Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(115)

not yet still digesting the diner lunch

bullshit its been hours go eat smthng NOW

fine fine dont worry will do

NOW

dont text and drive u meathead its dangerous

hah There was a pause, and she could practically hear him snickering in her mind’s ear. He went on. L8r then love u

b careful she replied. I love u 2

always ttyl

She stayed that way, staring blindly up at the monitor for a minute or two, just reading and re-reading that virtual transcript in her head. Milking it for every little shining drop of comfort it could give her.

But it was time to move. Her second bus had been late, delayed by heavy rain, and it had been a tight connection to begin with. A trip to the bathroom, a bottle of apple juice, a bag of roasted cashews, not because she was hungry, but just because fulfilling her promise to him made her feel closer to him. And then it was time to hustle to her gate.

It was just a couple of minutes before boarding time, but evidently the bus wasn’t going to be very full. There was hardly anyone waiting, just an elderly couple dozing on the bench, and a pair of teenagers wrapped around each other. The driver had not arrived yet. Maybe this bus was delayed, too. Maybe she’d get another seat to herself. She was not up for friendly chatting.

“Lara? Holy shit, babe! Is that you?”

She spun around with a squeak of alarm, and found herself face to face with a big, burly, blond guy in a long, cable knit sweater and a huge, draped, knit scarf. Bearded, with dreads and a big, toothy smile. His eyebrows and lashes were so white, they were invisible, and his face was very pink. She’d never seen him before in her life.

She backed away. “Excuse me? Who are you?”

“Oh, come on! Don’t you remember the rave on the beach at Phuket? I’m not surprised if you don’t remember. You were pretty f*cked up that night. But I guarantee . . . you had a real good time.” He leered, leaning closer. “Man, girl, you really know how to party.”

She backed away further, and glanced around, her inner alarm bells shrilling. The kids were still kissing, the old couple still dozing. “No. You’re mistaking me for someone else,” she said very loudly. “I’ve never been to Phuket, and I—”

“Aw, c’mon. Gimme one for old time’s sake!”

He yanked her into a tight, smothering kiss, his moist, fleshy lips smashing hers painfully against her teeth. Too tight to scream. His arms were like huge steel cables, tightening around her. She managed to twist her mouth away, opened it to yell—

He stuck his tongue in it. His tongue was big and muscular and slimy, prodding deep. She wiggled, mewled, as he picked her up and swung her playfully around and around, never letting her feet touch the floor, farther and farther from anyone who might be watching.

“Scream and you die,” he whispered, and seized her wrist in a huge, damply hot hand, torquing it into a twist that zinged electric agony all the way up her arm. “Feel this? Inside your coat?” He prodded her with something cold and hard under her shirt. She’d dragged in air to scream, but it broke off into a cry of pain as he stabbed the gun barrel up under her rib. “It’s aimed at your liver. Got me, bitch?”

She gasped for air, caught between the stab of the gun barrel, the white-hot pain still flashing up her arm. Her heart pounded heavily in her ears and his voice came from far away. “Kiss me back, cunt,” he growled into her ear, “or I will shoot you.”

She looked into those bright, round, white-lashed eyes, glittering with excitement. His breath was sour. He was pressing an erection against her belly. Grinding it against her. His lips were shiny and wet.

“So shoot me,” she said coldly. “Prick.”

He laughed, raucously, as he swung her around and around again. He set her on her feet. She gasped, stiffening, at the needle sting in her neck.

Not psi-max. She knew psi-max inside out and this was not it. Just a sedative or a muscle relaxant, but the association with the needle sting was so strong, the vortex started to whirl anyway . . .

She walked through a wintery forest. Dead, sere grass was waist high, trees set sparsely. A park bench, almost hidden in the long grass. Rusted wrought iron. Weather-beaten. She looked at her feet and saw the pattern of paving stones beneath her feet. Ancient playground equipment, rusted and abandoned. Monkey bars. A broken swing set.

The boy darted ahead of her. It was her little friend, but he was younger today, maybe eight, his head as pale as a little bobbing candle flame. He was barefoot in the chill, wearing his usual ragged pajamas. He looked back to see if she was following, beckoning her urgently onward.

“What?” she called. “What do you want?”

More silent beckoning, more pleading looks. Desperate entreaty. Hurry, hurry. But to what, goddamnit? To what?

The image pixelated in her head and broke up, shocking her back to reality. Carried in the blond dreadlocked guy’s arms. He cradled her against his chest, nuzzling her as if it were a lover’s game. They were outside already, moving down the sidewalk. Rain hit her forehead. She tried to move, but the drug had paralyzed her body.

She heard the sucking “pop” of a big car door opening and was dumped into a big SUV that stank of leather, newness.

“Ah. There we go,” a woman muttered, smugly. “Excellent.”

The front door slammed shut and the car surged forward, out into traffic. A rough hand seized her chin, jerked her limp head around.