Chosen To Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

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 80

Lisa Jackson

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 wellaimed 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.

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“Wait!” she said, trying to scoot away. Her legs wer

e 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, 82

Lisa Jackson