve got it.  It’s here.  But I’m going to need a scalpel to get it out.”

“Move out of the way,” Marshall said, reaching to his belt to produce a knife.  “I’ll do it.”