Chosen To Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

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little play between her right wrist and the weld, then flung herself back on the cot, yanking the cuff, grinding her teeth to keep from crying out. She had no idea how much time had passed, only the lightening of the sky gave her an inkling, but the tiny window cut into the wall high overhead didn’t offer much illumination and the cloud-covered sky allowed her little measure of the minutes and hours slipping away.

She only knew that whatever time she had to escape, it wasn’t enough. Though whatever drug he’d given her had worn off and she was no longer groggy, that could change when he returned. If he came into her room she would have to act as if it were still in her system. If she was still here when he got back. Oh, God, she hoped not.

She prayed he was long gone, or better yet, that she could find a way to turn the tables on him, discover a weapon of her own and surprise him. Let the prick know how it felt to look down the barrel of a gun or feel the blade of a knife at his throat. The problem was, even if she was able to somehow get the drop on him, she didn’t know if she could restrain herself from blowing his sorry ass away.

She knew she should somehow arrest him. Bring him in.

That way they could find any other victims. Give him his day in court.

Let justice prevail.

“Bullshit,” she muttered as she threw her weight against the handcuff again and felt the cold metal bite into her wrist, her arm feeling as if it would be pulled from its socket. Was this justice? Was what he 140

Lisa Jackson

was doing to her, to the others, in any way fair and equitable?

Squeezing her eyes shut, she dug in and was sure, oh, God, please, that the weld was starting to give way. “Come on, come on,” she whispered through gritted teeth.

Yes! There was a shift. A little one.

Oh, Jesus, there had to be.

All this effort couldn’t be in vain.

She leaned forward for a second, took in three long breaths, felt her muscles screaming, her ribs aching, but she ignored the seductive urge to give up, to roll back onto the cot and pull the blanket to her chin to shiver alone in the dark. Readying herself, making certain the cuff was over the weld, she threw herself backward onto the cot again. She couldn’t let the bastard win.

Not without a damned good fight.

In her mind’s eye, she saw her children. Bianca, just starting to develop into a woman, a smart girl who’d recently discovered boys. Jeremy. Oh, God. He was headed down the wrong path. Smoking marijuana, dabbling in who knew what, drinking and getting into serious trouble with Heidi Brewster. What would happen if they didn’t have her? Would Lucky and Michelle raise them?

What a disaster that would be.

Oh, Lord, give me strength.

She was gasping now, drawing in ragged breaths, still working at the weakening joint of welded metal. She had too much to live for to end up the victim of some sicko.

In a flash, she thought of Nate and her heart twisted. She’d never believed she loved him, hadn’t admitted it for a second, but oh, God, she might

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have been wrong. His quick wit, His sexy smile. The way he could turn her inside out . . .

Stop it!

She had to concentrate.

Because of the kids.

Because of Nate.

Because there was no way she was going to let this twisted nutcase win!