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Becca had almost forgotten who they were tracking. She’d succumbed to the more immediate worry that Casper was going after someone who had a bag full of hot dogs or something. So though her brain registered the logo on the side of the truck, though her mind registered the familiarity of the voice, she didn’t put two and two together until she skidded around the side of the bumper.
And there was Casper, snarling viciously at his prey, the man Hunter had ordered him to track.
Becca’s father.
CHAPTER 39
Chris had found a crack in the concrete floor. He was spitting at it.
“This is kind of a stretch,” said Nick.
Chris spit again, running his finger along the four-inch crack, making sure he wouldn’t lose it in the darkness, coaxing his saliva into the opening. “What else do we have to do?”
“That crack would have to go all the way through the concrete. Like, through the foundation. And Michael would have to be within ... what, fifty feet? A hundred?”
“Again, what else do we have to do?”
Silence for a while, during which Chris silently agreed with Nick. His spit was evaporating before it could travel too far. He didn’t have enough power to force it more quickly.
“Pee on it,” said Nick.
Always practical. He could probably feel Chris’s frustration.
Chris had thought of that anyway. “I’m worried if I stand up, I’ll lose the crack.”
He kept thinking of the power on the bridge, how he’d drawn such strength from the water. He’d saved Becca’s life. She hadn’t been breathing. He’d never felt such a strong connection to his element.
Why couldn’t he do that now?
There’d been the car accident. The fire. Becca had been trapped. He’d pounded on her window, desperate.
He had no shortage of desperation now.
He’d been standing in water. Was that it? He’d been standing in water that night he called the wave on Sillery Bay, at Drew’s party.
No, but the bridge power was even stronger. He’d been so desperate to get her out of that car, he’d punched right through her window. Blood had gone everywhere, diluted from the rain.
That night Becca saved him, his face had been a mess. She’d poured water down the side of his face, over the cuts on his temple.
Blood. He needed blood. His blood, mixed with the water.
If he thought about this too long, he’d chicken out.
He put his teeth against his wrist. And bit down.
Goddamn, it hurt. He hadn’t even broken the skin, and he was already sweating.
“Nick,” he said. “I think I’m going to need you to bite my arm.”
“I think I’m going to need you to run that by me again.”
“Shut up! I need to bleed. I think if I can get blood in the crack, it will make a difference.”
Nick was silent for a long moment. Then he cleared his throat. “You can’t just stab yourself with the prong on your belt buckle?”
“That’s better?”
“From my angle, yes. It’s better.” He paused. “Scrape it against the concrete for a few minutes. You can probably get a pretty sharp point.”
