Gunfire erupted from inside and outside the house as the human security guards tried to defend their employer. I grabbed the dying vampire and threw him at two of the closest shooters, knocking them over. Then I ran through the dining room, past the stone fireplace with the lovely exposed-beam ceiling, and up the stairs. Behind me there was chaos as they scrambled to chase.
I didn't focus on them. I heard Oliver on the phone, calling for help, and that was all I centered my concentration on. I made it down the hall, his accelerated heartbeat my beacon, and burst through the door that stood between me and my prey.
The bullet meant for my chest tore through my shoulder instead as I lurched, seeing the gun too late. Oliver fired again, hitting me in the leg. It knocked me over and I fell, momentarily stunned by the impact and cursing myself for stupidly rushing in like that.
Frankie and two more guards came huffing up the stairs. I didn't turn around, but kept my glare on Oliver as he leveled his gun at me with a rock-steady hand.
"Isaac's dead," I said roughly, throbs of pain from the bullets almost paralyzing me. "There won't be any explosion at the hospital."
"Governor Oliver!" one of the men gasped. "Are you hurt?"
Oliver had sky-blue eyes. Very clear and bright, and that salt-and-chestnut hair was as perfectly coiffed as it had been in his campaign photos.
"Frankie, Stephen, John...get the f**k out of here," he said cleanly.
"But sir!" they chorused.
"She's down on her knees and I've got her at gunpoint, get the f**k out of here!" he roared. "Now!"
In the distance was the faint wail of sirens. Too far away for them to hear. The three men left, a jerk of Oliver's head indicating they should close the door behind them. It was just me and the governor in the room.
"You're the Crawfield girl?" he asked, not moving the barrel a centimeter.
I didn't move, mentally evaluating my injuries and noticing with a fresh spurt of anger that the wallpaper in his room was a distinctive red and blue paisley and these were hardwood floors. Oliver had to be Emily's masked ra**st. She'd described his bedroom perfectly. "You can call me Cat."
"Cat," he repeated. "You don't look so tough, bleeding all over my floor. Tell me, where's your friend? The bounty hunter?"
The sirens were getting closer. There wasn't much time. "Killing Hennessey's pal Switch would be my guess. You're finished, Oliver. They're all dead. The permanent way."
His hand didn't waver. "Is that so?" Then he smiled. Icily. "Well, there's plenty more where Hennessey came from. Won't be too hard to find someone else looking to make the kind of money he was, and with meals thrown in, to boot! When I'm president, this country will have a major overhaul. I'll save the taxpayers millions, and we'll clean the scum right off the streets. Hell, I'm fixing to start on welfare recipients and nursing homes next. America will be stronger and more prosperous than ever. They'll probably repeal the two-term limit after I'm in office."
Cars screeched around the corner. Only seconds left now.
"It's not going to happen."
He smiled. "Not that you'll see. I'm about to kill you in self-defense. I can just see the headlines now: 'Governor Bravely Staves Off Murderer in Assassination Attempt.' My numbers will rise twelve points tonight."
"Ethan," I said softly, hearing the thunder of feet coming toward the house. "Look at me."
I let the shine out in my eyes. His own gaze widened, astonished, and in that split second of distraction I charged him, batting his gun aside to fire harmlessly into the wall.
"You're bleeding...you have to be human, but your eyes...what are you?" he whispered.
That emerald light illuminated his face, and my hands tightened around his throat. "I'm the Grim Reaper," I growled. Those footsteps were almost here... "Or as Bones would say, the Red one."
I snapped his neck just before the door was flung open. When the half dozen police poured in, the glow had left my gaze, and I already had my hands up.
"I surrender."
Chapter Twenty-Five
THERE WERE THREE GUARDS OUTSIDE MY hospital room, and I was on the eleventh floor. They'd even cleared this part of the wing-I knew this from the silence in the rooms next to me. Apparently they took killing the governor seriously.
Doctors had been coming in all morning to gasp and gape over me, but it wasn't because of who I'd killed. It was because of how I'd healed. Within hours, my three bullet holes had disappeared. The knife wound, gone. Hennessey's fang marks, missing. All of my scratches and bruises, vanished. I didn't even have an IV in me-the needle kept spontaneously slipping out. Frankly, I wondered why I hadn't been moved to a regular jail cell yet, but after Isaac, I wasn't complaining about the lack of police transportation.
At noon, more footsteps approached my room. Someone said, "FBI." There was a pause, and then my door opened.
A man entered. He was about fifty, of average height, with thinning charcoal hair overrun with gray. His eyes were the same medium gray as his hair, but they weren't sedate like their shade. They were crackling with intelligence. His companion who closed the door after him was considerably younger, perhaps in his late twenties. He had short brown hair in a buzz cut, and something about the way he carried himself screamed military to me. His eyes were navy blue and fixed on me with steadfast intensity.
"FBI, huh? Well, aren't I honored?" They didn't need extrasensory perception to catch my sarcasm. The younger man shot me a dirty look.
Gray Hair smiled instead, and came forward with hand extended.
"You might not be, but I certainly am. My name is Donald Williams and this is Tate Bradley. I'm the head of a unit in the FBI called the Paranormal Behavior Division."
Grudgingly I shook his hand, years of manners making it impossible to refuse. With a jerk of my head I indicated Tate Bradley.
"What about him? He's not Bureau...no cellulite or spare tire."
Williams laughed, showing teeth slightly discolored from too much coffee or cigarettes.
"That's correct. Tate is a sergeant in the Special Forces, a very select unit of them. He is my bodyguard today."
"Why would you need a bodyguard, Agent Williams? As you can see, I'm handcuffed to the bed." For effect, I rattled my cuffs at him.
He smiled benevolently. "Call me Don, and I'm a cautious man. That's why Tate is carrying a Colt 45."
The younger man flashed me the handle of his gun strapped in its shoulder harness. I smiled thinly at him and he returned it with an unfriendly baring of teeth.