Page 114 of The Devoted Game

Ryan snatched at the weapon, but he couldn’t hold on to it with his damaged hand. He let go of Fincher and grabbed the weapon with his right hand. Fincher clutched at the weapon and Ryan couldn’t draw it away fast enough. They struggled. The weapon fired. He felt the hot lead sear through his flesh.

Fuck. He couldn’t let this bastard go free. He fought harder. Got his fingers back around the weapon. Fired once. Twice.

Surprise claimed Fincher’s expression. He touched his abdomen where a hole leaked red, but it was the one in the center of his chest that would kill his sorry ass.

Fincher’s gaze connected with Ryan’s one last time, and then he collapsed across his son’s grave.

Ryan shook his head to clear his vision. He was dizzy and weak from the booze and blood loss. Damn, He’d cut deeper than he meant to. The bullet had entered his gut. Couldn’t tell if it was bad. Plenty of blood. Not much pain.

Had to stop the blood pouring from his wrist. He toed off one shoe and yanked loose a sock. He wrapped it around his wrist, had to use his teeth to help pull it tight.

He was cold. He shivered.

Nothing he could do about the gut wound. His movements stilted and shaky, he crawled on his elbows and knees to where Fincher’s cell phone lay in the grass. He collapsed on the ground, tried to focus on the keypad. His hand shook and his vision blurred. He pushed what he thought was the right numbers, but darkness ...

Darkness closed in on him.

“What is the nature of your emergency?”

The voice dragged him back. “Elmwood Cemetery,” he muttered. “Send paramedics. FBI. Agent down ...” The world was spinning hard. He had to close his eyes.

His face flattened into the wet grass, and he pictured Grace.

As long as she was safe, he had done this right.

He’d been looking for an excuse to die for about three years now. His eyes slowly closed. Looked like he’d finally found it.

Just when he’d discovered a reason to live. What a fucked up ...

Grace.

Thirty-Two

5minutes remaining. . .

U-Store-It, Downtown Birmingham, 2:40 a.m.

A camera?

Vivian tried to reach it but she couldn’t.

Fincher was watching.

Bastard.

She glared at the camera, considered flipping him off, but that wouldn’t do any good.

It was hard to tell how long she had been in here.

The piece of shit in the unit next to her started talking again. He’d been going on and on for what felt like hours. “Vivian,” he called. “Talk to me, please.”

She shuddered. She could only assume that Fincher had plans for her that involved ...him.

Closing her eyes, she blocked the sound of his voice. Images from all those years ago whirled in her head. She tried her best to block them. Stay strong. Focused. She had to find a way out of here.

A pop or break outside jerked her attention forward. What the hell was that?

She moved to the door. The sound had come from that direction. That the bastard next door had gone silent told her he had heard it too. No footsteps outside. No voices. Nothing.