Willing to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

Too woozy now. Lungs going to burst. Legs buckling. Thoughts disconnected. Dying. She was dying. Here on the empty Albuquerque street, she’d . . .

He released her suddenly, dropping her as if she’d burned him.

She collapsed. Thud! Her head smacked into the cement of the alcove. She opened her mouth to scream but only sputtering noises erupted.

“I warned you.” He yanked a knife from his pocket. The blade glinted in the weak light from a streetlamp on the corner.

She sucked in another breath, her thoughts clearing, her gaze on the blade.

Freaked, Ivy scooted away. Her head throbbed and she felt something sticky—oh, God, blood—on her cheek. He was blocking the doorway, but for an instant she considered trying to get past him, throwing herself onto the sidewalk and screaming, attempting to run and catch the bus....

Oh. God.

“The money.” He reminded her. He was standing over her, breathing hard. Gripping the knife. “Give it up,” he ordered, and she tried to think. “I saw your stash. At the bus station.”

What the hell was he talking about?

She could just hand over her cash.

Or she could try to get away.

As if reading her thoughts, he crouched down and she was staring into pale gray eyes that seemed to glow in the night. The knife blade touched her cheek, just below her eye. “Don’t scream,” he ordered. “I see you’re thinking about it. Just hand over the cash and you’ll live and that pretty face won’t be messed up forever.” His face was inches from hers, tanned and taut, with cruel lips and a jaw covered in beard shadow. “You owe me a new pair of glasses,” he said, his gaze never leaving hers, his one hand balled into a fist, his other reaching out to pick up the sunglasses where one lens was cracked, one of the bows missing. “Now, girlie, let’s do this, before I have to hurt you.”

“O-okay,” she said, and decided at least to appear to acquiesce, maybe get him to let his guard down. “It’s . . . it’s in my jacket . . . under my sweatshirt, but please . . . please don’t hurt me.”

His eyes narrowed as if he were sizing her up, suspicious of her intent, and she let down the tears she’d been fighting earlier, feeling one trickle down her cheek, allowing her lips to tremble in real fear. Her hands were unsteady as she unzipped her sweatshirt.

“Don’t try anything,” he warned, but somehow he must have realized she didn’t have a gun. He must’ve observed her long enough to know that she wasn’t armed, and she couldn’t reach for the scissors in her boot.

The tears and shaking, all real, seemed to convince him. With his free hand he reached into his pocket for his pack of Marlboros, shook one out and jammed it between his teeth. Then, lips drawn back in a cold smile, he found his lighter. All the while his gaze was locked into hers, wary, almost daring her to try and defy him. Ivy slid her hand into the pocket of her jacket and felt the small canister of hair spray.

Did she dare?

She withdrew the money and watched his eyes gleam at the roll.

“Well, my, my,” he said, his grin widening. “What the hell did you do to get so much cash? Rob a bank?”

If you only knew.

She felt a coldness settle into her soul, that familiar and unwanted sensation that rarely appeared.

He snatched the wad with the hand holding his lighter and

, satisfied, stuffed it into his pocket. He glanced back to the deserted street and Ivy saw a little bit of indecision cross his eyes. “You know, I was gonna leave you alone. But you’ve seen me now. Too bad about the glasses. You shouldn’t have ruined ’em. Now, you could pick me out of a lineup. And that . . . that wouldn’t be good. Besides, I think maybe you and me . . . we’ve got some unfinished business.” His unlit cigarette bobbed as he talked, the lips surrounding it stretched wide. “It won’t take long,” he promised. “And you’ll get one last thrill.”

Her insides turned to water.

He was going to rape her. Then kill her.

The iciness within grew.

Just try it.

She heard the rumble of a huge engine only a few blocks away.

The bus.

Her bus.