Killer Instinct
Page 55

“Now…” You draw the word out and tap the butt of the rifle thoughtfully against the ground. “Who’s first?”
Adrenaline is already starting to pump through your body. You are powerful. You are the hunter. They are the prey.
“Me.” The FBI agent is the one who speaks. Doesn’t she realize she’s nothing but a deer in your target?
You’re the hunter.
She’s the prey.
You grab the younger one by the elbow. “You.” You breathe the word directly into her face. Let her shrink back from it, from you. “You’re first.” The smell of fear is tantalizing. You smile. “I hope you can run.”
He pulled a knife out of his boot. I pictured it coming toward me. I felt it slicing through skin and muscle, peeling the flesh from my bone. But instead, our captor knelt. He trailed the flat of the blade down the side of my cheek. He paused at my neck, then moved slowly down towards my wrists. The blade hovered over my arm for a moment. He traced the tip lightly over a vein, but didn’t press down hard enough to cut.
With one slash, my hands were free.
He returned the knife to his boot and untied the rope around my torso by hand. He relished the task, drinking it in, savoring it. His hands brushed against my stomach, my side, my back.
Soon, I was free. I glanced over at Agent Sterling. She’d wanted to go first, wanted to buy me time—but for what? This was the only way out. If he really gave me a head start, if I ran hard enough…
You want me to think I have a chance, don’t you?
Even knowing that, I still clung to the hope that two minutes might be enough time to disappear in the woods outside.
There was a way out of this—I had to believe that. I had to fight.
He put a hand in the middle of my back and pushed me roughly toward the door.
“Cassie.” Agent Sterling’s voice broke as she said my name. “You’ve been buried alive in a glass coffin with a sleeping cobra on your chest. There’s a way out. There’s always a way.”
Our captor didn’t give me the chance to turn around. To say good-bye. An instant later, I was on the porch. Sterling’s earlier description was spot-on—we were completely surrounded by woods, but at its closest point, the edge of the woods was about fifteen yards off. The trees were denser farther in. I’d need the cover.
I needed a plan.
“Two minutes. Starting now.”
He shoved me off the porch. I stumbled. My face throbbed.
I ran.
I ran as hard as I could, as fast as I could, for the densest trees I could find. I reached cover in seconds—less than ten, more than five. I tore my way through the brush until my lungs started to burn. I looked back. I couldn’t see him through the forest, which meant he couldn’t see me.
How much time had passed? How much did I have left?
There’s always a way out.
Running wasn’t a solution. The man hunting me had a longer stride than I did. He had a runner’s build, and he didn’t need to catch me—he just needed to get me in his sights.
Two minutes is nothing.
My only hope was losing him, sending him one way while I was going the other. It went against every instinct I had, but I backtracked. I split off from the trail I’d laid the first time, stepping lightly and staying low, ducking into heavy brush and hoping to God he’d follow my original path and not this one.
A twig snapped somewhere nearby. I went deathly still.
Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me.
Another snap. Another footstep.
Moving away from me. He’s moving away.
I didn’t have much time before he’d realize his mistake. I didn’t have anywhere to go. I couldn’t keep running. Could I climb? Bury myself in brush? I crossed a small stream, wishing it were a river. I’d toss myself in. I heard a yell—almost inhuman-sounding.
He must have hit the end of my original trail, discovered my little trick. He’d be moving fast now, determined to recover lost ground.
You’re not angry. Not really. This is the game. You know you’ll find me. You know I won’t escape. There’s probably nothing to escape to.
I had no idea where we were—all I knew was that I had to do something. I knelt down and grabbed a rock. It barely fit in my hand. With my other hand, I reached for a branch overhead and gritted my teeth—which made the pain worse, not better.
No time. No time for pain. Climb. Climb. Climb.
I could only grip with one hand, but I made use of the other arm, hooking it around branches, ignoring the way the bark tore at tender skin. I went as high as I could before the branches became too thin to support my weight and the leaves too sparse to cover me. I transferred the rock from my left hand to my right and used the left to steady myself.
Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me.
I heard him—fifty yards away. Forty. Thirty. I saw him when he stepped into view, crossing the stream.
Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me.
His eyes were on the ground. Tracks. I’d left tracks—and they stopped right under this tree. I knew the second he was going to look up. I only had time for one thought, one silent plea.
Don’t miss.
My arm whipped the rock at him so hard, I nearly knocked myself out of the tree. He looked up.
I didn’t miss.
The rock caught him just above the eye. He went down, but didn’t stay down, and as he climbed from his knees to his feet, bleeding and dazed, but very much alive, I felt the adrenaline that had pushed me to this point evaporate. There would be no superhuman feats of strength or speed. This was it: him aiming the rifle into the tree, and me clinging to a branch fifteen feet up in the air, shaking and bleeding, with nothing left to throw.
“Out of tricks?” he called up, his finger toying with the trigger.
I thought of Agent Sterling back in the cabin. He’d go for her next, run her through this sick little game.
No.
I did the only thing there was left to do. I jumped.
The gun went off. The shot went wide, and I crashed into him, feet first. We both went down in a tangle of limbs. He kept hold of the rifle, but I was too close for him to point it at me.
Three seconds.
That was how long it took for him to get the upper hand, to wrestle me to the ground. He pinned me with one hand, then rose to a crouch and slammed a foot into my chest, replacing his hand. Head wound bleeding heavily, he stood. From my position on the ground, he looked impossibly tall. Invincible.
He brought the gun to his shoulder. The tip of the barrel was less than three feet away from my body. It hovered over my midsection for a few seconds, then settled just over my forehead.
I closed my eyes.
“Take them. Free them. Track them. Kill—” He cut off, suddenly and without warning. It was only later that my brain processed the sound of gunfire, the rush of footsteps coming toward me.
“Cassie. Cassie.”
I didn’t want to open my eyes. If I opened my eyes, it might not be real. The gun might still be there. He might still be there.
“Cassandra.” There was only one man in the universe who could say my full name in exactly that tone.
I opened my eyes. “Briggs.”
“Webber’s dead.” He clarified that point before asking me if I was okay.
“Webber?” I croaked. I knew the name, but my mind couldn’t process it, couldn’t process the fact that the man who’d done this to me even had a name.
“Anthony Webber,” Briggs confirmed, doing a cursory check of my injuries, tallying them, down to every last detail.
“Sterling?” I managed to ask.
“She’s safe.”
“How did you—”
Briggs held up a hand and dug his phone out with the other. The call he made was brief and to the point: “I’ve got her. She’s fine.” Then he turned his attention back to me and answered the question I hadn’t even finished asking. “Once we realized the two of you were missing and unaccounted for, the director threw the entire agency behind finding you. He kept saying that Veronica had tried to tell him something was off about this case.”