Page 106 of The Devoted Game

But right now he wanted to believe in a higher power more than he wanted to have his next breath.

“I’ve never asked you for one damned thing.”

He took a breath, steadied his voice. Could hardly believe he would bother with prayer.

“Just let me do this right. Don’t let her pay for my mistakes.”

He swiped the wetness from his eyes and barked out a laugh. This had to be some kind of cosmic joke. After all he’d seen and done, who the hell would have thought he was capable of emotions this deep?

“You’re fucked up, McBride.” He stared at the pathetic reflection. “Majorly fucked up.”

Then he pulled his shit together and walked out.

He had a bottom-feeder to find.

Thirty

Time and place unknown . . .

Vivian still felt groggy. Fincher had given her a shot of something to sedate her once they had gotten into her SUV. She couldn’t be sure how long ago that had happened. He had taken her cell phone ... her weapon ... everything but the clothes on her back.

But how had he gotten her fob? She’d left her purse upstairs. The only other fob was in her kitchen ... at home.

She felt her way around the walls of the pitch-black room. Ten by ten feet, she calculated. Walking around it so many times, she was fairly sure of the measurements. The walls felt like metal. Cool, ribbed. Corrugated metal maybe. No windows. No door. Wait. She backed up a step. There was something else attached to the wall. A metal ... track that went from the floor to a point above her head and then curved horizontally.

An overhead door? She dropped to her knees and felt around the lower half of that section of wall that was in actuality a door. She found the handle. Her heart skipped a beat. She pulled at it with all her might. Wouldn’t budge. But it was definitely a garage-type pull-up door.

What she would give for a flashlight or McBride’s damned Zippo. She sat down on her butt, leaned against the door that wouldn’t open, and closed her eyes.

She couldn’t let this bastard win.

He was responsible for Worth’s death, dammit. No matter how painful his own past, murder was murder.

Get up and think, Grace!

She scrambled back to her feet, swayed a little, then started feeling around the walls in case she had missed something else.

Overhead door.

Small space.

Smelled stuffy ... like a used-furniture store.

Metal construction.

Storage unit?

Her pulse picked up its pace. Yeah. A storage unit. It was deadly quiet. Probably deserted. Could be security somewhere on the property.

She rushed back to the overhead door and banged her fists hard against it. “Hey! Is anybody out there?”

For ten or fifteen seconds she listened. Nothing.

“Hey!” She started banging again. “My name is Vivian Grace. Special Agent Vivian Grace of the FBI! If you can hear me, please call 911!”

There were a lot of storage facilities around Birmingham. Some were close to businesses, gas stations, and convenience stories. Someone could hear her ... maybe.

“Hey!” She banged some more.