Chosen To Die. Lisa Jackson
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way of keeping her humble and vulnerable, to make her lie naked and alone in the dark, but she wasn’t going to buckle to that kind of psychological blackmail. “Why did you bring me here?”
“To help you.”
“You fired the damned shot! I wouldn’t call that help.” She was agitated, fear juicing up her aggression. He ran the penlight down the length of her body, again humiliating her, stopping at her breasts where her damned nipples were rock hard from the cold. She heard him suck in his breath and she thought she might be sick.
“You’re a beautiful woman, Regan.” He said it as if he meant it.
“And you’re a damned freak!”
As if he didn’t hear her, he said, “Well-sculpted face, high cheekbones, and a strong chin. And long legs…nice breasts with dark nipples…flat stomach despite bearing two babies.”
He knew about her kids? Terror swept through her. She wanted to snap at him to leave her children out of it, but she didn’t dare show her Achilles’ heel, couldn’t let him know that her entire life centered around her kids. Instinctively she knew that if she gave him even the tiniest bit of insight as to how to really terrorize her, Jeremy and Bianca would end up here, imprisoned by him. Fear turned her throat to dust.
“And that boyfriend of yours, the drifter.”
What?
“Does Santana appreciate you? Treat you well?”
Her stomach dropped. How much about her did this animal know?
“Or is he just around for a quick roll in the hay, a hot fuck?” He said it all in a harsh, unrecognizable whisper. As if he thought she might be able to make out his identity. “I bet you’re a hot one, aren’t you? That you like it when some good-looking loser tries to get into your pants. Is that right? You enjoy the ride?”
“You’re sick.”
“Sick?” That seemed to bother him. “You won’t think so for long.”
What she wouldn’t do for a weapon of some kind, a gun or knife or even a baseball bat or night-stick, anything. Weak as she was, she’d haul off and whack him and send his black soul straight to hell. But there was no weapon and she was in no shape to attack anyone, and the beam of his light slid lower on her body, like a laser, trailing a path to the juncture of her legs where the beam paused, illuminating the reddish hair that curled there and feeling as if it burned a hole through her skin.
She tried not to think of the embarrassment, for then he’d win. He was doing this on purpose. Nor would she rise to the bait of bringing up Santana or her sex life. “You get your rocks off by torturing women? Humiliating them? Holding them against their will?”
He didn’t answer, just trailed the tiny beam of light down her legs.
“Why go to all this trouble? Why stage accidents and then pretend to help the victims? Why not just kill them and get it over with?”
“You just don’t get it, do you?”
“Enlighten me,” she challenged, keeping her eyes trained on his shadowy features.
“You’re a cop, Regan. A detective. You figure it out.” He stepped close enough so that were she not riddled with pain, one arm chained to the cot, she would have jumped up and rammed his arm backward until he was on his knees, or thrown a well-aimed punch at his throat to render him spitting and speechless, or shoved his nose into his cerebrum.
“Try me.” If she could just keep him talking, she might learn something, figure out his identity.
“It would take much too long.”
“What else do you have to do?”
He stepped closer and the penlight offered enough illumination that she noticed a glint, a slim little line of silver in his other hand.
What the hell?
What was it?
And then she knew with dead certainty that he held a hypodermic needle in his right hand. Oh, God, no!
Pescoli freaked. She had no idea what drug might be held in the syringe, but she couldn’t let him inject her with it.
“Wait!” she said, trying to scoot away. Her legs were free. If she could kick him. Land a blow square in his crotch, or on his face.
“Don’t even think about it,” he whispered, his voice ragged, and rough, yet nearly seductive.
Pescoli’s skin crawled. Fear sizzled through her bones. She had to find a way to—
He sprang!
Like a cougar onto the back of an unsuspecting deer, he leaped onto the cot. She tried to move, but couldn’t get away. Pinning her with his knees, his legs straddling her torso, his weight pressing onto her bruised ribs, he held her fast.
Pain shrieked through her body and she cried out. Her chest felt as if it had been crushed, her lungs on fire, her ribs shattering. She tried to kick and squirm but pain crippled her and his well over two hundred pounds didn’t budge.
“No!” she forced out, her breath a panicked hiss. “Don’t!” She bucked upward, but to no avail.
It was too late. With his spread legs only inches from her nose, the scent of his sweat in the air, he shifted slightly. Dropped the penlight. Grabbed her tethered arm.
Though she pummeled him with her free hand, he fended off her blows with his shoulder and body, and his legs, his thick thighs covered in denim so close to her face wouldn’t budge. If she could bite him…
She moved, but he anticipated the lift of her head, the baring of her teeth.
“Careful,” he warned, staying away from her teeth, “or I’ll give you something you can really work on, fill that hot little mouth of yours right up. And you’ll love it.”
She shuddered inside. Thought she might be sick and throw up all over him.
From astride her he laughed, a brittle sound as hollow as all the caverns of hell.
“We’re going to get you,” she warned. “If not me, then someone else. They’ll never give up. They’ll run you to the ground like a rabid dog.”
He struck quickly. Plunged the needle into her arm.
She felt a sharp, cold sting against her skin, then the horrifying pressure of some unknown drug being forced into her flesh.
“You bastard!” she hissed and he laughed again, that low, sick growl, and he crawled slightly upward, forcing his crotch even closer to her head.
Her stomach roiled and still she swiped at him, her legs kicking upward.
Her attempts were futile, all her struggling in vain.
The penlight rolled noisily across the stone floor, stopping against the door, its tiny beam offering faint, narrow illumination. There wasn’t enough light to see his features clearly, just a glimmer of thin luminance that threw his face into a shadowy, macabre relief. His eyes were shielded by dark glasses, a baseball cap covered his head, and a beard darkened his jaw, yet she caught a chilling glimpse of his features. Rugged. Rough. Scratches down one cheek where she’d scraped his skin with her fingernails.
I know you, she thought, her arm suddenly heavy, the pain in her chest easing as she started to drift away. I know you, you miserable whack job, and damn it, somehow, someway, I’m going to get out of here and when I do, I swear to God, I’m going to nail your sorry ass…
Chapter Six
Nate Santana snapped open his pocketknife, then sliced the twine holding a bale of hay together. The horses were waiting patiently in their stalls, ears pricked forward, dark, liquid eyes assessing him, only Lucifer showing impatience by snorting and tossing his dark head.
Daylight