Chosen To Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

Jalicia crossed to her desk and flipped open Padgett’s file to the first page. Barton Tinneman’s name was listed.

“Did you get his number?” she asked, glancing at the clock again.

“Of course.”

“E-mail it to me and I’ll call him back as soon as I can.” She wanted to ring up the attorney right away, but decided she needed more than ten minutes for a conversation about Padgett Long.

“Will do.”

Jalicia hung up and finished her soft drink. Maybe after talking to the attorney, she’d gain some insight into the mystery that was Padgett Long. He was gone.

There wasn’t a sound emanating from the other rooms and the firelight that usually glowed under the door was fading. If Regan was ever going to escape, now was the time. Short of somehow sawing off her hand, however, she was screwed. There was no way to get the damned handcuff off her wrist.

Damn it, Pescoli, think. Don’t give up. This is your opportunity.

She was hurting, her ribs aching painfully, her shoulder reminding her that she needed medical attention, but she’d always had a high tolerance for pain, which had helped her excel in high school and college sports. Once, she’d played basketball on a sprained ankle and still made the winning

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shot. But this pain was all-enveloping and she had to concentrate to think beyond it.

She couldn’t get out unless she somehow extricated herself from the damned bed. Rolling slowly to her feet, still chained to the leg, she studied the makeup of the cot. The frame was steel and could be folded up, but the leg she was chained to was bolted down to the floor. Without a key to the handcuffs or bolt cutters, her situation appeared useless . . . Where there’s a will, there’s a way. Her father’s words echoed through her head.

She ran her fingers over the leg of the cot. It was welded to the piece screwed into the floor. The only possible weak place in the contraption was either the screw or the weld. Since she didn’t have a screwdriver or a knife, she had to attack the weld. Examining it as best she could in the dim light, she took heart. It looked hastily done. A weak point if she ever saw one.

Maybe there was a chance.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Once again her dad was speaking to her. She tried kicking the leg free, but in her handcuffed position couldn’t get any power. She decided it would work better if she flung herself onto the cot, hard, over and over again, hoping to weaken the weld. So she did. Throwing her weight onto the cot, jerking with her arm at the same time.

Pain rattled through her body.

She had to bite down to keep from yelping. Five minutes later, exhausted, she collapsed on the cot. No . . . this wasn’t the way. She had to think of something else . . .

In her mind’s eye she saw an image of Nate San-132 Lisa Jackson

tana, his smile twisted and devilish, his eyes twinkling as he lay across a bed. “You can do it, Detective,” he said. “Once you set your mind to it, you can do just about anything.”

Now, lying in the cold room, she felt tears begin to well. If only she had the same faith in herself as he had.

Try again.

Setting her teeth against what she k

new would be blinding pain, she struggled up, threw herself onto the cot again, and yanked up with her arm. Pain screamed through her body, rattling her ribs. Like knifes slicing through her muscles. No, this wouldn’t work. Slowly she rolled off the cot again, swiped a kick at the leg with no results, took in a long, deep breath, then, holding on to the handcuffs with her free hand, she set her bare heels on the floor and heaved herself backward. Nothing.

Oh, God. She had to do it again.

Setting her jaw, she threw herself backward with all her strength.

Was it her imagination, or had she felt something give?

Yeah, all the tendons and ligaments in your shoulder. That’s what gave.

“One more time,” she said under her breath, her forehead beading in sweat despite the cold temperature. Gathering herself, she counted to three, then gave it her all, trying to hurl her weight backward as the handcuff attached to the cot yanked hard against the weld.

There it was, that feeling that something would give.