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Birdie? No. Too heavy.
I opened my eyes.
Total blackness.
Before I could orient, a hand mashed down on my mouth.
Then recall.
Turks and Caicos. Musgrove. Monck.
My memory cells flashed a terrifying image.
Bloody shirt. Wild eyes and hair.
Had Uri Stribbe found my condo?
Had he followed me to Villa Renaissance?
I tried to shrug my attacker off, but the pressure on my upper body was too great.
Panicked, I twisted my head to free my mouth. To breathe. To scream.
Fingers grabbed my hair and yanked me back faceup.
Click!
A pistol slide ratcheting home?
The sound sent high voltage fear surging through me.
My mind raced.
Was it Stribbe? Had he gotten in through the unsecured sliding door?
Was this how he’d overpowered his victims?
Was this how I’d die?
But Stribbe’s victims had all been shot. Why risk physical contact if you’re armed?
Calm down!
The hand on my face felt oddly smooth. My nose was taking in a familiar smell.
Think!
All the weight on me was from my waist up. My attacker was straddling my rib cage, using his legs to pin my arms to the mattress. But my lower body was unconstrained.
Rookie mistake.
What happened next seemed to go on forever. In truth, the action probably lasted less than a minute.
Marshaling the tsunami of adrenaline coursing through me, and all the strength I could muster, I flexed my knees fast, planted my feet, and thrust up with my hips. The unexpected move tilted my attacker forward. His head slammed the headboard with a brassy clunk.
The heaviness eased on my left side. My arm broke free.
With a one-handed shove, I pushed my assailant sideways. He resisted, arms flailing. Gravity won. He tumbled from the bed and hit the tile hard.
