The Perfect Victim

She landed on top of him, her face so close to his she felt the warm rush of his breath against her ear. Instinctively, she rolled away. Lurching to her feet, she scrambled toward the door.

 

A talon-like hand clamped over her arm and spun her around. The blow came out of nowhere with mind-numbing force. A starburst of light exploded behind her eyes. Pain cut through her cheek, jarring the side of her face all the way to her sinuses.

 

She was aware of him releasing his grip on her arm. Her knees buckled. She caught the doorknob barely in time to keep herself from falling.

 

"Stupid bitch."

 

Every muscle in her body tensed at the sound of his voice.

 

Clinging to the knob, Addison shook her head, swallowing the bile that had risen into her throat. She'd never been subjected to violence, and it left her feeling sickened and helpless. She'd never thought of herself as physically weak, but at the mercy of such a violent man, she felt utterly powerless.

 

Unable to move, she let the door support her, giving her senses a moment to regroup.

 

"Get up."

 

Using the knob for balance, she rose. Fear coiled inside her, but she forced herself to meet his gaze. "Who are you?"

 

He stared back at her, his face expressionless. "I'm going to have to put you in another room," he said. "Let's go."

 

She knew firsthand his strength and didn't want to cross him. But she couldn't bring herself to obey. "Let me go," she said. "I don't know who you are."

 

His smile sent a chill skating up her spine. "Move."

 

Her only thought was that this man wasn't human. There was no emotion behind the dull eyes, no compassion, nothing she could reach. When she didn't move, he grasped her biceps and forced her toward the door.

 

Addison balked only enough to slow him down. She needed time to think, to plan her next move. "At least tell me where I am," she said as he guided her down a narrow hall.

 

"You don't need to know." The hall opened to a small bedroom. "Get inside," he ordered.

 

When she merely stared, he shoved her roughly through the door. "If I hear so much as a peep out of you, I'll be back." A grin split his face. "Next time, I won't be so nice."

 

Addison started when the door slammed. She listened to his departure before turning and taking a quick inventory of the room. It was small, perhaps six feet square, with no windows. The furniture consisted of a bunk bed and a night table. A narrow pocket-door opened to a functional bathroom.

 

Absently, she touched the cut on her cheek. She'd never been so afraid, felt so threatened or so isolated from the rest of the world. Needing to move, to expel some of the adrenaline rushing through her, she began to pace. She tried to imagine what might transpire in the coming hours, realizing she couldn't fathom such insanity. She tried to come to terms with the possibility that her life may very well end on this horrible night. But the thought of dying with so many things unfinished, without ever seeing Randall again, nearly sent her over the edge.

 

She loved him. And she knew the power of that love would see her through this. If need be, her love for him would see her through to the end. In those black minutes as she contemplated her own death, she drew strength from him, knowing in her heart that, if he was able, he would come for her.

 

Clinging to that thought, she made her way to the bathroom and switched on the light. Her eyes scanned the room for something she might be able to use as a weapon, but there wasn't much. No plunger, no can of hairspray, not even a water glass. On impulse, she opened the medicine cabinet.

 

Her heart jumped when she spotted the black leather manicure kit. She reached for the case and unzipped the cover. A pair of gold manicure scissors gleamed lip at her. Knowing they could mean the difference between life and death, she pulled them out. Checking the point with .the tip of her index finger, she found it razor sharp. She was in the process of tucking the scissors into the waistband of her slacks when the bedroom door swung open.

 

*

 

 

 

Randall hit the interstate at eighty miles per hour. Clint's antiquated Toyota vibrated as the speedometer's needle slipped past ninety, but he kept his foot down, oblivious to the danger. He'd discovered the keys on the kitchen counter and found the small pickup parked in the alley garage. He hadn't needed any prodding to steal it.

 

Desperation drove him now, hurtling him along the outer fringes of control. He no longer considered the repercussions of his actions. He did what he had to, his only, single-minded goal to find Addison in time to save her life. Because he knew Tate was going to kill her.

 

If he hadn't already.

 

Randall knew he was skating a thin line. It was as if the same sinister resolve that drove men like Tate had been unleashed inside him. The need to kill. To enact the ultimate revenge.

 

At the crook of his neck, he cradled Clint's cell phone. A map of Baltimore lay spread out on the seat beside him. With one eye on the interstate, he dialed the hospital number and waited to be transferred to Jack's room.

 

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