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Ruger laughed out loud as he stood over her, slowly unbuckling his belt, blowing kisses at Connie, dragging it out.
There was no warning at all when the thunderbolt slammed into him.
One moment Ruger was reaching for the metal tab of his fly and the next he was bowled off his feet, driven away from Connie, driven into the backrest of the couch by something that screamed in a continuous high-?pitched wail of inhuman fury. The knife went flying out of his hand, vanishing behind an overstuffed chair. He almost fell, but his knees hit the seat and it doubled him over. He collapsed awkwardly onto the couch, still bearing the weight of whatever had struck him. Most men would have sat there, stupid and dazed, shaking their heads, disoriented.
But Karl Ruger was not so vulnerable a creature.
Hissing like a cat, he turned, lashing out with his elbow even before he could see his attacker. As the elbow struck, there was a howl of agony and Val Guthrie toppled away, clawing at her left arm. Ruger’s elbow had slammed into the already sprained tendons and muscles with terrible force.
“You fucking bitch!” he snarled and reached down and grabbed her by the hair, hauling her to her feet. He cuffed her across the face, bruising the spot he’d struck earlier. Val was far beyond the reach of that kind of pain. She lashed out with her foot, aiming for his groin, but Ruger turned and took it on the hip. Still, the kick had enough desperate force to stagger him. He lost his grip on her, backpedaled a step, and came within reach of Mark, who lashed out with his bound feet and knocked Ruger sprawling.
Val spun and ran for the door, hoping to lure Ruger out into the fields, away from the house, away from Connie, to make him chase her long enough for those blessed sirens to arrive.
Ruger was up in an instant. He didn’t waste time punishing Mark but set out after Val like a bird dog, growling in pain and fury. He went after her barehanded, forgetting his knife, forgetting his automatic. He wanted to hurt her with his naked hands.
Leaping off the porch, cradling her arm as best she could, Val ran straight up the road. Through the thunder and the rain, she couldn’t hear how close he was.
She ran.
Twice he almost caught her, twice she faked and darted and changed direction, drawing away from him while he was skidding in the mud.
“You bitch!” he howled.
Val ran back toward the house, dodged around a tree, past a parked tractor, then ran along the side of the house toward the backyard, where her father’s Bronco was parked. There was a shovel in the back. If she could get to it…
She screamed when she felt the tips of Ruger’s fingers scrabble at her hair.
Dodging, darting left and then right, she rounded the corner of the house and burst into the backyard.
Bright lights dazzled her, stopping her in her tracks with all the power of a force field. She slipped and fell.
Ruger caught her by the hair even as he skidded to a halt, startled by the intense brightness of the headlights of Crow’s car.
Chapter 17
Karl Ruger closed his hand tightly, knotting it in Val’s hair as he stood tall, facing the harsh white lights. He reached down and around her and clamped his viselike left hand on her windpipe as the driver’s door clicked and opened.
Through the lights and the driving rain he could only just make out the figure of a man, a small thin man, rising from the car. The car door slammed, but the man didn’t move.
“Val…?” the man called. His voice was distorted as he shouted over the wind.
“Cr—” Val started to yell a name but Ruger’s fingers squeezed the sound from her throat and allowed nothing more to pass.
“Just move along, sonny-?boy,” called Ruger. “This is just a little domestic disturbance. You be on your way. ”
The slim man shifted uncertainly, again calling out, “Val?”
“I said fuck off! And I mean now!”
“I don’t know who the hell you are, pal, but I want you to let the lady go. Right now. ”
“Fuck you,” sneered Ruger.
The slim man reached into the car and flicked off the headlights, and then took a long step forward, raising his right arm as he did so. Lightning made flames dance along the barrel of the Beretta.
“No,” said Crow, “fuck you. ” He took two more steps forward. “Now let her go!”
Val saw his face, clear in the lightning flashes, and her heart leaped in her chest. She tried to pull away, wanting to run to him, to take that gun and turn it on Ruger, but Ruger held her fast, pressing her knees into the mud and choking her throat completely closed. She scrabbled at his hands with her one remaining hand, but she might as well have been trying to chip away at a rock. Her lungs wanted to breathe, but he allowed her nothing, not even a cupful of air.
