Lisa Childs – Damned (страница 8)

“You’re doing great,” he murmured when she joined him in staring at the doors. He glanced toward her, then to the stairwell beyond her. Dare he wait for the elevator?

“How far up are we?” she asked, her voice unsteady with nerves.

“Top floor. Eighteenth.”

Her mouth, her lips naturally red and full, pulled into a grimace. “A lot of stairs.”

“A lot of stairs,” he agreed as he pulled his gaze from her and concentrated on the elevator light. He couldn’t afford the distraction of a woman who could look the way she did with no makeup. Her lashes were naturally thick and long, framing those big, dark eyes, while her honey-toned skin revealed not a single flaw.

Was she really the same woman Elena had envisioned in the alley, unkempt and out of her mind?

Behind them, the knob rattled on the door to the psych ward. “She realized I’m not Dr. Kimber,” Irina said, her dark eyes widening in alarm.

Ty grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the stairwell. “Come on. We gotta get out of here.”

Automatic hinges held open the door to the stairs just long enough that Ty caught the arrival of the elevator and the man stepping out. He had dark red hair and eyes that burned with hatred and madness. “Oh God!”

He shoved Irina toward the stairs, gasping an anxious, “Run!”

Even though her feet hit the steps, she peered up and around him. Ty didn’t know if she caught a glimpse of Roarke before the door closed. He was more concerned about Roarke catching a glimpse of them.

“Hurry!” He caught her around the waist, half carrying her as their feet skimmed over the steps, hardly touching them as they ran down flight after flight, their frantic footfalls echoing eerily in the cement stairwell. His bad leg, broken in the collapse of another staircase, throbbed with pain as his foot hitting each step jarred the still-healing bone and muscles. He gritted his teeth, biting back the pain, forcing it from his mind to focus instead on getting her to safety.

They’d fled several stories when a door slammed open above them, metal crashing against concrete. Ty didn’t have to look up to know that the door was from the eighteenth floor and the person joining their mad dash was Donovan Roarke.

“You can’t save her!” the deranged killer yelled, his voice a harsh shout in the confined area. “All you’ll do is die with her, McIntyre.”

From his years on the force, Ty knew there was no sense in trying to deal with a lunatic. He didn’t care about Roarke’s threats against him; his total focus was on Irina. Her arm slid around his waist, her fingers clenched in his shirt as he dragged her along with him. In their haste to escape the hospital and the killer, they fell against the metal railing and bounced off the cement-block walls. Each crash jolted his leg, the pain traveling through his limb like an electrical shock. But he couldn’t slow down.

“You’re not a witch, McIntyre. You don’t deserve to die like they do. Give her to me and I’ll let you live,” Roarke yelled out his bargain between ragged pants for breath.

Ty’s life for hers? Irina had family who cared about her, who loved her. It wasn’t a fair trade.

“Go to hell,” Ty shouted back. Roarke didn’t need his condemnation, though. His actions were certain to send him there, but Ty fully intended to expedite his trip.

“I gave you a chance,” Roarke said as if resigned, then he fired.

Bullets sprayed against the concrete walls, raining dusty bits of cement onto them as they ran. “Come on,” Ty said, rushing Irina down the last flight. His hand closed over hers on the knob of the door to the first floor; together they turned it.

From the corner of his eye Ty glimpsed Roarke, flights above them, leaning over the railing, taking aim, his Glock directed at them. His hand over her head, Ty pushed Irina down as he ducked. Bullets bounced off the metal frame over them as they crawled through the partially open doorway. On the other side, Ty shoved his shoulder against the steel door, fighting the automatic hinge to push it closed. More shots fired, only the door separating the bullets from his body as the metal protruded from each hit.

“Come on!” he commanded Irina, his hand wrapped around hers as he propelled them both through the lobby, deserted at this late hour. Antique furnishings sat empty but for a faint film of dust. An old turnstile door stood between them and the canopy-covered entrance. Ty jammed them both into one section, her body soft and warm as she trembled against him.

“It’s okay,” he assured her even as more shots rang out behind them. The thick plastic of the turnstile splintered from the bullets. Ty bent over Irina, sheltering her with his body as they shoved the door forward, then stumbled out onto the sidewalk. He kept her close, her feet hardly touching the asphalt as he ran across the dimly lit lot to where he’d left his truck parked.

Hand shaking, he fumbled with his keys, clicking the automatic locks. When she moved to head around the passenger’s side, he held tight to her jacket, lifting and pushing her through the driver’s door and onto the seat. “Stay low.”

More shots rang out behind them, breaking the quiet of the night. Then, in the distance, sirens whined. At least someone had called the police. On him for helping a patient escape the psychiatric ward? Or on the madman who relentlessly pursued them, firing shot after shot at them?

Ty jammed the key into the ignition, his hand reaching for the shifter before the truck engine even sprang to life. He slammed into Reverse, tires bouncing over the curb as he pulled out of the parking spot and into the drive.

“Keep low,” he ordered Irina again as she lifted her head. He doubted she was trying to glance out the windows, though. She had that look in her eyes, that glazed-over, unfocused gaze of someone blind.

But his skin didn’t prickle; it wasn’t his mind she was trying to read—if telepathy was her ability. God, he could keep her safe from Roarke’s actions—or at least try—but he couldn’t keep her safe from the madman’s thoughts. He pushed her down, her face in his lap, her breath warm through the denim covering his thighs.

The rear window shattered, shards of glass biting into the back of his head and his neck, then raining down over them and the leather seat. “Son of a—”

He jerked the wheel, sending the truck careening back and forth across the driving lanes as he steered for the street. A moving target was harder to hit.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice thready with fear and adrenaline. “Did he shoot you?”

“No.” But blood trickled down the back of his neck from the glass splinters embedded in his skin, the sting of the cuts a faint echo of the pain throbbing in his leg.

She moved her head against his leg, but he pressed his hand on her shoulder, holding her down, out of range of the bullets and broken glass. “Ty,” she said, the fatality of her tone drawing his attention before she added, “He’s going to kill you.”

Ty glanced in the rearview mirror, at the lights dropping farther and farther behind them. He patted her shoulder. “We’re losing him. We’re going to be fine.”

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