Twisted (Burbank and Parker 1)

“What about painkillers?”

“I have what I need.”

“Of course you do.” He clearly had a drug connection. Hestia well remembered the hypodermic needle he’d had the day he kidnapped her at knife-point. She’d cooperated so he didn’t have to use it. Needles didn’t frighten her; she administered them every day. But she knew that if she’d had any chance of getting away when he first grabbed her, that chance would have evaporated if she were unconscious.

As it turned out, it hadn’t mattered.

There’d been no chance. No escape.

Delphi was turning away from her, limping painfully toward the door. “I’ll be back when the bandage needs to be reapplied.”

“That’s fine. But don’t neglect the other wounds. And be sure to get some rest.”

He paused, glanced back at her. “You’ll be rewarded for your loyalty and compassion.”

With that, he left. As he was shutting the door behind him, Hestia heard him mutter: “As for that little bitch—Mount Olympus is lost to her. She’s a whore like all the others. She’ll rot in hell. I’ll make sure of that.”

Martial Arts Academy

Flemington, Hunterdon County, New Jersey

April 6, 8:15 P.M.

Sloane pulled into the parking lot, relieved that the academy had called and asked her to teach tonight’s Krav Maga class. She needed a distraction. She’d spent days watching the video footage, until her eyes were bleary and her head was filled with cobwebs. And still she hadn’t spotted Penny.

At least three times, she’d had a surge of hope, paused the DVD segment she’d been watching, rewound it, and leaned forward, rechecking it in slow motion only to have her heart sink when she realized it wasn’t Penny.

By tonight, every frame was starting to look alike.

She’d known there was a lot of footage to go through, but she never imagined it would be this intricate and difficult. The sheer number of DVDs was daunting enough. But between the glare of the midday sun, the indistinct features of the people walking by, and the wooded sections blocking certain angles from view, Sloane was frustrated. She had assumed that Penny’s red business suit would have jumped right out, especially in a sea of T-shirts, dark sweatpants, and jeans. Evidently, that wasn’t the case—at least not yet.

But Sloane refused to give up.

Derek had already sent every DVD the Stockton campus police had fed him down to Quantico for more sophisticated analysis. There was one more day of outstanding footage yet to be burned, but the FBI and Sloane were concentrating on the day of Penny’s disappearance, and the day or two before it, when the kidnapper would most likely have visited the campus to finalize his strategy.

Event

ually, something had to turn up.

Sloane turned off the car, gathered up her Krav gear, and headed into the academy. She expected to have some time to set up before the students arrived.

That idea was forgotten the minute she stepped through the door.

The entire reception area and front office were jammed with people, including two local newspaper reporters and a photographer. It looked like a political press conference and—judging from the phrases being thrown around, like “physical assault” and “attempted abduction”—it sounded like the set of a TV crime drama.

“What’s going on?” Sloane called out, although she had no idea who was going to answer her.

Mark Donaldson, one of her more avid and early-arriving students, took on that role, walking over and raising his voice so Sloane could hear him above the crowd. “I guess you haven’t been watching the news. Tina was attacked at knife-point yesterday. The local press is all over her. So are all the students who just finished up their seven o’clock Krav Maga and tae kwon do classes.”

“Is Tina all right?” Sloane asked instantly. “When you say attacked, do you mean robbed? Raped?”

“Neither. She used her Krav to beat the crap out of the guy. Pretty cool, huh?” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the office. “Talk to her yourself. She’s in there.”

Sloane shoved her way through the two dozen people until she reached the office. Spying Tina’s overwhelmed expression, she switched into take-charge mode. “Interviews are over,” she announced, holding up both hands and glaring pointedly at the press. “Leave your business cards on the table by the door. If Ms. Carroll wants to get in touch with you, she will. Everyone else—if you’re not here to take a class, please say your good-nights.”

“Just a few more shots,” the photographer cajoled.

“No.” Sloane’s tone was adamant. “I won’t be saying this nicely again. I want everyone to clear out immediately. Starting with members of the press.” A penetrating stare at one tenacious reporter. “If you need encouragement, be aware that I have the cops on speed dial. I also have two of them as students in my class.”