Little Girl Gone (An Afton Tangler Thriller #1)(30)

Quick as a snapping turtle’s bite, a hand shot out and smashed the door closed.

Too late! Her escape was cut off!

Afton twisted her body around to face her attacker, determined to make a stand and defend herself. She jabbed toward the darkness that was his face, intent on poking a finger into his eye. But the man—whose face was completely obliterated by a wool ski mask—heaved himself hard against her and flattened her against the door.

Afton opened her mouth to scream, but he quickly clapped a hand across her mouth. She squirmed as she felt his pelvis bump up against her. His closeness, his almost indecent intimacy, made her skin crawl. Terrified, forcing her frenzied brain to recall her self-defense training, Afton fought like a wild woman. She wiggled and bit and struggled until she managed to rip her right arm free of his clutches. Mustering all her strength, she drove a fist up, hard, directly under the man’s chin.

He let out a woof, drew back an arm, and swatted her with an open hand, as if she were a bug. Afton’s head flew back and cracked hard against the door. Before she could regain her bearings, his fist slammed into her jaw.

Afton literally saw stars. Miniature constellations that spun sickeningly inside her head. She sagged into him and when he took a half step back, she gathered what strength she had left to jerk her chin downward and head-butt him in the chest. Two seconds later she was tossed to the floor. Pain flared in her lower back as the man crawled on top of her, trying to capture her arms and legs, as if they were contestants in a high school wrestling match.

He was so strong! And the sickening odor that came off him smelled like a wet animal.

Slowly, Afton stopped struggling until she lay completely still. He didn’t seem to have a weapon, so what was he going to do? The man was breathing hard now, like an overwrought teakettle. Was he excited by their struggle? Was he enjoying himself?

A terrifying thought rose like a bubble in Afton’s brain. Oh no! Was this the same boy who’d strong-armed Ashley the other night! Had he come back to finish things with Ashley? To rape her? Or worse, to kill her?

As Afton felt the man lift up slightly from where he had her pinned, she brought a knee up hard, aiming for his groin. She wasn’t on target, but she wasn’t all that far off either. As her knee connected, the man groaned and partially loosened his grip.

That was all she needed. Elbows and knees pumping like pistons, Afton spun away from him and clambered to her feet. Catlike, the man sprang up after her, blocking her chance for a getaway. With her options dwindling, Afton sprinted toward the bathroom. Just as her feet hit tile and she struggled to pull the door closed behind her, he landed a roundhouse punch and she felt a stabbing pain in her right shoulder. Afton stumbled as he hit her a second time, and this blow sent her reeling across the bathroom and crashing into a second door.

The impact of hitting that second door popped it wide open and catapulted Afton into the adjoining hospital room. She fell against an empty bed and slid awkwardly to the floor. She had two seconds to gather her wits and then he was on her again, this time hooking an arm around her neck. Afton gasped for air as he squeezed her hard, putting tremendous pressure on her airway. Blind panic began to set in. Her arms and legs flailed furiously, hitting an IV stand in the process. The metal pole crashed down on top of them, striking her assailant in the head. As his grip suddenly slackened, Afton scrambled on hands and knees toward a silver medical cart. She grabbed frantically for the boxy metal cart and wrenched it toward her. The medical cart swayed for a few moments, and then slowly tipped up onto two wheels. The drawers flew open, shooting its hodgepodge of contents toward them.

Afton grabbed the first thing she saw—a syringe for drawing blood. She clutched it in her hand and used her thumb to flick off the orange plastic tip, unsheathing the two-inch needle. Growling in anger, Afton spun around as fast as she could and cocked her arm. Like a picador attacking a bull, she lunged forward and rammed the syringe deep into the man’s neck.

The man let loose a bloodcurdling scream and flew backward. He stumbled and landed hard on his butt. One hand flailed and batted frantically at the syringe, which was stuck deeply in the side of his neck.

That was the break Afton needed. She ran for the door, yanked it open, and plunged down the dim hallway toward the nurses’ station. She spun around the tall Formica desk, sending a stack of file folders tumbling to the floor, banging her hip on the corner. She spotted a phone and grabbed it. A nurse, a small, dark-haired woman in a pink smock, who had just emerged from a storage room, gaped at her in surprise. “You’re not supposed to be back here,” she scolded.

“Call hospital security!” Afton cried. Then she punched in 9-1-1. And then she called Max.


*

TEN minutes later, Thacker himself showed up, looking both visibly shaken and quivering with outrage. He was accompanied by a scrum of eight uniformed officers, who immediately searched the area and huddled with hospital security. They looked everywhere, up and down the back stairway, ripping open janitor’s closets and storage rooms, but found no one.

Max showed up some twenty minutes later, ashen-faced and practically frothing at the mouth. “He was here?” he cried out when he caught sight of Afton. “You think it was the kidnapper guy?”

“We don’t know it was him,” Thacker said. He sounded calm and controlled, though he’d been furious when he’d first arrived.

“I think it was him,” Afton said. “I mean . . . for Christ’s sake, he was right there in Ashley’s room.”