Drawn in Blood (Burbank and Parker 2)

The toying was losing its luster. He’d upped the ante, as his Dragon Head had directed. And, yes, it pleased him to torture Burbank by going after his family. To tighten the noose around Martino’s neck. To have Leary’s bookie threaten him, not only with cutting him off, but with bodily harm. To get closer to locating Fox’s fiancée. And to dig a deeper and deeper grave for Johnson, while Cindy enticed him like a sheep being led to slaughter. All that pleased him, mostly because he was doing it for his Dragon Head.

But none of it provided him with the rush he craved.

He had to focus on the prize. He’d honor his Dragon Head’s dying wish, punishing his enemies and killing them with the maximum amount of suffering possible. It was a gift he’d savor.

He shut his eyes, visualizing how he would wring the life out of each man. Different methods. But the same sense of exhilaration as he watched their expressions, the emotions mirrored in their eyes. The transformation from realization to fear. To panic. To a frenzied struggle for survival—one that lessened and weakened as it faded into glazed resignation.

And then froze in the empty vacuum of death.

He could feel the sweat as it soaked their skin. The blood as it oozed from their bodies. Their heartbeats pounding with terror. Beating unsteadily. Then faintly.

Finally, not at all.

The rush of power was indescribable. He always had to be a vital part of the closure. He’d wrap his fingers around his victims’ throats and squeeze, squeeze—even though they were already gone. That moment belonged only to him.

This time, he’d have multiple such moments. Including the added gratification of forcing Burbank to watch his wife being brutally murdered before his very eyes—and dying with that as his final memory. The same fate awaited Fox, once they located his precious Amalie. Martino and Leary were so weak, it would be enough to see them die in their own excrement.

He’d squeeze until he heard bones crunch. Until he felt rings of cartilage crumble. Until he…

Xiao Long winced as a sharp, cutting pain sliced through him. He looked down, surprised to see he’d shattered the beer bottle in his bare hand. He eased his grip, noting he’d pierced his flesh in numerous places. Shards of broken glass clung to his palm, some embedded in his skin, the larger, jagged pieces falling off, tumbling to the floor.

The blood began to flow. Rivulets trickling down his hand, converging at his wrist, and dripping onto the tablecloth.

Pain and blood.

A promise of things to come.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Jeff and Sloane arrived at the women’s shelter the next morning promptly at ten.

Crossing her fingers, Sloane sought out Mrs. Chin and asked if Lucy had made a decision.

“Actually, yes.” Mrs. Chin nodded. “I was surprised. But she said she’ll speak to you. But only you,” she added, glancing at Jeff. “She still cowers when a man approaches her.”

“I understand. I’ll wait out here.” He motioned for Sloane to go in.

She followed Mrs. Chin, who guided her through the living room and into a cafeteria-type kitchen, meagerly stocked with a toaster, a microwave, and a basic sink, stove, and refrigerator. Lucy was sitting at one of the kitchen’s round tables, sipping a cup of tea, and staring off into space.

“Lucy?” Quietly, Mrs. Chin got her attention. “The woman from the FBI is here.”

Lucy’s gaze darted straight to Sloane. “You’re alone?”

“Yes.” Sloane waited for an overt invitation to join her.

“Sit down,” Lucy said at last. She gestured to Mrs. Chin that it was okay to leave them alone, and the older woman nodded and left.

Slowly, Sloane walked over and pulled out the chair across the table from Lucy, sitting down and sliding in. She instantly switched over to Mandarin. “Thank you very much for seeing me. I won’t take much of your time.”

“I’m not sure I can help you.”

“And I’m sure you can. This is as personal for me as it is for you.” Very slowly, Sloane held out her arm, showing Lucy the knife wound that was now stitched but still very visible. “When I said I understood, I do. I was attacked myself, just recently. The man who did this wasn’t finished. He wants to keep hurting me. I was lucky to get away—this time. But I know he’ll try again. He could also hurt many other women. Please, I need any information you can give me.”

Lucy’s gaze flickered to the knife wound, and she winced. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “My husband doesn’t use knives. He uses fists. Sometimes he choked me. I thought I was dying.” A shaky swallow. “What do you need to know?”

Sloane leaned forward, but only slightly. “Do you remember a man named Daniel Zhang? You probably knew him as Zhang Ming.”

Lucy stiffened. “Zhang was a thief.”