He took one of her ankles. And then the other.
Now he was pulling her, her hands staying put as the rest of her body started moving—until the slack in her bent arms was used up and then everything was along for the ride and being dragged across the carpet, away from the bed. When he got out to the living area, he dropped his hold and patted her down under the arms and along the legs. One by one, he removed her gun, her knife, her cell phone, and her Mace. Then he stood over her again.
A series of electronic taps suggested the man was texting something. And then there was the swoop! of an iMessage going through.
Oddly, the nice-and-normal sounds calmed her. For absolutely no good reason.
There was a brief lull. Then a bing! as a response came through.
More pulling now. Toward the sliding doors.
It was then that she noticed there was no light shining through the plate glass panes. He’d obviously killed the security fixtures by the building’s side entrance, the ones that gave a perennial glow to this part of the apartment.
She hadn’t noticed exactly how dark it had been when she’d come in.
The man let her ankles go again, and used gloved hands to pull back one half of the door. The air that rushed in was wet and cold from the storms, and revived her a little.
As did the reality that he was about to remove her to his domain, wherever that was. He no doubt had an associate standing right below the balcony of her tiny terrace, the two-story drop not far at all.
Scream, Rio told herself. Just open up your mouth and bring the house down.
But she didn’t. Instead of making noise, she waited until the man had to get close to her torso to pick her up. Dead weight was a problem, no matter how strong you were, and as the man grunted and hauled her up off the carpet—
She used the last of her strength to shove her hand around to the small of her back, and the small holster that was on the rear of her belt.
Three. Two. One—
With a fast jerk that made every bone in her body hurt, she whipped out her Taser and caught the bastard right in the side of the neck. As he let out a bark and then strained too hard to make much noise, he let go of her—and she took the weapon with her.
While he stumbled, she rolled onto her side, yanked up his pant leg, and nailed him again, this time in the calf.
Her attacker fell like a tree in the forest, the impact of his body on the floor the kind of thing her neighbors down below would have heard right away—if she’d had any. Her apartment was located over the building’s rental office, and there was no one there this late at night.
Rio shoved herself up and stumbled for the door, her forward motion good, her balance for crap. She banged off the corner of the couch hard enough to rattle her teeth, but she kept going, the Taser still in her palm, a distant, persistent crackle suggesting that her hand had tightened on its own to trigger the sparking—
She ran right into the second man just as he came in through her door. He had a hood up to mask his features—and he was armed with a gun that had a suppressor.
“Jesus,” he muttered, clearly annoyed. “You’re a pain in the ass.”
Boom!
Before she could respond, there was another burst of pain in her head. Rio’s last conscious thought was that he’d struck her with the butt of his gun on her temple.
After that, there was nothing.
Here was the thing with people who were—as Butch O’Neal, native of South Boston, always put it—wicked frickin’ jumpy. Unless you wanted a fight, it was in everybody’s best interests to give ’em a heads-up, especially if you were coming at them from behind.
Down in a tunnel that had all the air freshening of a rock pit, Rhage lifted his hands as the Jackal wheeled around in front of him.
“Just me,” he told the guy, “your half-brother. Don’t get crazy.”
The other vampire was looking rough in his running shorts and his too-thin-for-the-time-of-year t-shirt, kind of like a zombie who had decided to go on a health kick. And for an instant, Rhage went back a hundred years and change, and saw the male when their paths had first crossed—at that annoying aristocrat’s place.
Back then, the Jackal had been hired by Darius to create plans for a place for the Black Dagger Brotherhood to live together, and the Jackal, as an architect, had been willing and able to do the deal with a pencil and a ruler. He’d dressed the part, too, looking distinguished and smart in a tailored suit in the style of the times, his waistcoat anchored by a gold pocket watch and chain, the collar of his buttoned-down shirt rounded, the lapels of his fine jacket notched at the top.
And now here he was in Nike Lycra. The hair and the face were the same, of course—no, that wasn’t right. In the glow from his phone’s little pin light, he was much, much older, his eyes ancient even though he wasn’t even close to middle age.
“What are you doing here?” the male asked hoarsely.
“We got the place rigged.” Rhage motioned around, even though that camera light didn’t carry far—so, yeah, not a lot to see. “You tripped the security system when you lifted the hatch.”
The Jackal frowned. “But I’ve been here before.”
“We know.”
“You do?”
“Yup, you want the dates? I got ’em on my phone.” Rhage debated flashing his Samsung, but the guy seemed to have enough going on at the moment. “Or you can just take my word for it.”
“So why did you come here tonight? Are you here to tell me I need to leave? Like I’m trespassing?”
“Nah.” Rhage pshaw’d with his dagger hand. “I’m not playing mall cop here.”
“Mall cop?”
“Kevin James as Paul Blart? Never mind.” Rhage reached into his leather jacket and took out a Tootsie Roll. “Oh—crap.”
“What?” The Jackal looked around. “What’s—”
“Orange. I hate orange.” He unwrapped the lollipop and grimaced. “You want to hop on this train? I’ll give you a good one?”
The Jackal blinked, as if a discussion about candy was nothing he could assimilate given what was crowding his brain.