Midnight Betrayal (Midnight #3)(11)
I shrugged. “I’ve picked up stuff here before, and there isn’t anybody around who looks dangerous.”
Except me.
Still she didn’t move.
“Fine. Wait out here all by yourself if you want. I’m going inside.” I got out of the car. As I predicted, the girl was beside me in a few seconds.
She followed me up the cement steps. On a nearby street, dogs barked over the soft patter of rain. Other than the distant wail of a siren, the neighborhood was quiet. No one here wanted to draw attention to what he was doing. On the crumbling stoop, I nudged the sagging door open with my foot and eased into the dark interior. The floorboards in the center of the living room had collapsed into the basement, but the biggest risk here was that someone else had decided to use this particular abandoned building for his own nefarious purposes.
I switched on my flashlight and gave the space a quick sweep. Dirt, rodent droppings, and pieces of bricks littered the interior. “All clear. I’m sure he’ll be here in a minute. Stay on the edges of the room.”
Gaze darting into the shadows, she went to the boarded-up window and peered through a gap between the sheets of plywood.
“No one will bother us here.” I was the only thing she had to fear.
Still staring out the gap, she hugged her torso, rubbing her biceps. “Will this take long?”
“No. Not long at all.” I walked up behind her and put one hand in my pocket. Pressing the button on my homemade stun gun, I gave it a few seconds to charge before pulling it out. The wires hit her skin with the soft blue pop of electricity. Her body jolted and collapsed to the floor, stiff-legged. I grabbed her ankles and dragged her down the stairwell into the basement, her body thudding on the old wooden steps. I dragged her into place and rolled her onto her side. Zip ties secured her hands behind her back. Another set bound her ankles. I connected both with a fat nylon rope to the water pipe that ran through the wall and down into the basement. Its foundation was solid. I’d already checked. She wouldn’t be able to pull it loose.
As her body stopped twitching, I slapped a long piece of duct tape over her mouth. Even on this bombed-out block, a woman screaming was bound to attract attention. I couldn’t have that.
I’d been watching this building for weeks and felt reasonably certain no one would be tempted to use it for anything. Even the crack addicts recognized the structural risks. But to be on the safe side, I rigged a trip wire and an explosive surprise on the basement stairwell. If anyone went down into the cellar—kaboom—no witnesses.
“I’ll be back.” I went outside. I’d let her marinate in fear for a few days, like an alligator stuffs large prey under a submerged log to soften underwater. Consistency was important, as was sticking as closely as possible to my plan. Plus, I’d prefer the effects of the stun gun to wear off before I killed her. This time, I wanted the culmination of my plan to be less of a disappointment and more of a proper climax.
5
It was eleven o’clock before Conor ducked his head under the shower spray. Lathering up, he examined his black-and-blue fingers. A hard hour on the heavy bag this morning hadn’t helped his bruised knuckles, even in heavy boxing gloves.
But the gym had been exactly what his soul had needed. There were no TVs at his gym. No fancy cardio machines. Just the thump of mitts on pads, the yelling of trainers, the grunts of physical exertion, broken up with the occasional metallic clang of weights stacked on a barbell. Conor’s gym was full of hard-core fighters, and it was perfect for working out his frustrations—or punishing himself. No more fighting for him though. It was a young man’s sport, and Conor had seen too many boxers with permanent brain damage. A human skull could only take so much abuse.
He should have ignored the young brunette—and the whimpering dog in the alley—last night. He needed to learn to mind his own damned business instead of honing in on the defenseless like a GPS tracker.
What if that dumbass kid had a gun?
He dragged his sorry butt out of the shower and toweled off, ignoring the ache in his abused muscles. Of course he’d been unable to dump the dog at the pound. He’d dropped her off at the vet earlier that morning. Now his apartment felt so empty, it practically echoed. Conor dressed in a T-shirt, jeans, and boots. Time to go downstairs to work.
Sullivan’s had occupied a corner in South Philadelphia for over three decades. The bar was established and run by his parents until they’d been killed in a car accident when Conor was twenty. With Danny and Jayne both in junior high when it happened, Pat and Conor had spent the next ten years struggling to raise their young siblings and keeping the bar afloat. Things had gotten rocky again when Danny came home from Iraq two years ago with PTSD. His medical bills had nearly bankrupted them. They’d gotten through some more tough patches, like the deranged killer in Maine who had targeted Jayne and, later, Danny’s fiancée. But things were smoothing out again. The Sullivans were a resilient bunch.
The kitchen staff was gearing up for the lunch crowd. His older brother, Pat, was behind the bar with a clipboard, taking inventory. In the light streaming through the plate glass that fronted the bar, Conor could see a few white hairs threaded through Pat’s once solid-red head.
He smoothed his features. “Sorry I’m late.”
All four of the Sullivan siblings had inherited their dad’s distinctive turquoise eyes. This morning, Pat’s saw right through Conor’s game face. “Rough night?”