New York to Dallas (In Death 33)

Fear coated her throat as she barely evaded the first vicious jab.

“Scream if you want.” He smiled, but she saw—somehow recognized—the monster behind it. “No one can hear. And your’link, any com devices?” He jabbed again, almost playfully. “They won’t work in here. I’ve got jammers activated. You should have listened to me, Officer Dallas. I gave you every opportunity to leave.”

He blocked her kick, sliced out with the knife and scored her shoulder.

He outweighed her, had a longer reach and a weapon. Combat training, she judged, as she used her own to dodge, to weave, to land a blow or two.

Fergus would contact her, and unable to tag her come looking.

But she couldn’t depend on backup. All she had was herself.

“You wanted to see what was in my workroom. I’m going to show you when we’re done. I’ll show you where the bad girls go.”

She threw a lamp at him. Pitiful, she thought, but it gave her a little room.

This time when he sliced, she went in low, plowed her fists into his balls, her head into his belly. She felt the knife catch another piece of her, but came up hard with an uppercut, jammed her knee into his already tender crotch.

She tried a body takedown, and he flung her across the room.

“That hurt!” Outrage reddened his face, stripped away all amusement. “You skinny bitch, you’re going to pay for that.”

Her ears rang. Her vision blurred. She thought, no, she’d be damned if she’d die this way. She was going to make goddamn detective.

She shifted her weight and balance, came up with both feet. When he staggered back she scrambled up and behind a chair. Time to catch her breath. She was hurt, knew she was hurt. Couldn’t think about it. He’d kill the hell out of her unless she evened the odds.

“I’m a cop.” She tasted blood along with the fear. “Dallas, Officer Eve. And you’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent.”

He laughed. Laughed and laughed with blood running from his split lip. He came forward, passing the knife from hand to hand. “You’re a feisty one, and entertaining. I’m going to keep you alive for a long, long time.”

For an instant she saw two of him and thought, fleetingly, she might have a concussion. Closer, she thought, let him get closer. Let him think she was finished.

Then she shoved the chair hard into his knees, and dived.

She rolled, came up with her weapon. As he leaped toward her, she fired. He jerked back, kept coming. She fired again. “Go down, you fucker!” And again.

She heard herself screaming when the knife dropped out of his hand, when he slid, shaking, to the floor.

“Son of a bitch, son of a bitch, son of a bitch.” She got to her knees, weapon still trained. She couldn’t get her breath. Had to get her breath.

Training, routine. Kick the knife away, get out your restraints. Secure the prisoner.

She straightened, swayed as pain and nausea churned through her.

Jesus, Jesus, I’m hurt.

She couldn’t say why she did it. Even years later she didn’t know why she’d felt so compelled. She searched his pockets, found the key.

She staggered to the locked room even as her mind reeled off procedure. Go out, contact Fergus, call for backup. Officer needs assistance.

Sweet Jesus, officer needs assistance.

Instead, she dragged the bolts clear, managed after three tries to uncode the lock.

And she opened the door to hell.

“There were so many of them. Children, just girls, shackled, naked, covered in bruises, dried blood, God knows what. Most of them were huddled together. Eyes, so many eyes on me. The smell, the sounds, I can’t tell you.”

She didn’t know if she’d taken his hand or he’d taken hers, but the contact kept her grounded in the now, and a desperate step back from the horror.