MAGGIE sat in the dark corner. Her back pressed against the wall of the bedroom, her outstretched arms leaning on her knees. Her hands gripped her Smith & Wesson, her finger on the trigger. She was ready for him. She knew he had been watching. She knew he would come. Yet, when she heard him at the foot of the trellis, her heart slammed against her chest. Sweat trickled down her back.

In a matter of minutes, he was at the window. She saw his shadow hovering, a black vulture. Then his face was at the glass. Don’t flinch. Stay calm. Steady. Yet the terror hammered away at her, raw and unyielding to any of her mental commands. A slight tremor threatened her aim. She knew she was safe in the dark corner. Besides, he would be looking at the curled-up bundle of pillows he would mistake for his sleeping victim.

Would he be disappointed that she could predict his moves? Certainly he wouldn’t expect that they had already discovered the second body was not his. He must have realized they would, because he was wasting no time coming after his ultimate victim. This would be his grand finale, his final scar to leave Maggie with before the diabetes left him completely blind.

She tightened her grip. Instead of the terror, she concentrated on the faces of his victims, the litany of names, now adding Jessica, Rita and Rachel to the list. How dared he make her an accomplice to his evil?

He eased the window up, gently, quietly, and before he stepped into the room she could smell him, the scent of smoke and sweat. She waited for him to draw the scalpel from his boot.

“You won’t be needing that,” she said calmly, not moving a muscle.

He spun around, holding the scalpel. With his free hand he stripped off the bedcovers, then grabbed for the lamp on the nightstand. The yellow glow filled the room, and when he turned toward her she thought she saw a flash of surprise in his colorless eyes. He quickly composed himself, standing straight and tall, replacing the surprise with one of his twisted smiles.

“Why, Maggie O’Dell. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Gwen isn’t here. In fact, she’s back at my house. I hope you don’t mind me taking her place?” Stucky hadn’t dared come for her. That would have been too easy. Just like in that Miami warehouse eight months ago. It would have been easier to kill her. Instead, he had left her with a scar, a constant reminder of him. No, Stucky didn’t intend to kill her. He simply wanted to destroy her. It would be his ultimate blow, to hurt a woman Maggie knew, one she cared about and loved.

“You’re good at our little game.” He seemed pleased.

Without warning, she squeezed the trigger, and his hand flew back, the scalpel clinking to the floor. He stared at his bloodied hand. His eyes met hers. This time she saw more than alarm. Was that the beginning of fear?

“How does it feel?” she asked, trying to keep the quiver out of her voice. “How does it feel to have me beating you at your own game?”

There was that smile again, a cocky smirk that she wanted to shoot off his face.

“No, I should be asking you, Maggie. How does it feel to play at my game?”

She felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

“It’s over,” she managed to say. Could he see her hand tremble?

“You like seeing me bleeding. Admit it.” He raised his hand to show her the blood dripping down his sleeve. “It’s a powerful feeling, isn’t it, Maggie?”

“Is it a powerful feeling to kill your best friend, Stucky? Is that why you did it?”

She thought she saw him grimace. Maybe she had finally found his Achilles’ heel.

“Why did you do it? Why did you kill the one man, the only person who could stomach being your friend?”

“He had something I needed. Something I couldn’t get anywhere else,” he said, looking away from the light.

“What could a blind Walker Harding possibly have that was worth killing him for?”

“You already know the answer to that. His identity. I needed to become him.” Now he laughed.

Maggie watched his eyes. The light was bothering him. Yes, she was right. Whether it was diabetes or something else, Stucky was losing his eyesight.

“Not like Walker was doing much with his identity anyway,” Stucky continued. “Sitting in that house with his cyberlife. Jacking off to porn videos instead of enjoying the real thing.” His lips curled into a snarl. “He was pathetic. Never would I become what he was, at least, not without a fight.”

He reached for the lamp again to turn it off. Maggie pulled the trigger. This time the bullet shattered his wrist. He grabbed at his hand, the anger distorting his face while he tried to keep it composed.

“Are your eyes giving you a little trouble?” she taunted him, despite the panic sliding down into her legs. She couldn’t run. She needed to stay put. She couldn’t let him see her fear.

He managed another smile, and started walking toward her. Maggie pulled back the hammer and squeezed the trigger again. This time the bullet ripped into his kneecap, knocking him to the floor. He stared at his knee in disbelief, but didn’t wince or cry out.

“You like this, don’t you? Have you ever felt such power before, Maggie?”

What was he doing? If she wasn’t mistaken, he was the one taunting her.

“It’s over, Stucky. This is where it ends.” But she heard the quiver in her voice. Then a new fear rushed through her when she realized that he had heard it, too.

He crawled back to his feet. As he started toward her again, she wondered if it was possible to even destroy him. He barely limped from his shattered kneecap, and now she could see that he had retrieved the scalpel while he had been down on the floor. How many bullets did she have left in the chamber? Had she fired twice or three times?

He held up the scalpel for her to see, flipping it around and getting a better grip on it.

“I was hoping to leave your good friend Gwen’s heart on your doorstep. Seemed kind of poetic, don’t you think? But now I guess I’ll have to settle for taking out yours instead.”

“Put it down, Stucky. It’s over.” But even she wasn’t convinced by her words.

“The game ends only when I say it ends,” he hissed.

She took aim, trying to steady her hands, concentrating on her target—that space between his eyes. Her finger twitched as she kept it pressed against the trigger. He wouldn’t win this time. She forced herself to stare into his black eyes, the evil holding her there, pinning her against the wall. She felt the wall of fear blocking her, the raw hysteria strangling her and blurring her vision. Before she could squeeze the trigger, the door to the room flew open.

“Agent O’Dell,” Cunningham yelled, rushing in with his revolver drawn.

Maggie was startled, looking away for a split second. Just long enough for Stucky to dive at her, the scalpel plunging down. Gunfire exploded in the small bedroom, in rapid succession—the echoes bouncing off the walls.

Finally, the sound stopped as suddenly as it had started.

Albert Stucky lay slumped over Maggie’s knees, his body jerking, blood spraying her. She wasn’t sure whether some of it was hers. The scalpel stuck into the wall, so close she felt it against her side, so close it had ripped the side of her shirt open. She couldn’t move. Was he dead? Her hand shook uncontrollably as she gripped the warm revolver. She knew without checking that its cylinder was empty.

Cunningham shoved Stucky’s body off her, a thud with no sound of life. Suddenly Maggie grabbed Stucky’s shoulder, desperate to see his face. She rolled him over. His lifeless eyes stared up at her, but she wanted to cry out in relief. With all the holes in his body, there was not a single one between his eyes.