So he faked his overdose.
If Hawk was watching, he’d eventually come into the room to dispose of Jericho’s body. That was the plan, so Jericho stayed absolutely still.
Not an easy feat when he heard another scream in the distance that sounded animalistic and nothing like the last. His heart pounded so fiercely he could scarcely think.
Slow breaths.
Nice and easy.
Relax.
The door unlocked, and a sheet of plastic dragged across the floor.
“Knew it wouldn’t take long for you to drop like a fly,” Hawk murmured. “Damn shame I missed watching it live, but I’ll catch the rerun.” He chuckled darkly and let out a grunt.
Jericho waited patiently like a skilled predator waiting for his prey to move within striking distance. Hawk approached from behind and hooked his arms beneath Jericho’s, dragging him in front of the door. It was easy for Jericho to fake an overdose, because he’d experienced the real thing.
Hawk crawled on his right, swinging a large bag around. When the timing was right, Jericho raised a needle he’d been concealing in his right hand and drove it into Hawk’s jugular, pushing the plunger all the way in. Jericho gripped him by the hair and threw him off-balance.
“How’s that feel, boy?” He kicked the sonofabitch in the gut and noticed blood oozing out of a partially healed wound on his chest. As much as he wanted to go animal on him, Jericho needed to find Isabelle.
He shut Hawk in the room and locked the door. Maybe punishment would be served if he was left there to rot—to decide if he wanted to go crazy from starvation or end it all with another fix.
The towel around his waist dropped to the floor as he walked down the hall with a purposeful stride. The bleak hallway looked like a prison, as if Hawk had customized the basement and built rooms. When he reached a set of wooden stairs, he made his ascent. Jericho opened the door, and the sweet bliss of central air cooled his skin. The shutters on the kitchen windows were thick slats of wood that blocked out the light.
Except it wasn’t light outside.
“Isabelle?”
Plush brown carpet whispered beneath his feet as he walked through the living room. He paused behind a striped couch that faced a large television. An old war movie played, and the sounds of explosions filled the room. An object tickled the bottom of his foot, and when he stepped back, he saw a large feather. Just as he’d thought.
As he approached a dark hallway, light shone from beneath a closed door at the end of the hall. He turned the knob and swung open the door, shocked at the horrific scene before him.
Jericho crossed the wooden floor and stepped in a puddle of blood. Next to his bare foot was a steak knife stained crimson and a piece of wire. The sheets on the bed were tangled. Isabelle sat on the floor, facing the bed with her left hand extended and cuffed to the rail. Blood trailed down her arm from where she had tried to escape. What a brave little wolf. Her white gown had been ripped in half, and sweet Jesus, a TV sat at the foot of the bed. Hawk had forced her to watch him—she must have seen him overdose.
“Isabelle!”
He rushed forward and carefully looked her over. He didn’t see any stab wounds, thank Christ. She must have attacked Hawk and put up a hell of a fight.
“Oh, baby.” He brushed her lovely red hair away from her face, revealing a bruise on her cheek.
Rage consumed him, and he shut his eyes.
“How come every time I see you, you’re naked?” she mumbled groggily.
His eyes flew open, and he tilted her chin up. She blinked, tears still on her lashes.
“Come on, beautiful. Let’s get you in the bed.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls,” she said, her smile sedate.
Jericho lifted her onto the bed so he could get a closer look at her injuries. Isabelle had always had the best set of legs of any woman he’d ever met. It looked like she had just skinned her knees, so he was certain they’d heal up in no time. It was the ligature marks on her wrists that made his blood boil.
She began singing a Pink Floyd song, except with numbers.
“Isabelle?” Something wasn’t right. Hawk must have drugged her, but he didn’t see any track marks on her arms.
“One hour, Reno said. Denver made me sing it,” she said incoherently.
When she sang another verse, he realized it was a phone number. Reno knew how to run a trace, and that’s what he must have been setting up.
Jericho covered her legs with a sheet and leaned close to her ear. “Stay here, Isabelle. I’m going to call for help.”
That was a promise.