The bedroom door opened, spilling light into the room. Simon stood in the doorway. “Andi, are you all right?” he asked.
Before she could answer, Metwater clapped his hand over her mouth and pulled her tight against him. Something stung her throat and she gave another cry. Light flooded the room, and Metwater’s voice filled the silence. “Drop the gun, or I swear I’ll cut her throat and she’ll bleed to death right here.”
Time slowed, every sense magnified as the two men faced off. The blade of the knife glinted in the glow of the crystal chandelier overhead. A single crimson jewel of blood slid down Andi’s pale neck. Simon focused on the strong beat of her pulse at the base of her throat, and his own heart matched its rhythm.
“Drop your gun,” Metwater ordered.
Simon crouched and laid the weapon on the carpet, Andi’s gaze fixed on him.
“The other one, too,” Metwater said. “In the ankle holster.”
Simon complied, then straightened. He glanced toward the connecting door, which stood partially open. He should have stationed Pogue or one of his men there.
“What are you looking at?” Metwater shifted and Andi gasped, a fresh bead of blood forming.
Simon looked into Metwater’s eyes. Gone was the handsome, arrogant man so assured of getting away with whatever he wanted. He didn’t have an army of followers and lawyers protecting him now. It was only him against Simon. Metwater had the woman and the knife, which he thought gave him the advantage.
Simon shifted his gaze back to the door. “Pogue, now!” he shouted, and dropped to the floor.
Metwater jerked toward the door. Andi’s scream bounced off the walls in the small room as Simon scooped up his Glock and fired. But in trying to make sure he didn’t hit the woman, he caught Metwater in the shoulder.
Not a killing shot. But enough to make him drop the knife. Simon aimed again as Metwater lurched from the bed toward the door.
Andi’s screams changed pitch, interspersed with sobbing. “I’m bleeding to death!”
If Simon pursued Metwater, he could probably catch him, but at what cost?
He moved toward the bed, where Andi sat, clutching her throat, the sheets and her gown stained crimson. He pulled out his phone and dialed 911 as he crossed the room. He identified himself and explained the situation as succinctly as possible.
“Yes, sir. I’m dispatching an ambulance. Please stay on the line.”
But he had already hung up and pocketed the phone. Andi stared at him, eyes huge in her pale face, hands clutched to her throat. She was still conscious—that was a good sign. “Let me take a look,” Simon said. He took both her hands in his and gently tugged them toward her lap.
She resisted. “It’s all right,” he said. “I promise I won’t hurt you.”
She lowered her hands, and he studied the two six-inch long slashes where blood was already beginning to clot. Relief flooded him. “The cuts are shallow,” he said. “You’ll be sore, but you shouldn’t even have a scar once they heal.”
“But there’s so much blood.” She looked down at her hands.
“You have a lot of blood vessels in your head and neck,” he said. “But he didn’t sever any arteries. The ambulance is on its way to check you over and make sure everything is okay.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “He tried to kill me,” she said. “Why?”
He could go over the old arguments about why Metwater wanted her dead, but now wasn’t the time. “I won’t let him hurt you again,” he said.
“Where is he now?”
“He ran. But he won’t get far.”
“You shot him.” He couldn’t tell if the idea frightened or comforted her.
“I did. That will slow him down. He’ll have to get help, and when he does, we’ll bring him in.”
He had already gotten through to a supervisor at the Denver Police Department. He hoped this second attack would shock them into real action. They were sending over a senior officer, and soon every cop in the city would be looking for the man who had tried to kill a young woman at the Brown Palace. Simon would try to keep Andi’s name out of the news, but the information was bound to leak eventually.
Andi Matheson had been one of the beautiful people who had been a fixture at every prominent social function in Denver and DC. Her disappearance five months ago, and subsequent reports that she had become Daniel Metwater’s most devoted follower, had kept the interest in her alive. News that she had resurfaced—and that she had been almost killed by the man she had given up pretty much everything for—would be enough to send the media into a frenzy.
He pulled out his phone and called Pogue. “An ambulance and the Denver Police are on their way over,” he said. “Direct them to Ms. Daniels’s suite.”
“Is she okay? What happened?”
“Metwater came back. She’s frightened, but she’ll be okay.”
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t know. But he’s wounded and he’s got a knife.”
“I’ll let my men know.”
The room phone rang, the bell loud and jarring. Simon answered it. “Ms. Daniels?” The woman on the other end sounded unsure.
“This is Officer Woolridge. I’m with Ms. Daniels.”
“This is Cami at the front desk. There’s an ambulance here, and two police officers.”
“Send them up.”
Five minutes later, the room was full of people—three EMTs, two police officers, Pogue and another man who said he was with hotel management. Simon started to move away from the bed, but Andi grabbed his hand. “Don’t leave me!” she pleaded.
“I won’t go far,” he said. “But I need to let the EMTs examine you.”
One of the emergency medical technicians moved in alongside Simon. “It’ll be all right, ma’am,” he said. “You’ll feel a lot better once we get this checked out and cleaned up.”
Simon stepped back, and a wiry black man in uniform tapped him on the shoulder. “You Simon Woolridge?” he asked.
“I’m with Immigration and Customs Enforcement.” Simon showed his badge.
“Sergeant Tyson Daley.” Sergeant Daley glanced at the bed, where two EMTs were bent over Andi. “She an illegal?”
“I’m on special assignment with the Ranger Brigade, working out of Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park. We’re a federal task force focused on crime on public lands.”
“You’re a few hundred miles out of your territory, aren’t you?” Daley asked.
“I came to Denver to apprehend a fugitive, Daniel Metwater,” Simon said. “He’s the one who cut her.”
“We had a report of a domestic dispute here earlier,” Daley said. “This the same guy?”
“It is. He must have hidden in the hotel until he saw his chance to get at her again.”
“Tell me what happened,” Daley said.
“I shot him—got him in the shoulder, I think.”
Daley didn’t look happy about this news. “So now we’re looking for a wounded crazy