Bobby drew a steadying breath. Bitch. She’d sailed through that minefield like it was a field of fucking poppies. Damn her. Goddamn her. Susannah Vartanian had come out on top for the very last time. Now. It would be now.

Stop. Breathe. Follow the plan or you’ll leave here in handcuffs. Gretchen first. Susannah second. Bystander third.

Her hand was steady as she reached into her pocket, positioning her gun so she could fire from within the pocket. Her aim was sure as she pulled the trigger, the pop of the silencer covered up by the cries of reporters jockeying to ask the next question. Her smile was grim when her bullet hit Gretchen in the chest. Gretchen slumped forward as the next bullet hit Susannah right in the heart, sending her flying backward to the floor.

Her third bullet landed in the back of a man with a video camera resting on his shoulder. He dropped like a rock, his camera crashing to the floor.

Screams filled the air. It was priceless.

She moved through the surging crowd, feeling like a celebrity on the red carpet with cameras flashing all around her. But the lenses were pointed at the stage. The cop who’d been standing guard at the stage rushed forward to kneel by the cameraman.

Calmly Bobby walked past the stage on her way to the back entrance and her way out. Then stopped. Lying on her stomach under the table was Susannah Vartanian, her eyes wide open and alert, her small hands wrapped around a very large gun.

People were screaming. Behind her, Gretchen was moaning and she could hear Chase yelling for a medic. Susannah’s chest was burning. Shit. It hurt. Worse than the last time. She’d instinctively rolled under the table, her hand diving into her purse for the gun that had not been there before she’d sat next to Leo Papadopoulos at lunch.

Then the burning in her chest was forgotten as she found herself staring into a pair of cold blue eyes. She had only an instant to register the visual disconnect. The hair and the breasts were Marianne Woolf’s. But the eyes belonged to Barbara Jean Davis.

Those eyes narrowed, then her lips pulled back in a snarl, and the hand Barbara Jean held in her pocket lifted her coat, revealing the rigid line of a gun barrel.

For a heartbeat Susannah aimed between Bobby’s blue eyes, then reconsidered. Death is too good for you, bitch. Dropping her aim to Bobby’s right arm, she fired.

Bobby’s eyes registered shock, then pain, then rage. The crack of Susannah’s gun sent new screams through the crowd and the thunder of feet shook the stage.

“Drop it!” came the shouted order above her head as a new wave of camera flashes left spots dancing in front of her eyes. Still, she could see the smirk on Bobby’s face as she took several steps backward and was swallowed up into the crowd.

“But-” Susannah cried out in pain when a booted foot came down on her forearm.

“Drop the gun and put your hands where we can see them,” another voice barked. Arm throbbing, heart pounding, Susannah placed the gun on the stage and held her hands straight out in front of her. Six uniformed cops pointed guns at her head.

“Listen to me,” she said loudly. “Dammit.” She winced when the booted foot moved off her wrist, replaced by the cold steel of handcuffs. “She’s-”

The cop had grabbed her other arm, twisting it behind her back, when someone vaulted from the floor to the stage and an authoritative voice boomed. “Officer. Back away. Now.” Luke. Finally. Susannah let out a breath as the six cops took a measured step back and Luke dropped to his knees by her side.

“What the hell happened here?” Chase demanded from behind her.

“I don’t know,” Luke said. “Susannah, where are you hurt?”

Susannah grabbed his arm and dragged herself to her knees, the handcuff swinging from her wrist. The room spun and she clenched her eyes shut. “It was Bobby. She has a gun. She’s here, in the crowd somewhere.”

“What?” Luke demanded.

“Where?” Chase snapped.

“That way,” she pointed and prayed Mama Papa’s lamb would stay put in her churning stomach. Now that it was over, she was shaking like a leaf, her words choppy. “She’s wearing a wig. Marianne Woolf. She looked like Marianne.” A wave of hysteria was bubbling up and she shoved it back. “She was wearing a black trench coat.”

“I’ve got it.” Chase was running, making the stage bounce. “You stay with her.”

Susannah swallowed hard as her head spun and her stomach roiled. Luke’s hands tightened on her shoulders. “Oh my god. Susannah.”

She forced her eyes open to find him staring at her chest in horror. Slowly she looked down and blinked at the Kevlar vest showing through the bullet hole in her sweater, right over her heart. “Shit,” she mumbled. “This was my last clean outfit.”

Bobby unbuttoned her coat with one hand, cursing Susannah Vartanian. Goddamn her. Bullets just bounced off the little bitch, both literally and metaphorically. My arm burns like hell and Susannah Vartanian should be dead. Dead. A vest. Susannah was wearing a goddamn vest. I should have known, should have planned. I failed.

Stop thinking about Susannah. Get yourself out of here. There would only be a few seconds before Susannah raised the alarm, assuming the cops let her speak. Right now they thought she was the shooter. There was some joy in that irony.

Get busy. Get gone. In the middle of the throng of pushing people, Bobby shrugged out of her coat and draped it over her wounded arm. Now she had free passage, thanks to her GBI mole who’d wrapped the gun in a jacket before stuffing it into the backpack she’d passed to Bobby before the press conference began. The jacket with GBI emblazoned across the back was a tad tight, but it would do the job. Quickly she slipped Marianne Woolf’s press credentials beneath her shirt.

“Pardon me,” she said loudly. “Coming through.” The people crowding her took one look at her jacket and moved aside. “Stay calm,” she said officially. “Just stay calm.”

Cops were shepherding the crowd to the middle of the room, away from the doors. Head high, Bobby walked through one of the rear doors, nodding to the Atlanta cop who stood guard. He nodded back, briefly, then returned his eyes to the crowd.

She kept her chin up as she walked past the police searching in the hallway.

“Anything?” one asked her.

She shook her head. “They caught one of the shooters inside, but they’re still looking for the second one. Excuse me.” As she walked, coat over her arm, she fumbled her right hand into the pocket that held the gun. Her arm burned like hell, but her hand still worked. The door was in sight. Just a few more steps to freedom.

“Stop! Police!”

Fuck. Turning as she ran the last few steps, Bobby started to fire.

“She shot you.” Kneeling on the stage, Luke’s heart climbed up into his throat.

Susannah pressed the heel of her palm to her chest, covering the hole in her sweater. “I know. Hurts like a bitch, too.” She frowned, trying to concentrate. “Bobby’s hit. I shot her right arm. She had a gun in her coat pocket. She was going to shoot me. Again. Damn.”

Luke forced his fear back. The cops were still glaring at them and Susannah still wore one of their handcuffs on her right wrist. She’d shot into a crowd. He glanced at the gun on the stage and knew exactly where it had come from. Leo. There would be trouble over this, but he’d deal with it later. Now he focused on Susannah. Her face was ashen, her eyes overly bright. She was shaking. She was in pain. In shock.

And the cameras continued to flash. He needed to get her out of here. “Can you stand up?”

She nodded grimly. “Yes.” She turned as he lifted her to her feet, staring at the medics who were securing Gretchen French to the gurney. “How bad is she?”