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“Damn.” Selena’s heart contracted as she took one last glance at the photographs of the StarCrossed Killer’s victims and plucked another tissue from her rapidly dwindling box.
Was Pescoli to be the next victim?
Alvarez’s eyes narrowed. If so, then her car would be disabled somewhere, a shot through a front tire, a perfect shot from an expert sniper.
And if that were the case, sooner or later, Pescoli’s Jeep would be found.
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Or could she have had it out with her ex? A confrontation that had turned violent? Either way it was bad.
She sniffed a third time and popped a couple of DayQuil tablets, hoping to hell she was wrong. Chapter Three
Pescoli felt as if she’d been hit over and over again with a sledgehammer. Every muscle in her body ached, and just to move caused pain to sizzle up her spine and pound in a mother of a headache. She let out a low moan as she tried to look around.
Lying on her back, feeling cold seep into her body, she opened an eye and tried to see in the darkness. Where was she? Though it was too dark to see clearly, the only light filtering through an ice-glazed window, she recognized nothing.
Groaning, she attempted to roll over. Her head thundered in pain, her ribs ached, and her muscles were stiff and cold, so damned cold she could barely think. And her shoulder . . . Dear Jesus, had someone tried to rip it from its socket? She blinked, her eyes focusing, and she saw that she was in a tiny room with an unlit wood stove in one corner. Above her was a single, high window,
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and the only piece of furniture was this cot with its thin sleeping bag.
What the hell?
There was a door, probably less than ten feet away, but in her current condition, it might as well have been a thousand. She must’ve cracked her ribs somehow . . . been injured . . . hurt her shoulder. Her mind was foggy, memories shuttered behind a wall of pain. Her left arm throbbed from shoulder to wrist and she hoped to hell she’d only bruised a muscle, that nothing was broken.
Instinctively she reached for her service weapon, but of course, it wasn’t in her shoulder holster; in fact, she was naked, not a stitch of clothes on. And her right wrist was handcuffed to the cot on which she lay.
Hell.
She was probably trapped by her own damned cuffs. Feeling even more the part of the moron, she tried to move her hand, to slip the cuff over her palm, but she knew better and, of course, she couldn’t extract herself.
“Damn it,” she whispered, trying to collect her wits. Study your surroundings. Try to see where you are, what’s in the room, if there is anything that will help free you. The son of a bitch could have been cocky enough to leave the key to the handcuffs or your phone or even your pistol nearby.
Squinting in the darkness, Pescoli found nothing that might help her.
There was a cover of sorts, like an army blanket that had worked its way down her body. With an effort, she reached down and tugged, pulling the itchy wool to her chin and noticing for the first time that her teeth were chattering. But nothing else. 46
Lisa Jackson
Not even a glass of water. Just the cot. As far as she could discern.
Someone had brought her here.
Someone could be behind the door.
She started to cry out, but thought better of it. Think, Regan, think.
She squeezed her eyes closed and concentrated, past the pain, to the memories that lurked in the dark corners of her mind. She’d been driving . . . Yes. Hell-bent to get to her loser of an ex-husband’s place. He had the kids and Cisco, her dog . . . right? It was just before Christmas and she’d been in a white-hot fury . . . driving to her stupid ex-husband’s house. And then?
She couldn’t remember.
Closing her eyes, she tried to recall something, anything . . . Was there the crack of a rifle? Loud. Echoing. Reverberating through the icy canyons? Oh, God . . . Her car . . . spinning out of control, metal groaning, the windshield shattering . . . She relived those terrifying moments when her Jeep had plunged over the steep side of a ravine, turning crazily as it propelled its way into the dark canyon. Shivering, she refused to call out. She concentrated on the memory. The twisted metal, the flying glass, the air bag, the snow falling, and blood . . . Her hands had been bloody, her face cut, her weapon drawn as she’d waited, crushed within the confines of the Jeep’s mangled interior. And then . . . and then . . . and then what? She squeezed her eyes tighter, trying to recall how she’d ended up here lying naked and broken on a cot in a shadowy room. The memory teased at her mind and then she heard it, a sound from the other side of the door.
