Terminal Vendetta (A Diana Weick Thriller Book 3) by Cate Clarke (book suggestions .txt) 📕

was sore by the time the sun started to rise over the River Thames outside the wall of glass. That was another avenue they’d considered—breaking and jumping out of the window. But they were high up without any proper equipment. They’d probably die. And Rex really wasn’t in the mood for dying again.

It had been stupid of her to let them out of the bathroom. Rex figured she was trying to prove that she really wasn’t the “bad guy” in all of this—that all of this was for a reason and that made it all okay. Being out in the bathroom meant they could hear everything that was going down in the hall, including the ding of the elevator and the sound of her approaching boots.

Voss unlocked the office door and came inside, giving both of them a nod as the morning sun cut across the carpet and into her sunken eyes.

“Morning,” she said.

“Good morning,” Rex replied.

Voss looked at him, taking a quick glance at his condition. “You’re in good spirits.”

“I feel better,” he said.

“Don’t rush yourself,” she said and sat down at the desk, opening her laptop, not bothering with the zip ties yet, leaving them fixed to the chairs.

Rex had a feeling she was lonely.

Yesterday, she’d given them both some free time in the afternoon. Wesley had done a sweep of everything useful in the room—taking after his mother—scissors in her desk, a heavy ceramic knickknack of an elephant and a fire extinguisher in the back corner. They had planned for the freedom to happen again today, and if it didn’t, this would all be purposeless. It would be another day, more hours tied up, waiting for her to make another mistake. But she did. Maybe it was because she was trying to prove that she wasn’t the villain or because she wanted them to feel safer or maybe she was just feeling generous, but after she sat down with a warmed-up lunch of something that stank up the office with the smell of turmeric, she undid the zip ties.

It had been later than they wanted. Fewer hours to work with.

“I think these bandages need to be changed,” Rex groaned, leaning forward with the pain, the tube of the IV clanging against its pole.

With a large forkful of curry in her mouth, Voss said, “Soon.”

Wesley got up from his chair, stretching, doing a couple of lunges. The heels of his bare feet were finally scabbing over. Rex needed to save his strength; standing and running would already be a lot to put himself through.

More wasted time.

Large minimal clock ticking against the wall.

The occasional person walked by in the hall beyond the frosted glass panel in the door, and whenever that happened, Voss tightened her grip around the handle of her pistol. Holding to that with one hand and shoveling curry into her mouth with the other.

“No pastries today?” Rex asked.

Voss put on a small smile and said, “I’ll bring some tomorrow.”

“I like the ones with the chocolate,” Wesley said from next to the window.

“Get away from there,” Voss said, waving her fork at him and using it to point to the chair. Wesley complied—giving Rex a quick look and plopping himself back down in the armchair.

After she’d finished her lunch, Voss began to sort through her leather messenger bag, searching for clean bandages as they’d expected. Wesley got up from the chair again, watching her closely.

“What is it?” she asked, snapping her eyes up to Wesley as she took out a fresh roll of bandages.

Voss was perceptive. That didn’t bode well for them.

“I’m just trying to see if I can learn to do it myself,” Wesley said. Quick on his feet, quick with a lie—unsure where he’d inherited that from, Rex or his mother.

“Certainly you can,” she said. “It’s easy.”

She unravelled the bandages in her hands and draped them over her arm. Taking out a small pair of medical scissors, snipping them into strips, but she kept her attention on both of them.

Wesley moved closer.

Then, he was on her, sprinting and tackling her to the ground with a hard thump against the carpet.

Rex popped up from the chair, his body immediately protesting every movement, his back searing with pain as the IV teetered.

There was a hiss of pain, and Rex turned to see the medical scissors sticking out of Wesley’s forearm. He was trying to wrap the bandages around her neck, pulling on them but unable to get the angle behind her. She was stocky and a trained field agent. Wesley didn’t win this fight so Rex had to act fast, despite the all-over pain.

Hobbling over to the corner of the office, the IV dragging behind him, he grabbed the fire extinguisher off the wall, the weight of it almost taking him to the ground.

Voss kicked Wesley off of her, and he rolled into Rex’s armchair, a line of blood trailing down his arm.

Bounding to her feet, Voss was coming for him.

Rex lifted the fire extinguisher above his head.

Wesley yanked the scissors out of his arm and hurled them at Voss.

Voss made for Rex, the scissors sticking her in the thigh, not even slowing her down.

The fire extinguisher smashed through the frosted glass panel of the office door. An alarm went off, blaring and filling the whole floor. The extinguisher rolled against the opposite side of the hall as Voss reached him, jumping on top of him. His back hit the floor, and everything went black for a moment, the pain shutting off his brain entirely.

“Dad!” Wesley screamed. “Help! Help us!”

But he got up. Using the last of everything he had—adrenaline, strength, grief—Rex shoved Voss off of him with both of his hands grasping against her and tossing her across the room.  She rolled against the desk. Immediately, Wesley was next to him, letting him lean his weight on him as he lifted him to his feet and limped them through the broken glass of the door. It cut against their arms and their clothes as they walked