When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9) - Susan Elizabeth Phillips Page 0,104

he would rip them through her earlobes sent a fresh flood of adrenaline surging through her. She stabbed him as hard as she could with the point of her elbow. With a grunt, he edged back just enough so she could twist around.

She stared into the face of Tutankhamen.

He was hiding behind a mask. The cowardice of his anonymity, the threat to her earlobes . . . It was all too much. With her free arm, she clawed at his face. Her dress ripped as she kicked him. She fought—fingernails, arms, legs, and feet. Her shoulder hit something sharp, and light flooded the closet.

She’d triggered the overhead light switch. She tore at his paper mask.

The elastic band snapped.

Kathryn’s son Norman stared back at her.

“That was a mistake.” He slammed her against the wall again. Something hard pressed into her ribs. It could have been a finger, but she knew it wasn’t. He had a gun. He twisted her arm behind her back. Her shoulder screamed with pain, and her cheek smashed into the closet’s cement-block surface. Out of the corner of her eye, next to her face, she saw the gun—black with a short barrel. Ugly. Awful.

“You scream and I shoot.” His voice was a hiss, his breath hot in her ear. “Now I’ve got nothing to lose.”

Because she’d seen his face.

His forearm snaked across her neck and pressed against her windpipe. She clawed at his arm, trying to free herself. He dug the gun into her temple and maneuvered her out of the closet into the dark hallway. She heard faint music from the video that was still playing in the Grand Foyer. Only a few minutes had elapsed since he’d attacked her. A lifetime.

His arm pressed harder against her throat. She made herself deadweight as he dragged her toward the service door at the end of the corridor. If he was going to kill her, she’d make him work for it.

He kicked her hard in the side of her leg. “Walk!”

Thad was going to be furious about this. That random thought kicked through her brain as she struggled to breathe.

They’d reached the door. He hit the bar with his hip. As he dragged her outside, she tried to gulp in the fresh, rain-drenched air.

Through the downpour, she saw that he’d dragged her to the Muni’s loading dock area on the far side of the building, away from the front windows where the guests were gathered. Away from everything except Dumpsters, cargo vans, and the dark coil of the Chicago River.

“A lot of thugs around here.” He dug the gun into her temple, his arm still pressing against her windpipe. “You came out for air. Too bad you got robbed and shot.”

He was going to kill her. No one would stop him. She dropped her head and bit him hard in the arm. He jerked and eased his grip just enough for her to twist free.

She began to run.

Something whizzed past her head. A bullet. The river was just ahead.

He fired again. And again.

She was in the water.

* * *

Olivia had been gone too long. As the video played, he pushed back in his chair and wended his way through the tables out into the hallway. No sign of anyone. He headed for the ladies’ room and barged in without knocking. Empty. He checked his watch. It read 9:48 p.m. He hurried down a second hallway. Around a corner.

Her purse lay abandoned ahead of him on the tile floor. His heart kicked into overdrive. There was a service door at the end of the hall. He ran toward it on an adrenaline rush.

He burst outside into a rain-pounded scene from a horror movie. A big man with a gun. The crack of three bullets firing. And Olivia.

Going into the river.

The goon heard the door slam and spun around, gun pointed.

Quarterbacks didn’t usually tackle, but Thad sure as hell knew how. As the goon raised his arm to fire, Thad went low, powering with his legs, targeting the bastard’s chest with a drive from his shoulder.

The goon was big, heavy, and solid. Thad took him down.

The gun flew. Loose ball! A scramble for possession. Even quarterbacks could end up in the scrum, and Thad had been here many times. Grab the ball at any cost. Go for the eyes, the nuts. Gouge. Choke. No gentleman’s code in the pileup, only raw, bleeding violence. Survival of the fittest.

The goon hadn’t been schooled in the NFL’s killing fields and Thad came up