The Wolf (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #2)(18)

“Time for a shower,” she told her reflection as she took off her leather jacket, her fleece, and her Kevlar vest.

When she didn’t move, it was hard to say who wasn’t listening to the bright idea. Herself . . . or herself.

As she stayed put and measured her reflection, she felt a chill and drew her Patagonia zip-up back on. Something about the warmth it brought made her wonder what that supplier had thought of her. Her dark hair was cut short, her face had no makeup on it, her dark eyes were . . . well, exhausted was one way to describe them. Bloodshot was another.

If she had to pick a third? She couldn’t come up with one that was even remotely complimentary.

Yup, she was a looker, all right. And she would’ve liked to say she didn’t recognize the hollow shell that just happened to be wearing clothes she knew she owned. Except she did. Maybe the captain was right and she needed a break, but that could come after she’d finally tied Mozart to the supplier and then—

The figure in black jumped up from behind the far side of the bed and came at her so fast, it was clear whoever it was was a professional. Right before she was hit on the back of the head, she had a brief impression of a balaclava covering the face—and then a blow to the base of her skull rendered her senseless and she slumped to the carpet.

Gasping, straining against an abrupt paralysis, Rio’s self-protective instinct roared—but there was too much traffic along her neuropathways, the signals for her hand to go into her jacket for her gun, for her legs to kick, for her to fight back in some way, do—anything, really . . . getting mired in a jam of adrenaline and pain.

The man came around and stared down at her. She expected him to say something, like a movie villain would, but he didn’t. He was like an anesthesiologist trying to assess whether a surgical patient needed another shot of the propofol.

He took one of her ankles. And then the other.

Now he was pulling her, her hands staying put as the rest of her body started moving—until the slack in her bent arms was used up and then everything was along for the ride and being dragged across the carpet, away from the bed. When he got out to the living area, he dropped his hold and patted her down under the arms and along the legs. One by one, he removed her gun, her knife, her cell phone, and her Mace. Then he stood over her again.

A series of electronic taps suggested the man was texting something. And then there was the swoop! of an iMessage going through.

Oddly, the nice-and-normal sounds calmed her. For absolutely no good reason.

There was a brief lull. Then a bing! as a response came through.

More pulling now. Toward the sliding doors.

It was then that she noticed there was no light shining through the plate glass panes. He’d obviously killed the security fixtures by the building’s side entrance, the ones that gave a perennial glow to this part of the apartment.

She hadn’t noticed exactly how dark it had been when she’d come in.

The man let her ankles go again, and used gloved hands to pull back one half of the door. The air that rushed in was wet and cold from the storms, and revived her a little.

As did the reality that he was about to remove her to his domain, wherever that was. He no doubt had an associate standing right below the balcony of her tiny terrace, the two-story drop not far at all.

Scream, Rio told herself. Just open up your mouth and bring the house down.

But she didn’t. Instead of making noise, she waited until the man had to get close to her torso to pick her up. Dead weight was a problem, no matter how strong you were, and as the man grunted and hauled her up off the carpet—

She used the last of her strength to shove her hand around to the small of her back, and the small holster that was on the rear of her belt.

Three. Two. One—

With a fast jerk that made every bone in her body hurt, she whipped out her Taser and caught the bastard right in the side of the neck. As he let out a bark and then strained too hard to make much noise, he let go of her—and she took the weapon with her.

While he stumbled, she rolled onto her side, yanked up his pant leg, and nailed him again, this time in the calf.

Her attacker fell like a tree in the forest, the impact of his body on the floor the kind of thing her neighbors down below would have heard right away—if she’d had any. Her apartment was located over the building’s rental office, and there was no one there this late at night.

Rio shoved herself up and stumbled for the door, her forward motion good, her balance for crap. She banged off the corner of the couch hard enough to rattle her teeth, but she kept going, the Taser still in her palm, a distant, persistent crackle suggesting that her hand had tightened on its own to trigger the sparking—

She ran right into the second man just as he came in through her door. He had a hood up to mask his features—and he was armed with a gun that had a suppressor.

“Jesus,” he muttered, clearly annoyed. “You’re a pain in the ass.”

Boom!

Before she could respond, there was another burst of pain in her head. Rio’s last conscious thought was that he’d struck her with the butt of his gun on her temple.

After that, there was nothing.





Here was the thing with people who were—as Butch O’Neal, native of South Boston, always put it—wicked frickin’ jumpy. Unless you wanted a fight, it was in everybody’s best interests to give ’em a heads-up, especially if you were coming at them from behind.