Sixty-three

What are the odds, darlin’?

Sabrina pushed her way out of the church, scanning the gathering mob that pushed and crowded against the yellow tape that ran its perimeter. People were worried, terrified shouts breaking through the horrified whispers.

“Is Father Francisco okay?”

“What happened?”

“Who did this?”

With every unanswered question the mob pushed harder, jostling and shouting to make themselves heard while the quartet of uniformed officers did their best to keep everything under control.

“I’ll handle it.” Church pointed to a lone figure standing off to the side. “There’s your boy,” she said before heading in the opposite direction, toward the crowd that seemed to have grown in only the few seconds they’d been standing there.

What are the odds that two sisters, a thousand miles apart, get kidnapped by two completely different serial killers within a few years of each other?

Croft shifted from one foot to the other while he watched her approach, his expression growing more apprehensive the closer she got. “I don’t like that look,” he said to her as she grabbed his arm and dragged him farther away from the crowd. “I like this even less.”

“Yeah? You don’t like being grabbed?” she said, casting a quick look over her shoulder. Church was addressing the crowd and incredibly they were all listening. “Now you know how I feel.” She turned in Croft’s direction to find him watching her. “Got a passport?”

“Of course.” Her question sent Croft’s expression from apprehensive to downright suspicious. “Why?”

They’re pretty damn good. Want to know why? Want to know what the common denominator is? What makes such an incredible thing possible?

“Great.” Finally, something was working in her favor. “You’re going on a field trip.”

“A what?” He shook his head. “No,” he said, his head shake gaining speed. “Anything you could ask me—expendable, I hope you die in a fire me—to do that requires a passport is more than likely a suicide mission. I happen to like living. So thanks, but no thanks.”

“I really don’t like that word, Croft.” The hand on his arm tightened for a second before letting go entirely. “But if that’s how you feel, there’s nothing I can do about it, is there?” The last of her words were heavy, the weight of them reminding him there was plenty she could do. His gaze drifted behind her and undoubtedly settled on Church. His expression changed again—half fear, half resignation. He might not be afraid of her, but he was scared shitless of Church.

You’re the reason, darlin’. You. The common thread that runs through everyone’s life and ruins it. No matter what you do or where you go, you’re a sickness that invades and pollutes everyone around you.

“I’m a writer, Sabrina.” Croft shook his head. He knew he’d end up doing what she was asking him to do, but he wasn’t ready to admit it yet. Too bad for him she was running out of patience. “I’m not some badass super assassin like your dead-but-not-­really-dead boyfriend. I’m a nerd with too much curiosity and a laptop. Notice the absence of a death wish. I’m a writer—I write.”

“No …” Sabrina shook her head. “You invade. You push. You blackmail. You stalk. And then you write. And your lack of a death wish is debatable.”

“That’s how the job is done,” he said in a sullen tone that told her he knew her description was more than a little accurate. “And I never stalked you.”

“You were a war correspondent.” Sabrina took another look over her shoulder. Church had the lotful of congregants holding hands, heads bowed while she led them in prayer. “You’ve seen plenty of action.” Even the uniforms on their side of the tape were standing quietly, faces tipped downward. “Hell, you’ve been shot. Twice, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember.” He laughed at her. “Forgive me for not being eager to repeat the experience.”

No one who loves you is safe. Our boy has little Ellie, darlin’, and he can’t wait to get to work on her. He’s gonna make her bleed and
scream—

“I’m not Church. I don’t have a ball gag or the time to drive you around in the trunk of my car and do God knows what to you. What I do have is a gun,” she hissed at him, curbing the urge to bitch slap him. “The only person you need to worry about shooting you is me.”

Croft’s gaze traveled to the bulge at her hip before finding her face, seemingly calculating how serious she was about shooting him. “Okay,” he sighed, satisfied that, despite the dispersing crowd and police officers milling around the parking lot, she was totally serious. “What do you need me to do?”