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I might still have a chance. If I wait for the right time and hit him with a disabling blow when he’s not expecting it, I could survive this. A sharp enough blow to the side of the neck would cause shock to the carotid artery, jugular vein and vagus nerve, knocking him out. And the second he’s unconscious, I won’t hesitate to kill him.
I’ve got to believe there’s hope, or I’ll go mad sitting here waiting for him to torture me to death.
Micah’s hand darts out, and he grabs me by the nipple, tugging on it hard as he steers me toward the bed. Tears of pain run down my cheeks, and I choke on a sob. He pulls a chain from the bed frame and chains up my feet, spread apart, then my hands, over my head.
“I don’t want to fuck that dry little pussy, so I guess I’ll just have to have some fun with your friend.”
I lie there rigid and silent, twisting my head away so I’m not looking at him.
As he starts in on Heather, I close my eyes and hum loudly, trying to drown out the sound of her screams and the thunking of her bed against the wall.
It doesn’t work. I hear every last thud and whimper.
With tears running down my face, I think of Joshua. I conjure him up in my mind, imagining him lying in bed with me, his arms wrapped around me. I can almost feel the muscles in his arms bunching up as he holds me against him, and I can smell the spice of his aftershave tickling my nostrils. He’s murmuring into my ear, telling me how strong and brave I am. His words are magic, wrapping around me in a protective cloak.
And then Heather’s screams tear through my fantasy.
“Oh, God, no! Please, no! Micah…no…no…!” I squeeze my eyes shut, and my heart slams in my chest in perfect rhythm with the thuds of Heather’s bed.
CHAPTERTHREE
JOSHUA
It’s shortly after noon. Sixteen hours since I woke up naked in the woods. I am sitting in the office of my penthouse in Manhattan. I’ve had the apartment swept for listening devices planted by Charlemagne, of which there were many. They’ve all been removed. A doctor was waiting for me at the penthouse last night when I arrived, and he treated and properly stitched up the gunshot wound in my foot, then reset and bandaged my nose. I continued surfing the internet the entire time the doctor was stitching my wound closed, desperately searching for any hint of my brother’s whereabouts. I accepted local anesthetic but refused painkillers; I need my mind clear.
Somewhere inside, I’m roaring with rage. I am tearing Charlemagne’s face off with my bare hands. But the part of my brain that needs to focus is a vast, flat lake of calm.
I was awake all night, trying to track down any trace of his whereabouts. This morning, my brother sent a video to the cell phone he gave me.
I strapped on a blood pressure cuff and put a pulse monitor on my fingertip to ensure that I retained control of my emotions. If I lose control, I can’t help Tamara. I sat there and remained calm as I forced myself to watch the video. He wore a ski mask as he pierced Tamara’s nipples and clit. Her face contorted in pain, and my body turned to ice when he twisted her nipples to make her scream.
My heart rate stayed a steady seventy beats per minute.
I ignored the way the walled-up part of me felt. Instead of raging, I studied the video for clues, but there was nothing to give away where he might be keeping her. I tried to track the origin of the call from the blocked number, but my brother has excellent re-routing software. The location of the call bounces around on my computer screen as I watch; China, Afghanistan, France. He’s fucking with me. Having a good time.
To find him, I’ve summoned a potential ally I never would have given the time of day before.
The elevator pings. I glance at the video screen. Sergeant Carter is here.
Garrett pokes his head through the door. He spent the night here, calling all over the world, working with all his black ops contacts, and coming up as empty as I did.
“Let him in, then leave us,” I tell him. “Don’t bother taking his gun. I can handle him.”
I watch the video monitor as Sergeant Geoff Carter walks through the open elevator door, then through a scanner that would put the TSA to shame. I glance at the screen next to my desk. He’s armed and has a cell phone on him, but that’s it.
Garrett steers him down the hallway. He comes through the door to my office and shuts it behind him, and I stand up, favoring my injured foot.
Sergeant Carter is off-duty today, wearing a wool coat and a rumpled brown suit. His face curdles in disgust when he sees me. His eyes light on my bandaged nose. “Did that happen when your house blew up?” he snarls. “The Maine State Police called me. Nice way to eliminate the evidence. Tamara Bennet’s just smoke in the wind now, isn’t she? Yeah, yeah, nobody can prove you owned the property. You rich bastards get away with everything, don’t you?”
He’s getting more and more agitated as he talks, and his hand drifts toward the gun strapped to his waist under his jacket.
“I can outdraw you,” I say mildly. I don’t even bother reaching for my holstered Glock.
His eyes flare with defiance. “I doubt it. I’m pretty good. But I got no fucking problem finding out.”
I’ve done my research on him. He is pretty good; he visits a shooting range a couple of times a week—way more than most beat cops. But he’s not as good as me. Few are.
This is normally the part where I show my dominance, whatever the cost. Backing down from a challenge is physically painful for me. It feels like grasping a hot poker, a pain that demands response. But I think of Tamara, and I force myself to let it go.
