Never Die Alone

Book 8: Bentz/Montoya Novel

by Lisa Jackson

Genres: Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

Fans of #1 New York Times bestselling author Lisa Jackson brings back fan favorites Detectives Rick Bentz and Reuben Montoya to match wits against a ruthless serial killer targeting twins in this new suspense-filled thriller.

Never Drop Your Guard

It should be the best day of their lives. Too bad they never get to see it. On the cusp of their twenty-first birthday, he strikes. His victims are always twins, their ritualistic murders planned in exquisite detail, down to the moment when they breathe their last together.…

Never Close Your Eyes

A possibly innocent man is in prison, and Brianna Hayward needs to convince the New Orleans police. Not just to free her cousin, but to save others who will suffer until the true culprit is found. Reporter Jase Bridges is intrigued. It's a story that could make his career-as long as Brianna never guesses the secret in Jase's past.…

…Or You'll Never See Him Coming

Detective Rick Bentz had doubts about the "21" conviction when he worked the case in L.A. Now the real murderer may be loose in Bentz's backyard. Twin sisters from All Saints College have vanished on the eve of their twenty-first birthday. And as Bentz and his partner, Reuben Montoya, desperately follow the trail, a killer prepares to unite his next victims in death forever.…

Release date: August 1, 2015

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 484

Sample

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The noise was constant, nearly rhythmic, little droplets falling and falling and . . .

Zoe’s eyes flew open.

She blinked in the semidarkness.

What the hell was that noise and . . . Oh, Jesus, where was she?

She squinted, straining to see in the semidark. Dear God, was she naked and lying on some kind of cold, hard slab? No, that couldn’t be right. Her head pounded as she tried to think, to figure out if this was real or all part of some macabre dream, or worse yet, a prank.

She and Chloe were about to turn twenty-one, and with the help of fake IDs they had gotten, the party started long before midnight, downing drink after drink, laughing, talking, drinking some more. In a sharp-edged swirl of memories she recalled the neon lights and noise of Bourbon Street, the drinks, everything from Hurricanes in their special glasses to margaritas in oversized plastic cups and Jell-O shooters and . . . Her stomach roiled at the thought of what she’d downed; all to prove she was becoming a legal card-carrying, alcohol-swilling adult. Her head felt as if it were in a vise, the handle of which was being twisted by some he-man.

At least she was no longer reeling. She did remember that, how the world had spun in wild, crazy colors before . . . before . . . what?

Had someone laced one of the two-for-one shots? Given her something to make her lose focus? Had one of their “friends” pranked her and hauled her here to strip her and leave her on the cold stone floor or whatever it was she was lying atop? And what about Chloe? Where the hell was her twin sister?

For the life of her, she couldn’t pull the last few hours into sharp focus.

But here she was.

In the darkness.

Stripped bare.

Her arms pinned behind her.

Lying in some dark room where the dank, earthy smell was overpowering, as if she were buried alive. Her bed was a cold, hard patch of concrete. She twisted a bit and something rough dug into her throat, cutting into her skin.

What the hell?

With effort, she tried to pull her arm up to loosen the tension, but even the tiniest movement made the binding around her neck cut deeper. A noose? For the love of God, what the hell had happened?

In an instant all the fuzziness fell away.

She was in trouble. Big trouble.

If this was a prank, it was a sick one. A dangerous one. If not . . . she shuddered at the thought. Struggling, she attempted to move, but discovered that her hands were bound behind her, tethered by the same scratchy cords surrounding her neck.

Shit! Cold to the bone and shivering, she tried to move, then stopped as a searing pain scorched a ring around her neck. When she nudged a shoulder up toward the throbbing wound, it caused a brutal, cutting tug on her ankles. She realized her hands were bound to her ankles.

Hog-tied and naked. That’s what she was.

“Happy birthday to yooouu.”

She nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard the whispered words, a lifeless, growling monotone. But sung, not spoken. “Happy birthday to yooouu.”

This had to be a dream. Right? A nightmare. She swung her head around and saw him, a big bull of a man at some kind of workbench, bare-ass naked except for a black bib apron. Hairy arms, a hairy butt and legs. The back of his thick neck glowed dimly from one of those battery-powered dome lights used in attics, closets, and basements that didn’t have power or sunlight. Just beyond the bench, a clock ticked loudly on the wall.

From the dank smell, she suspected she was underground, that this man who looked like an NFL lineman had captured her, though she couldn’t remember her abduction. She tried to move, but her restraints held her fast to some kind of ring cemented into the floor. Blinking again, her mind clearing from the shot of adrenaline suddenly singing through her blood, she focused on one of the walls. Again, cement. With dark stains running down it. Water, she hoped. Mixed with rust.

Please don’t let it be blood.

She wanted to scream, but bit any sound back. Instinctively she knew it would be best to let him think she was still passed out, still stuck in a fetal position, as he worked. Jesus-God, what was he doing? Cutting lengths of red ribbon, measuring them over and over again, and then snipping them. The sound of his god-awful singing and something else—some other noise—caused her skin to crawl.

Mewling.

The soft, frightened cries were slightly muffled, as if whatever was issuing them was trying to hold back the sobs.

An animal?

No.

Some other person.

So Zoe wasn’t alone. He’d captured another prisoner.

Her heart dissolved.

Chloe. Her twin sister. In a flash, Zoe recognized Chloe’s voice, the choked sobs she’d heard as a child whenever Chloe was scared or being punished or whatever. Chloe had always been the weaker of the two Denning girls, the more sensitive. It had been Chloe who had held funerals for their pets, or run upstairs, footsteps banging on the wooden steps, when their parents fought. Chloe had stayed on her knees for hours, eyes shut, hands folded, as she’d prayed that the discord in the family would be quieted by the Holy Father and that their ever-quarreling parents would stay married. “You should try it sometime,” she’d told her minutes-older sibling. “A little prayer can solve a big problem.”

Or not. Mom and Dad had gotten divorced, and Mom was still not over it.

Zoe only hoped that Chloe was praying now, that her presumed connection to the Lord God Almighty would garner them both some quick salvation because, as her mind cleared, Zoe realized the situation was more dire than she’d wanted to believe. No college prank. No mistake. Somehow, some way, this huge sicko had been able to subdue and abduct them both.

How?

For a second she thought she remembered it happening. In a kaleidoscope of jagged images, she recalled fragments of her abduction.

A voice behind her, whispering her name over the din of the crowd. “It’s your sister,” he’d said, his words cutting through the noise of pedestrians. “She’s hurt.”

“What?” Zoe had turned toward him, then searched the crowd. Where the hell was Chloe? Her twin had been right beside her . . . hadn’t she? Then she’d felt a sharp prickle of pain, like a wasp’s sting at first, then more intense as a needle had been plunged into her neck. In a quicksilver second she’d panicked, searched the faces of people teeming on the street, hoping to see Chloe or a cop or anyone who might think she was more than someone who’d had too much to drink. She’d stumbled and started to fall and tried to scream, but only a whimper had left her lips. On her way down, someone had caught her. The lights of New Orleans swirling, the cacophony on the street fading, she’d heard “happy birthday” whispered into her ear before she’d passed out.

Sweet Jesus, it had been this freak who had captured Chloe and her, and somehow brought them here, wherever it was. Chloe’s sobs were louder now.

He quit singing, glanced pointedly at the clock. “Shut the fuck up,” he said, his voice gravelly as he shouted away from Zoe, toward the opposite corner of the darkened room.

The sobs stopped for a second. “Let me go,” Chloe begged, her voice trembling. Zoe’s heart nearly stopped. Don’t, she thought desperately. Oh, Chloe, don’t get him mad.

Chloe didn’t get the mental message.

“I . . . I don’t know what you want or who you are, but please just let me go.”

“I said, ‘Shut the fuck up.’” This time the words were said harshly and tightly, as if his lips were clamped in rage.

Oh, God, this was no good. No good!

“But—”

“For the love of Christ!” He yanked something off the table where he worked. Zzzzt! Then a jangle. “I don’t have time for this!”

What?

Quickly he raised one hand, his shadow looming against the far wall. A snake seemed to curl and writhe from his fist as he gave it a shake.

Chloe screeched in fear.

A belt, Zoe realized.

He cracked his wrist and the leather sizzled through the air.

Chloe shrieked and Zoe had to bite back her own scream.

Stop it, Chloe. Don’t piss him off! Use your head!

“I mean it!” he roared, and snapped the belt loudly again, close, it seemed, to the spot where Chloe was most likely tethered against the far wall. Though it was too dark to see into the corners, Zoe guessed her twin was also tied up.

Bastard!

It was all Zoe could do not to say a word, not to betray the fact that she’d come to and her mind was clearing. She wanted to shout out to Chloe, to warn her, to comfort her, but Zoe bit her tongue. Instinctively she knew it was best to stay silent, to lull the freak into believing she was still sedated and unconscious, not a threat. Let him focus on his work, whatever it was, until Zoe could come up with a plan, some way to get them out of this horrific situation.

Barely making a sound, she once again tried her bonds and was rewarded with a deeper cut into the flesh of her throat.

Damn!

Again, Chloe pleaded but her cries only incited him further. The man was a psycho. Well, duh. Only a true whack job would abduct twins off the street, drug them, and torture them. And his quick-triggered temper indicated he was volatile. Dangerous. Tied as she was, Zoe had only one weapon: her wits.

Crap!

Once Chloe was subdued, the near-naked bastard resumed his off-key singing. Never had the birthday song sounded more like a funeral dirge. And that was, no doubt, his intent. She was certain of that one heart-stopping fact. Gone was any thought of a prank gone wrong.

“Happy birthday, dear twinsies,” he crooned in his horrid, scratchy voice, still concentrating on his work and not sending a single glance her way.

Good.

“Happy birthday to yooooou.”

Her stomach convulsed. Vomit rose in her mouth, but she fought the urge to spew.

And then he started over, repeating the verse, like a broken, ominous record. She hated to think what would happen when he stopped. Because she knew. As certainly as she knew this day was her twenty-first birthday. He was going to kill her. And kill her sister. This sicko was just waiting for the right moment.

No effing way.

“Do you know what time it is?” Olivia’s voice called softly from the bedroom, and Rick Bentz, seated at his desk where he’d been for the past two hours, glanced at his watch. “It’s after midnight,” she said groggily, and he imagined her in the bed, wild curls splayed on the pillow, her eyes at half-mast. “Come to bed, honey.”

Bentz’s jaw tightened. She was right. The digital display on the face of his watch read 12:14 in the damned morning. And he’d like nothing more than to strip off his clothes and the worries of the day to settle into bed with her. The baby, Ginny, eight months old, was asleep while their aging dog, Hairy S, was curled up and snoring softly. Even the damned parrot wasn’t making a peep.

Too bad. He couldn’t shut it down for the night. Not yet.

Streaming live from his computer was a radio program with Dr. Samantha Wheeler, who took calls from lonely hearts. Their voices were a soft drone of conversation. Dr. Sam, as she called herself, gave out psychological advice over the airwaves late at night on her show, Midnight Confessions.

Bentz was listening in.

So far it seemed as if all of tonight’s callers were legit: lonely or confused people seeking advice. It hadn’t always been so. Years ago, before she’d married Ty Wheeler, Dr. Sam had attracted the attention of a sadistic serial killer, a man who was sick enough to dress in priest’s robes, pretend to be a man of God, and then with horrifying determination went about his grisly business. She’d been his ultimate target and had barely escaped with her life.

Bentz retrieved a bottle of beer from the six-pack he’d picked up at a convenience store on his way home from work. Hesitating only slightly, he cracked the longneck open and pushed aside all thoughts of days, weeks, and years of sobriety as he twisted off the top and caught a glimpse of the other five bottles tucked inside the cardboard container at his feet.

He wasn’t tired.

“Rick?” Olivia called again, this time sounding a little more awake.

In the darkness, the only illumination in the house came from his computer screen. He stared at the frozen frame of the video link as Dr. Sam’s calm voice ran a soothing counterpoint to the image of a gray prison cell. “Be there in a sec,” he said, turning his head so that his voice would carry into the general direction of the bedroom before he took a long, calming swallow. A balm, the cold beer slid down his throat easily.

Then he turned back to the monitor and clicked on the Play arrow once more, putting the video from the prison security camera in motion for the umpteenth time. This time, maybe he’d see something important. A clue. God, he hoped so. In the days since the prison homicide, he’d been steeped in fury and disbelief. It just couldn’t be.

“You can’t force him to love you,” Dr. Sam was saying in her melodic voice. “But you can love yourself,” she advised. The same psychobabble BS she’d peddled for years.

“But he promised me,” replied the woman, a girl in her teens, Bentz guessed. “Nathan promised me we would be together forever and then . . . and then”—she sniffed loudly—“I saw a picture of him with Rachel. I mean, it was all over Instagram and everyone texted me and were, like, dude, what’s going on with Nathan?”

“I know, but you can’t control Nathan,” Dr. Sam advised. “You can only control yourself.”

Bentz listened with half an ear. He didn’t really care about the caller’s boyfriend problems, but he did want to listen to all of the people who phoned the radio show. Even though the producer of Midnight Confessions had assured him that the calls were being screened and recorded, you couldn’t trust that crew to weed out a psycho.

This psycho. Bentz had watched the damned video from the Department of Corrections so many times, he might as well have it on a loop.

The familiar image showed a prison cell. A female prisoner sat on the edge of her cot as a priest stepped inside the cell, the shadow of the bars striping his cassock. The prisoner looked up expectantly, ready to give her confession to the man of God, whose back was to the camera. As he stepped closer, she bent her head in prayer, probably hoping for absolution or some other damned thing. The priest appeared to say something softly to the confessor and then in one quick, sure movement, he reached down as if to bless her, but quickly, expertly snapped her neck.

She slumped quickly and Bentz noted that the priest didn’t use his trademark sharpened rosary beads to kill her. This time his actions were on camera; his image might be splashed on a monitor in the prison’s security hub, and he probably couldn’t risk his slower signature kill. The guards would have been upon him before he could finish. Instead of strangling the life out of her with a rosary constructed of piano wire and sharpened glass beads, he broke her neck, then left the rosary dangling between her fingers, the blood red beads sparkling as he glanced up at the camera he obviously knew was mounted near the cell door. Smiling triumphantly, he revealed himself.

Bentz’s stomach turned.

The sick son of a bitch actually grinned into the camera’s eye before disappearing from the cell.

Bentz’s jaw hardened.

Father John was back.

Biting her lip, Zoe tried to figure out a way to save herself. To save Chloe. Somehow. Some way. First she had to get herself free.

While the whack job worked at his bench, she silently worked on the rope that bound her wrists and ankles. She had to make good her escape. Their escape. She wouldn’t leave Chloe. Not ever.

Once again, she tried to pull her hand to her abdomen. The tension on the rope intensified, so she relaxed. That wasn’t going to work. Think, Zoe, think. There has to be a way.

Again she tried to move. Again the bite of rough cord into her neck.

Damn!

She heard Chloe crying. Softly now, careful not to interrupt the freak from his task, she kept her gaze steady on his blocky body and the shadows he cast on the wall and tried again. This time, almost counterintuitively, she pulled her wrist closer to her naked back and upward toward her shoulders. It allowed her a range of movement, awkward though it was. She had trained as a gymnast in high school and also had double joints or hypermobility in her shoulders, elbows, and fingers—talents she assumed her abductor didn’t realize.

Still, it was hard work. But as she rotated her shoulders she felt the rope around her wrists give just a bit. She tried again, contorting, picking at the knot with her fingers. Noiselessly, knowing that time was running out, she gritted her teeth and kept picking.

Was it her imagination or did the rope move slightly?

Hope swelled. Heart thudding, she worked at the knots and remembered her capture. God, how could she have been so stupid to have been lured by him, to believe that her twin was in trouble?

She’d paid for her mistake, but she wasn’t going to docilely wait for whatever horror he meted out. No way! With an effort, she attempted to think clearly, to goddamned act despite the fear, deep and penetrating, cutting to her soul.

You have to get yourself free, Zoe. No one else is going to help you.

Silently, her jaw set, she picked at the huge knots in the semidarkness, working at the rope restraining her wrists, determined to break free.

Before it was too late. The clock on the wall counted off the seconds of her life.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

And still his sickening voice chanted the fateful song. “Happy birthday, dear twinsies,” he warbled tonelessly, then chuckled to himself, a freak to the core. Chloe’s sobbing continued, almost a countermelody to his grumbled refrain.

Shut up, Chloe! Don’t irritate him. He’s going to kill us, maybe torture and rape us first, so don’t hasten the process.

But her twin kept whimpering.

Zoe couldn’t see Chloe. She had tried, but the room was too dark; when she slid her gaze toward the sound of soft crying, she saw only a deep umbra.

If only she had some other means of escape aside from her own wits. A weapon. A club or a knife or a saw or a rake or an ax or . . . God, what she’d do for a damned gun. But as she squinted, her gaze scraping the walls and floor, there was only a meager array of tools on the wall and a cell phone that never seemed to ring, even though he talked on it often enough, always, it seemed to the same person. Now, he was using scissors, and she thought she spied screwdrivers and a crowbar on the wall, but she couldn’t be sure. The twilight was pervasive, the stale air close as she noiselessly picked at the knots. Feeling the rope shift, she tamped down a ray of hope that rose in her heart. No time to get ahead of herself. And she was sweating. Beads of perspiration rolled down toward the hard floor, her fingers slippery as she plucked at the braided nylon, her joints straining.

The rope shifted.

Loosened.

Or was it her mind?

Oh. God.

She pulled again on that end of the cord and again she felt the tension on her bonds lessen.

Chloe sniffed loudly, sobbed again.

Stop, Zoe wanted to shout. Don’t give this sicko the satisfaction of hearing your fear. Be strong. You can. You know you can.

But that was a lie, wasn’t it? Deep down Zoe had always known that she was the strong one, that her twin was weaker, always had been. Hadn’t Zoe played the role of protector since the day they were born, twenty-one years ago? Zoe had come into the world first, and according to their parents had let out a yowl that nearly shook the concrete and steel of the hospital. Minutes later her younger sister had entered this life with barely a peep. Chloe had been so quiet the maternity staff had to double-check to make certain the smaller baby had been breathing, her little heart beating.

Right now Zoe’s younger sister was certainly making up for that quiet entrance into St. Anthony’s Hospital, and it wasn’t a good thing.

Be quiet.

Please, please, please!

Be brave.

I’ll save you.

Zoe let go of the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

If I can.

She, too, wanted to cry but knew it wouldn’t help. She, too, felt the need to scream and rail at the heavens, but again, that would do more harm than good. Zoe didn’t want the bastard to know what she was thinking or even that she was aware. She could not let him know she was plotting her escape. Let him believe her to be compliant and either still groggy from whatever drug he’d injected her with or so scared out of her mind that she couldn’t fight back. Let him think that she would be easy to deal with, that she would do exactly what he wanted without a fight.

As if!

Now, if she could just break free . . .

Somehow save herself and her twin. Jesus, could her sister please stop with the pathetic little sobs?

In the darkness, she stretched, trying to lengthen the cords holding her fast. She froze. The off-key singing was getting closer.

Her stomach crumpled in on itself and she almost gagged to think that the nut job had stopped whatever he was doing at the workbench and was drawing near. His footsteps padded on the ground, soft and frightening, but at least she had some idea of where he was in the gloom.

From the corner of her eye, she saw him reach for something on the wall above her—some new tool. Dear God, were there weapons just beyond her reach? Again, her heart leaped with hope as he turned back to the bench.

Come on. Come on.

Sweat drizzled down her back as once again she began to loosen the knotted cord.

“Hey!” His gravelly voice cut through the darkness. Sharp. Angry. The stupid song momentarily forgotten.

She froze. Oh, dear God, if he figured out that she was trying to escape—

“Quit that!” he yelled.

She was doomed! Drenched in her own sweat, she didn’t so much as draw a single breath.

“All that cryin’ and sobbin’. Stop it. Won’t do no good anyhow. Besides,” he said, the edge in his voice giving way to a jovial tone. “It’s almost your birthday, so you should be happy. Right?” he cajoled Chloe, the evil in his voice dripping over his words.

Zoe’s skin crawled at his personal tone.

He glanced at the clock again and grunted. “Damn, the time.”

What the hell was his fascination with the time? Did he have to be somewhere? Was it important? Why was a clock mounted in this austere cave of a room?

“No more wailing!” And then he was back at it, humming and singing as he tinkered at the bench, working on . . . what? Nothing good, she thought. She didn’t want to go there, didn’t want to imagine what horrid, twisted fate he had plotted for Chloe and herself; the hollow pit in her stomach warned her that whatever he had in mind would be more horrible than she could imagine. A sick, slow torture and probable rape, considering the fact that he’d stripped her. No, she wouldn’t think of the possibilities, couldn’t go there.

With renewed conviction, she worked at her bonds, feeling the cords on her wrists slacken a bit more. She didn’t have a plan. She knew only that the first step was to break free before he realized what was happening, somehow get the drop on him. Get herself and her sister out of here. Maybe lock him inside if it were possible.

But first, the rope. It cut deep into her wrists, rubbing her skin raw, stinging as she plucked at the knot. With her back to him, she could only hope her movements were veiled by the darkness. Her sister sobbed a little more softly now, though it was still enough to distract him.

“I said knock it off,” he yelled angrily over the steady ticking of the clock. “Fuck!”

Snap!

Her heart stopped. The earthy-smelling room seemed to close in on her.

Oh, no!

She hazarded a glance over her shoulder and again saw the thin belt in the dim light that fell softly over his massive shoulders and back. Looming in a pool of gray light, still holding the horrid belt, he placed his hands on his hips and stared into the darkness, no doubt toward her twin.

“Didn’t you fuckin’ hear me?”

Oh. Dear. God. Chloe!

Snap!

He moved so quickly to crack the belt again, Zoe nearly jumped. In the silence that followed, Zoe wanted to cry for her sister, who had probably just received the worst whipping of her life.

“Don’t make me use this again,” he warned, his voice low and gravelly. He raised his arm again, and the leather snaked from his clenched fist.

Her throat turned to sand.

Fear slid through her blood.

Frantically she worked, watching him while the rope began to give. A little. Then a little more. She could move her hands more freely, felt the blood pumping through her veins again, sensation returning to her tingling fingers.

And then, almost magically, the cord gave way. The tight manacle fell free into a loose braid, and the tension on her neck relaxed.

Hallelujah!

Shaking her hands free, she wondered—should she try to unbind her ankles? Crap! She had to. It was necessary if she wanted to walk out of here on her own. Adrenaline firing her blood, she bent over a little more, the fetal position a cover as she studied the cord on her ankles with her fingertips, finding the knots.

And still he sang, though he kept checking the clock as if it were important. What did it matter what time . . . oh, God. Suddenly she understood; he was going to do something to them at the exact time of their births. That had to be it. The clock displayed prominently. The song. Both of them here . . .

And there wasn’t much time left.

She’d been born at 1:21 a.m. Chloe had come along seventeen minutes later at 1:38.

Oh, God. Another look at the clock.

1:14.

If she was right, she only had seven more minutes to make a move! Frantically, she tore at the loosening knot. It began to unravel.

Come on, come on!

Viperlike, the braided cord slid from her ankles. Finally! Zoe held fast to one frayed end and pulled, wincing as the rope slid round her neck and fell away. She gripped the rope. Now she had a weapon.

“. . . birthday, dear Zoe,” he sang, striking fear into her heart as he singled her out. Of course. She was the firstborn. “Happy birthday to—”

She sprang!

He started to turn just as she landed on his back.

“Hey!” he yelled, startled. He dropped the scissors, then bellowed, “What the fu—”

He shifted, trying to throw her off, but she held on with a steely desperation and wrapped the rope around his neck. Roaring, grunting, jumping like a bucking bronco in a rodeo, he tried to fling her from his back. But she held on tight, anchoring the cord over her fingers and winding it around his thick neck. To anchor herself in place, she had to clench her legs around his gross, naked waist. The stench of him reached her nostrils as he tried to free himself, whipping his head back and forth.

The rope burned her hands but cut deep into his flesh. Clenching her jaw, she twisted it tighter, imagining a crushing force on his windpipe. He dug frantically at it with his fingers.

Chloe’s mewling turned to terrified screams.

Die, freak! Zoe thought as he twisted and turned, gasping, falling against the workbench, sending his scissors and ribbons, wire, and a stack of clothes—her damned clothes, the dress she’d been wearing when he’d abducted her—flying and scattering onto the floor. One of his arms flailed, hitting the domed light. It fell from the ceiling, skittering across the floor and cracking, giving off a sick bluish hue. Still he bucked. Jumping up and down, he clawed at the rope with one hand. The other big paw flailed backward, his fist swishing the air over his head in a wild attempt to connect with any part of her.

No way! No frickin’ way!

She threw her weight backward, pulling with all her strength, trying to cut off his air supply or sever his windpipe or break his damned neck.

Letting out a garbled growl, he stamped his powerful legs, then threw them both back against the wall, squeezing her body between his muscular back and the rough cement.

Bam!

Pain jolted down her spine.

Her teeth rattled.

The breath was forced from her lungs in a whoosh and a groan.

She felt her grip begin to slip.

No!

She held on as he pounded her, taking a step forward, then throwing all his weight backward once more as he clawed at the rope and gasped.

“Die, bastard!” she hissed.

“Zoe?” Chloe cried.

Crack! The back of her head slammed against the wall.

Pain exploded through her skull. Lights flashed behind her eyes. She thought she might pass out and the rope began to slip in her hands.

For the love of God, just die!

As Chloe cried out again, Zoe snapped back to awareness and yanked hard on the rope. She wound it tighter until her shoulder muscles screamed and the nylon cut into her fingers.

The beast responded by clawing at the rope. Sputtering and moaning, he staggered away from the wall, a little less steady this time.

She braced herself, pulled back so hard that her arm muscles ached.

His muscles bunched. With a muffled roar, he threw himself backward again. She banged against the wall and he pinned her, squeezing her against rough concrete. Every bone in her body rattled and her bare skin felt scraped raw.
. . .