Twisted (44 page)

“Not.” Sloane stated her answer without so much as a flinch. Having just stared death in the face, life seemed all the more precious—far too precious for stupid insecurities to get in the way. “You want the words? You’ve got them. I love you. I’ll even tell you that you’re right—at least this once. The facade was a cop-out. I was terrified of ever again going through the hell I went through when you and I were over. But after being punched in the gut with a day like today, I realize there are no guarantees.” She blew out a long, slow breath. “Life is a gift. It’s also fleeting, so emotional self-protection is a waste of time. And life gives us choices. So I choose you, even if you do push every one of my buttons, and drive me bonkers.”

Derek’s smile was slow, but it spoke wonders. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

DATE:
1 May

TIME:
0623 hours

OBJECTIVE:
Artemis

I have to admit I admire Artemis’s hounds. They wanted no part of Mr. Ford Focus. They growled whenever he started to jog beside them, until finally he’d agreed to keep a considerable distance away, and watch her through his binoculars.

True, they’re small, not the formidable hounds always depicted with Artemis in my tomes of Greek mythology. But that doesn’t inhibit them. They’re loyal, fearless, and fiercely protective. They know who and what is right for their mistress.

Someday, they, too, will join us at Mount Olympus. I’m convinced of it. And Artemis will welcome them home.

She’s now on her last lap. Which means that Mr. Ford Focus is at his most relaxed.

Today, that will prove to be his undoing.

Sloane’s breath was coming in hard pants as she and the hounds took the final lap of their run. She’d run more aggressively today, a natural way to relieve some of the tension that was gripping her.

Yesterday had been an endless day of nothingness. None of the other tenants in Elliot’s apartment had seen anything unusual. No one at John Jay had acted the least bit suspiciously. And no one the
NYPD
had approached had either refused or been reluctant to offer a
DNA
sample.

Quantico would finish the
DNA
profile by tomorrow. Then they’d have proof of what Sloane already knew—that the same sick pervert was responsible for this entire crime spree.

That was the easy part. Finding the Unsub himself was the ultimate challenge. And damn him to hell, she was going to do it.

Mr. Ford Focus is in for the surprise of his life.

I raise my tranquilizer gun, aim, and fire.

Hank felt the stinging pain in his butt, and jerked around, looking everywhere at once. He reached around, pulled out the dart, and examined it. He knew what it was—and what it did.

His time was limited. He had to find his assailant, and fast.

He drew his pistol and raised it, sweeping the area with an alert eye. No sign of anyone.

The bushes across the street rustled.

“Come out with your hands up!” Hank ordered.

No motion whatsoever.

“I know you’re in there. Come out or I’m coming in.”

Again, nothing.

From down the street, Hank heard the low sound of a car motor. No, it was deeper, throatier—more like a truck or a van. The sound was moving toward him, as, obviously, was the vehicle.

He turned, still aiming his pistol, ready to fire. But at what—the vehicle or the bushes?

The numbness started in his legs, then crept up his body, until keeping his arms raised was too much of an effort. His head began swimming, and he rubbed his eyes, trying to erase the cobwebs. Dammit. He had to get this guy before whatever drug he’d injected into his bloodstream took over.

Hank glanced back at the bushes, which were now totally still. And the sound of the approaching truck or van was gone, too. So he had no idea where the hell this maniac was.

His only hope was to warn Sloane—now, before she got too close to the assailant to escape. He’d also call for backup. That way, the local cops would be here within minutes.

He twisted around in the direction Sloane was coming from. His turn was executed in slow motion. He could feel it. And Sloane was still way off in the woods, too far away to spot him unless he gave her reason to.

He tried to yell. Nothing came out. His lips were numb and unmoving. So was his brain. The dizziness was winning. He couldn’t feel his fingers, so he groped wildly for his cell phone. If he touched it, he never knew.

He raised his other arm to wave Sloane down. It only made it up halfway.

With a choked sound, he fell to his knees, then collapsed onto the street, unconscious.

Once I see Mr. Ford Focus hit the ground, I know I’m home free.

I press my foot to the accelerator, closing the distance to Artemis’s house. I park adjacent to her driveway.

There’s no time to waste. I jump out of the van, and run over to the stocky bodyguard, who’s crumpled in the road. I grab him by the legs and drag him over to his car. He’s a heavy
SOB
. But I’m more than up for the challenge.

Once I complete my job, I step back and admire my handiwork. To any passerby, it looks as if Mr. Ford Focus is taking a nap.

Which he is. A long, long nap. Lost in thought, Sloane rounded the final curve of her run. As she neared her property, the hounds abruptly began barking and whining, running back and forth in an intertwining fashion until their leashes were tangled. Sloane squatted down to untangle them, her brows drawing together in puzzlement. It was unusual for her dachshunds to be so hyper. Especially after a three-mile run. No, not hyper. Agitated. Clearly, something was wrong.

She raised her head, surveyed the area.

There was a strange van parked next to her driveway. But that wasn’t unusual. Landscapers and other outdoor laborers who had projects on her block often left their vehicles wherever it was convenient. From where she stood, she couldn’t tell what type of tradesman the van belonged to, but she could tell that the van looked empty.

Nonetheless, she exercised caution. She approached the vehicle slowly, circled it, and confirmed that it was, indeed, devoid of passengers. She peered through the tinted glass, holding her hands on either side of her face so she could see better. Not that there was much to see. Just the usual trunk-type stuff—a gym bag, something that looked like a collapsed bicycle, some tools, a cooler, and two cases of bottled water. Nothing threatening there.

She glanced across the street. Hank was in his car, obviously too tired between quarter-mile sprints to check up on her with his binoculars. The poor guy. Twelve-hour shifts with a combative subject and a royal pain in the ass—namely,
her
—were rough.

Hank was a pro. He’d obviously checked out the van before returning to his car. So it was clear that he didn’t view it as a threat either.

The hounds, on the other hand, were still riled up. They were tense and growling, but they were staring away from the van and Hank’s car, their gazes angled toward a different spot on the street. Hank himself wasn’t a dog person, so he didn’t place much stock in the hounds’ superior awareness. But Sloane knew better. She knew how keen their instincts were. She wasn’t about to ignore their warning—even if it turned out that the only thing they were alerting her to was a nearby skunk on the verge of spraying her.

Sidestepping the van, she tightened her grip on their leashes, and began sprinting toward her house.

She was a short way down her driveway, when she felt the sharp sting in the back of her left thigh. She started, her first thought being that she’d been stung by a wasp. It hurt, a lot, and the sticking sensation warned her that the stinger might still be in there.

Carefully, she reached around, her hand coming in contact with something more cylindrical and substantial than a bee’s stinger.

It was a dart—the kind that was shot from a tranquilizer gun.

Someone wanted her unconscious. And there was only one someone that could be.

Her first instinct was to go for her pistol. She reached for it—simultaneously recalling that it was nonexistent. Her days of carrying a weapon were temporarily suspended.

She turned toward Elsa’s house, trying to peer through the thick cluster of evergreen trees that separated their properties. She couldn’t see anything—or anyone. But she did remember that Burt’s car had been parked in the driveway when she ran by earlier.

Could he really be their Unsub?

Feeling a wave of dizziness, she realized she was wasting precious time. Wrapping the hounds’ leashes around her wrist, she reversed her steps, weaving her way toward Hank’s car. She needed help—and she needed it now. Already her body felt as if it were moving in slow motion. She was on the verge of passing out, and she had no intention of doing so on a secluded parcel of land where her attacker could kidnap her and take off without being seen.

“Sloane!”

Someone was calling her. Blinking the cobwebs out of her eyes, she tried to focus. A man was approaching. He was smiling and waving.

Luke? Yes, it was Luke. Thank goodness. A friend.

“Sloane!” he called to her again.

“I’m hurt.” She managed to push out the words. “I need help.”

“I know.” With an understanding nod, he sped up his steps, until he was jogging toward her, just yards away. “I’m here to give you that help.”

Maybe it was the odd reply, or the unnatural quality of his tone. Maybe it was the weird look in his eyes. Or maybe it was because, as if on cue, all three of her hounds burst into a round of snarling, growling, and baring their teeth.

Whatever prompted it, the hair on back of her neck stood up.

And, suddenly, she knew.

Even before she caught a glimpse of the silver object tucked inside the front facing of Luke’s open leather jacket, and realized it was a knife, she’d planted her feet, tensing for a fight.

The drugs in her bloodstream were traveling faster than she. Her mind was woozy. Her body wouldn’t respond to her commands. And her muscles were freezing up, refusing to react. She didn’t stand a chance.

An instant later, Luke caught her around the waist, steadying her, then half guiding and half dragging her to his van. “It’s all right,” he said in a soothing voice. “I’m taking you home.”

“Home?” She wished she could think straight. “I am home.”

As they reached the road, the fuzzy outline of the Ford Focus swam into view, along with Hank, still sitting in the driver’s seat, still leaning against his window in the exact same position. “Hank,” she muttered. “What did you do to him?”

“He’s sleeping,” Luke supplied. “He’ll be fine. The only lasting effects will be some leftover grogginess, a wicked headache, and a slew of guilt. Time for us to go now.”

With that, Luke unwound the hounds’ leashes from around Sloane’s wrist, and tossed the straps to the ground, releasing the dogs as he pulled open the door to his van. “Go on. Run. Go back to the house,” he ordered.

They ignored him completely, continuing to bark and snarl, and nip at his feet. “I understand,” Luke assured them, as calmly as if he were addressing three distraught children. “You’ll miss her. But it won’t be for long. You’ll join us at Mount Olympus very soon. Artemis will decree it. She needs her hounds.”

Mount Olympus? Artemis?
Sloane processed that. Whatever it meant, Luke was insane.

Struggling to hold on to her rapidly fading mental faculties, Sloane tried to come up with a counterstrike maneuver. Her Krav skills were useless. Her strength and coordination were gone. She needed a weapon of some kind. Squinting, she peered around inside the van, hoping for something she could use.

The tools. No. They were too far out of reach. The cooler. Again, no. She couldn’t get to it, and she didn’t have the coordination to grab it and swing it at Luke’s head.

There was only one item within her grasp, because it was folded and stacked in the backseat rather than the trunk. And that item was way too large and cumbersome to lift. It was what she’d originally thought was a bicycle, but now realized was a wheelchair. Lillian’s wheelchair.

Dazedly, Sloane remembered the retirement party. Luke had been able to store a wine goblet in the seatback bag that was attached behind it.

It was a long shot, but it was the only plausible idea Sloane could come up with. It wouldn’t help her now, but later, when he was driving or occupied with something else—maybe.

She cocked her head to make sure Luke wasn’t watching her. At that moment, he was wildly throwing sticks across her lawn for the hounds to chase, and grinding out commands for them to shut up and go away. Sloane knew he could kill all three of them in one fell swoop. But for whatever reason, he seemed to view them as godly, and refused to harm them. She thanked God for that blessing.

However, his patience wouldn’t last forever. Even in her drugged-up state, Sloane could see that he was reaching the end of his rope. She had to act now, use these last coherent moments to save her pups, then try to save herself. She reached into the kangaroo pocket of her jogging suit, palmed her cell phone, and shut it off. Then she dropped it directly into the mesh section of the seatback bag behind the wheelchair.

Luckily, they blended, black against black. And her phone was tiny. Now all she could do was to pray that Luke wouldn’t spot it.

“Run, Moe,” she slurred, waving the dogs away. “Larry, Curly—you, too. Peanut butter…kongs…inside house…”

She saw them take off, heard their excited yips as they raced toward the house, assuming she was behind them.

Then she fell to the floor of the van, and was swallowed up by the darkness.

As had become his habit since moving back in with his mother, Burt stepped out of the house and walked across the front path to scoop up the morning newspaper. It was on his return trip that he heard the hounds. They were making an enormous racket. And it wasn’t their customary barking, signifying play. These barks were sharp and frantic, and they were scratching violently at Sloane’s front door.