“I’ve always been curious to see how many of these punctures it would take to kill a human. I’ve used this on dogs and cats. Once even on a raccoon that was foolish enough to walk into a trap at my parents’ house. I was going to use it on that rat I left on your doorstep, but this doesn’t leave much of a mark, and I didn’t want you to miss any details.”
He raised his arm to block the stiletto and felt a wave of agonizing pain as it punched through the palm of his hand and emerged out the back between his tendons. He grabbed at her with his other arm, but she was quick and leapt backward out of the way.
“You know, I could just plunge this into your liver or your heart. That would kill you pretty much instantly. But what would be the fun in that?”
He winced as the stiletto sank into his abdomen. He felt the warmth of the blood rolling down his side under his shirt and blackness closing in around him.
*
He came to with the terrifying sensation that he was drowning. There was water in his nose and throat, and he couldn’t breathe through his mouth. Verraday tried to move his lips but realized that Jensen had sealed his mouth with gaffer tape while he’d been unconscious. He coughed desperately trying to dislodge the water in his nose.
“Don’t worry,” came Jensen’s voice from behind him. “I won’t let you drown. Yet. I’m going to keep you alive a little longer.”
She moved into his line of vision now, staying far enough away that she knew he wouldn’t be able to grab her in a sudden lunge, even if he were able to rally the strength. She was holding a pitcher of water.
“You were disappointing as a lover, but you’re quite amusing as a playmate. I like to think of this pitcher as half full, not half empty.”
She laughed sardonically and dumped the water onto his face. He felt it going into his nose and down his windpipe. He began to choke and started to black out again.
“Ah-ah-ah, Professor. Come back. I’m not finished with you . . . yet.”
He felt her straining to turn him over on his side. She thumped him on the back and the water dribbled out his nose. He gasped for breath. He felt her finger on his jugular vein and wondered if she was now about to administer the coup de grace.
“I can see why our security agencies waterboard people,” said Jensen. “Your pulse is nearly one hundred and sixty beats per minute! You’re exhibiting a full-on panic reaction. But don’t worry. You won’t drown. I need to keep you alive just a little bit longer. Now where were we? Oh yes.”
He felt the cold steel of the stiletto tip against his belly.
“If I’ve calculated correctly, and if you hold very, very still, this will miss all your major organs. Here goes!”
He screamed as she once again plunged the stiletto into his abdomen.
Verraday felt the world slipping away again, but then, as if from the bottom of a well, he heard faint but frantic knocking from downstairs and the persistent ringing of his doorbell.
Jensen put her finger to her lips.
“Shhhh! Be a good boy and don’t make any noise.”
He attempted a grunt anyway.
“You’re not listening to me,” she hissed at him.
Jensen balled her gloved hand into a fist and swung it down hard. He felt an explosion as the cartilage of his nose cracked and the blood immediately began running out of his nostrils. At the same moment, just as he was about to drift off into darkness, he felt the floor vibrate heavily under him. Despite the excruciating pain and the sensation of his skull being on fire, he knew the tremor was too heavy to be anything that originated from within him. It was help on the way. He rallied himself to stay awake. He heard the crash of his front door erupting in splinters, the clatter of broken window glass spraying across his foyer. Then he heard Maclean’s voice.
“James! Where are you?”
He was choking now on the blood running from his nose into his throat.
Jensen leaned in toward him, an angry, caustic expression on her face. She whispered, affecting an imitation of Maclean’s voice.
“‘James’? You’re on a first-name basis with that bitch now, are you? You cheating bastard.”
She kicked him hard in the ribs. Despite the air being stomped out of him, Verraday managed a tortured grunt.
“He’s upstairs,” Maclean shouted.
Jensen backed away from Verraday’s face, to his feet. She reached into her gym bag and drew out a throwing knife.
Maclean hurtled up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Verraday tried to shout a warning to her but all he could get out was a faint gurgle. Jensen raised her right hand, holding the serrated blade of the knife between her thumb and index finger as she chambered it, preparing for the throw. Verraday’s legs and arms felt like concrete. He watched in horror and frustration, time slowing to a crawl as, in his peripheral vision, he saw Maclean’s face emerging from the gloom, Glock service pistol raised in front of her.