She glances at my crotch, expecting to see swelling.
There is none.
“Move it,” I order.
“But, Liam,” she protests, her voice cracking.
“There’s not much time. Take off your pants. Now!”
“Oh, God.” Her hand falls from her mouth, but she obediently unzips her ski pants and strips them off. Her thong is still in place. Red and green. A holiday thong. How nice.
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“That, too.”
Within seconds the thong is disposed of and she looks at me. “Now what?” she whispers.
“I think you know.”
I reach into my pocket and find the handcuffs, dangling them in my free hand, the knife still brandished in the other. For a second she’s confused. There’s a hint here of a sexual game. “Put your wrists together. In front of you.” I don’t have to worry about her escape, don’t have to bother with forcing her hands behind her.
Nervously she complies and I slap the cuffs on her.
“What is this?” she asks.
“You’ll see.” I gag her then, but don’t blindfold her. I need her to be able to walk and see. This part of “the complex” as I’ve come to call it, is aboveground, three hundred yards away from my work area and the room where Regan Pescoli has been held underground. “Let’s go.” Prodding her with the knife, I urge her from her locked room, down the corridor of the cabin to the outside door. She hesitates when I open it, but my knife blade urges her forward, so she trudges barefoot through the snow. There’s a path that leads to the truck, one I’ve created myself, a break in the snow that follows the tree line, just in case anyone flies over. I don’t want to call attention to the cabin, the smoke from the fire will be enough.
Moaning a protest, Elyssa follows the broken trail. The sky is still black as night, dawn not yet appearing over the eastern hills. Stars wink high in the heavens and the moon offers a bit of silvery illumination. She’s already shivering, her smooth skin prick-326 Lisa Jackson
ling with goose bumps. She’s ahead of me, so I can’t see her breasts, but I know her nipples are hard with the cold, and beneath her gag, her teeth are chattering.
Get used to it, I think, as we reach the lean-to where the truck is parked, its cover already removed and folded. I eye the snowmobile. I would prefer to use it as it’s so much faster and more agile, could cut the distance down as I drive cross country. But it might draw attention, again from the air, and I’d need the stretcher.
And it’s not big enough.
Not today.
Feeling a bit of anticipation, I open the canopy and tailgate. I nudge Elyssa for ward and shine the flashlight inside. The beam catches on two glaring, reflective eyes and Elyssa visibly jumps and shrieks.
“Get inside,” I say, the tip of my knife pressing against her back.
Elyssa jumps again.
My other captive, the one already lying in the truck bed, is naked and bound. Writhing beneath the canopy, as if she thinks she might escape, she hurls insults through her gag. Then again, she always has been a mouthy one. Not nearly as compliant as Elyssa. Elyssa hesitates.
I cut her.
Just a tiny prick on her back.
But it’s all it takes.
She leaps into the bed of the truck and I slam the tailgate shut and lock the canopy.
“Two for the price of one,” I say, pleased with myself, though there’s still so much work to do. I climb
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