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Oh, God . . .
CHOSEN TO DIE
7
She clung to the wheel with one hand, still holding tight to her pistol with the other, her world spinning, teeth slamming together and chattering. In her mind’s eye she saw the victims of the killer. Rapidfire images, naked women, dead, their skin blue, ice and snow encrusted to their hair, their bodies lashed so tightly to the trunks of the trees that their skin had broken and bruised, blood running down before freezing. Oh, Jesus, no.
Blam!
The front end crunched on impact, jarring Pescoli to her bones. Her shoulder felt as if it were on fire, and she was pressed tight by the air bag, the grit from its release in her eyes.
With a scream of twisting metal, the Jeep spiraled off a tree, spinning down the slope, front panels crumpling, a tire popping as it rolled ever faster down the hillside.
Pescoli could barely think past the kaleidoscope of agony and fought to stay conscious. She held fast to her pistol, fumbling for the dash to push the button that would release the magnetic lock on her shotgun, if she could get hold of it.
But she had to. Because if she survived the crash and some son of a bitch carrying a rifle came to rescue her, she’d nail him. No questions asked. Fleetingly she thought of her life and the mess she’d made of it: her children and dead first husband; her second husband, Lucky; and finally Nate Santana, a drifter and sexy son of a bitch she should never have gotten involved with.
So many regrets.
Don’t think like that. Stay awake. Stay alive. Be ready 8
Lisa Jackson
for this twisted maniac and blow his balls straight to hell.
Gritting her teeth, she popped the magnetic lock on the shotgun release but nothing happened. It wouldn’t budge. Despair welled but she still had her pistol. Her fingers closed over it now, and she took comfort in knowing it was there.
Shoot first, ask questions later. She heard another grinding metallic groan as the roof around the roll bars crumpled, crushing down on her.
In a blinding second of understanding, she knew she was about to die.
Perfect!
I watch in satisfaction as the Jeep spins and rolls over the edge of the cliff and into the ravine. Trees shake, great piles of snow fall from limbs, and the sounds of shrieking metal and shattering glass are muted by the storm.
But I cannot rest on my laurels or pat myself on the back, for there is much work to do. And this one, Regan Elizabeth Pescoli . . . no, make that De- tective Pescoli is different from the others. She might recognize me.
If she’s alive.
If she’s conscious.
I must be careful.
Quickly, I roll up the plastic tarp which I laid on the spot where I had such a perfect and clear shot of the road. I lash it onto my pack, then make certain my ski goggles are covering my eyes and that my ski mask, cap, and hood disguise my face. Once
CHOSEN TO DIE
9
assured my identity is obscured, I haul my rifle and begin trudging through the thick snow, grateful that the blowing snow will cover my tracks. My vehicle is parked in an abandoned logging camp two miles from the spot where the Jeep has landed. Two miles of steep and difficult terrain that will take me hours to cross. Pescoli is not a petite woman and she might fight me.
But I have ways to deal with that.
I start hiking down the back side of the hill that overlooks the road and through a culvert to cover my tracks. It’s tight and dark, no water trickling, and it takes a lot longer, but the extra half mile is worth it. Not only will it be harder for the imbecile cops to track, but also it leaves Detective Pescoli in the frigid air a while longer, lets the cold seep deep into her bones so that she’ll welcome help from anyone. Even though she’ll be wary.
I don’t believe she could have survived the crash and gotten out of the car or escaped, not with the damage that I saw and heard as the Jeep spiraled over the edge of the cliff. But even if by some miracle she did survive well enough to extract herself and crawl away from the wreckage, I’ll be ready. A tiny jolt of adrenaline surges through my bloodstream at the thought. I’ve always loved to hunt, to stalk prey, to test my skills against the most worthy of opponents.
Smiling beneath the neoprene of my ski mask, I realize Regan Pescoli is certain to be one. Run, I think, the gloved fingers of my right hand tightening over my rifle. Run like the devil, you stupid cop-bitch!
