Loose Ends - By Tara Janzen Page 0,72

been moved.

It hit her in a flash, the whole scene.

King had been sitting back against the wall, anesthetized into oblivion by that needle full of something, and Rock had been sprawled across King’s legs, bleeding and twitching and very much alive.

But neither one of them was alive now. The slumped look of death was unmistakable, as unmistakable as the oddly contorted angles of their bodies.

Someone had snapped their necks, twisted their heads sideways, and broken their limbs, all of them. Arms and legs were sticking out all over, and one of King’s arms had been ripped clean off his body and was just lying there on the asphalt, a couple of feet away from the rest of him. She saw bone jutting through skin and blood pouring out everywhere. It was more than she could comprehend. Nothing about what she saw made sense.

Jesus, sweet Jesus. She kept running, faster and faster, a scream lodged in her throat, choking her. Oh, my God.

Away, away, away … every instinct she had told her to get away. My God. She was going to be sick.

She raced past the kitchen door, arms pumping, heart pounding, and ran even faster. Where was J.T.? Where had he gone? God, what had happened? Could he have done that to those two men? Stopped as he’d run by and mutilated them?

It didn’t make sense. If he’d wanted them dead, he could have done it before they’d left the doorway. He’d already had his knife at Rock’s throat.

Jesus, sweet Jesus. The cops were going to lock her up and throw away the key. This wasn’t the first time she’d been in an alley with a dead man, and the Denver police were going to find that out in about two seconds flat once they ran her name.

But this was crazy … and she … she was doomed. She needed away faster, to get away faster.

A new burst of light hit her in the face, and she skidded to a stop, her heart in her throat. Oh, damn, damn, damn. Another cop car had turned into the other end of the alley and was picking up speed, coming at her full bore, flashing, rolling, and wailing.

Even if there was a way to the street, she wouldn’t take it. That’s where the other cops were piling in. And she couldn’t go back. The alley behind her was full of cops, and gore, and mind-numbing horror.

She squeezed her eyes shut for an instant and shook her head, as if she could rid herself of what she’d seen, and she stumbled.

My God. Scrambling now, she looked for a way out. The other side of the alley was blocked by a high chain-link fence with strips of vinyl woven through the links. She couldn’t see past it, except to know that it was dark on the other side. A few trees poked above the top. Maybe she could find some cover over there, but there was no way through it, and she knew she couldn’t climb over the fence fast enough to get away.

But she had to move, and she had to move now, before she was completely trapped between the two cars. They’d both hit their sirens, just to scare the crap out of her. It was overload. She was already terrorized. The noise and flashing lights and the undeniable impending doom racing straight at her from both directions rattled her down to her bones.

She gulped in a breath, her sides aching from her run. Panic was consuming her, getting ready to drag her under, when she saw it: a dark slash in the fence.

Without a thought, she ran like hell and dashed through the opening. The cop cars came screeching to a halt behind her. She could smell them, the burning rubber and exhaust. When the car doors opened, she put on another burst of speed, her feet pounding on a dirt track—running straight into the dark and gloom.

“What do you want first, Dylan, the good news, the bad news, or the worst news?”

“Good news,” Dylan said, manning the communication console in the Steele Street office and listening to Zach Prade come in over their secure radio frequency.

“The fifth-floor maid at the Kashmir Club hotel downtown would sell her own mother for fifty bucks,” Zach said.

“Sam Walls mentioned the Kashmir Club when we picked him up tonight.”

A short laugh came over the phone. “Yeah, I bet he did.”

“The bad news?” Dylan asked.

“A guy named Tyler Crutchfield arrived late this afternoon. He checked

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