Authors: Dean Covin
Horror ripped through her mind, slashing her thoughts back to her kidnapping: The smell of gasoline, the choke of smoke and the screams of the little girl on fire.
Feeling naked, her gun would have been useless—the muzzle flash would end her.
A boot stepped into view just outside the stall. Constrained by the tight jeans around her ankles, she immediately raised both feet, thrusting them forward hard while screaming, smashing the door open the wrong way, splitting the hinges as it slammed into somebody approaching on the other side.
She leaped to her feet and hopped from the stall toward the window. Her denim-bound feet slipped on the gasoline. She caught her weight on the counter when a hand seized her arm and yanked her backward. As she fell into her attacker’s body, she managed to spring herself upward catching him under the chin with the top of her skull.
Starved for breath, she inhaled a deep draw of fumes and drizzling fluid, causing her to instantly lose any air gained to retching coughs. Sharp fingers clamped the back of her thigh. She hopped away from the grip and toward the counter again, desperately trying in vain to kick her feet free. He came up from behind again but she managed to drive a hard elbow into his solar plexus. Terror filled her as she caught a glimpse of the lighter in his hand. “
No
!” she cried.
With tight, gas-soaked jeans bound around her ankles, she launched herself with a panicked dive through the low-hung glass. She stretched out her hands but still hit the gravel of the empty back lane hard as her leather belt caught on a sharp edge of the window, suspending her feet in the air.
She twisted onto one side to see hands grabbing for her kicking ankles and finally making firm purchase on the crumpled waist of her jeans. She screamed at the top of her lungs, spitting past the deadly fuel in her mouth. He lifted the lighter in his other hand, thumbing to strike it. In one desperate move, she pressed her elbow into the broken glass around her, raising the lower half of her body into the air, and then thrashed outward, knocking the lighter from his fingers and back into the restroom.
He disappeared for a moment, tugging the jeans around her ankles harder. He pulled on her again, harder and harder, trying to extend his reach and then relented, releasing her feet to retrieve the lighter.
She stole those seconds to kick wildly enough to free herself from her snagged jeans. The flesh of her exposed behind fell down hard, scraping against an old wooden pallet as she hit the glass-covered ground. Her rabid kicks quickly launched into a sprint as she screamed for help. The blinding sunlight and dripping gasoline blurred her vision but she saw her pursuer scramble out the window after her.
She only made it a few awkward steps; her shoes remained caught in her jeans dangling from the window. One of her pursuer’s hands on her hair ripped her head backward, and another hand grabbed her arm, and she spun. She was able to unleash three painful, targeted blows to his throat and torso before the barrage shifted to his advantage, and she was forced into defensive mode.
Fending off most of his well-trained strikes, a few broke through—connecting hard. Momentarily blinded by a stinging blow to the face—her mouth exploded with the taste of copper pennies—her left dropped its guard. He drove a solid fist into her stomach, buckling her to her knees.
He moved in with the lighter as she keeled over.
Oh, no
. She smashed upward with a hard blow against his wrist sending the lighter soaring again. The noxious fumes lined her lungs as she panted hard. They clashed in an even onslaught, blow for blow. Her vision burned and blurred as the gasoline continued to drip from her hair. He pounded his massive fists against her arms and elbows, her training repeatedly saving her body from the worst of it. One blow slipped though. His powerful punch caught her in the stomach again, lifting her momentarily off her feet and sending her crashing to the ground; her forearm blocking his hard boot flying at her face.
† †
†
“Freeze!” Roscoe yelled. The attacker launched left and around the corner, Roscoe rounded immediately behind him. The powerful gasoline fumes momentarily distracted the sheriff, his mind quickly computing the likelihood of a fired bullet igniting the scene.
The attacker had stopped just around the corner expecting to be chased. The man rushed back at the sheriff with a sharp, surprise blow to the stomach—Roscoe’s breath exploding from his lungs. The sheriff fought to hold the grip on his gun as his knees crashed into the hard concrete. The powerful blindside was the most painful punch to the gut he’d had ever received in his life, and there had been many.
Winded, he realized Vicki’s screams had changed. Was she calling his name? His head was swimming.
The fumes
? The sturdy brick walls around him tilted as she cried his name again. Was she warning him? He was sure he could still hear the heavy footfalls of Vicki’s attacker getting farther away. His ears were burning now, could he trust them? Gasping for breath, he tried to focus his attention behind him in case another blow was coming. That tipped him over, careening forward as his head came down hard against the solid asphalt.
Another scream, “Roscoe!” Weaker this time. His breath wasn’t returning from the punch, but he could still smell the powerful poisonous fumes of gasoline wafting from her fallen body. She was hurt. He needed to focus. Call for help. His vision dazzled before him. He raised his fingers to his face to confirm that he could still count. His world went black just as he caught sight of his blood-soaked hand.
† †
†
Vicki pulled herself to her knees and crawled to him, watching for her assailant’s return. “
Roscoe
.” She balanced her hands on his shoulder, lowering her ear to his mouth. Tiny breaths. “Help!” she screamed through gagging coughs into the hot afternoon sun.
She foraged for his radio. “Stay with me, John.” She repeated aloud, this time into his mic, “Help! Help! Officer down!” Her eyes shot to the dark shadow of the attacker’s escape, certain she had seen movement. She straddled herself over Roscoe in an unconscious attempt to protect him—her hands and knees burning on the pavement. Knowing she was doused in gasoline, not to mention naked from the waist down, it wasn’t the smartest idea. But her head was still reeling from the sudden brutal attack and the hard repeated blows.
Vicki forced herself to remain conscious as she reiterated her plea to the squelch and response from the station. She could already hear the speeding sirens approaching. Keeping an eye to the shadows, she took a quick, fumbling moment to pull off her jacket and wrap it around her waist.
She placed a tender hand on the side of the sheriff’s face, trembling uncontrollably—and not just from the cold, evaporating gasoline. Speaking tentatively, tears couldn’t flush the fuel from her eyes. “John, you stay with me, you hear?”
Fully scrubbed and in fresh clothes, Vicki was still haunted by the scent of gasoline for a second time in New Brighton. Her body throbbed as she leaned against the doorway, too sore to sit from the bruising and the stitches in her left thigh and buttock. She watched Sheriff Roscoe recovering peacefully.
Deputy Parsons had just left with a description of the large hooded assailant with military-level combat skills. “He couldn’t have been a townie,” the deputy had admitted, “because he had a knife, not a gun. Everyone in town knows you’re FBI and that you were armed. Not that you could have used it,” she added, smelling the lingering hint of gasoline.
Vicki agreed. Only Roscoe, Hank and the pervert in the bushes knew that Vicki didn’t have her gun. Then there was the intimate nature of the attack. The balloon wasn’t conventional latex, which wouldn’t have held the fuel for long. Care was taken to plan an attack that took Vicki’s hypersensitivity to gasoline into account.
She was relieved when the doctor said Roscoe would be okay. “Significant blood loss but, miraculously, the blade did only superficial damage to his liver and large intestine. He’s an extraordinarily lucky man.” Then he added, “And since he’s refusing to stay for more than a day or two, we’re all lucky.”
Her legs were too sore to fight any longer. She slid into the bedside chair and sat quietly for about ten minutes, watching him. His face turned to her. “I brought a gun to a knife fight and lost. Not my brightest hour.” His chuckle hurt.
“You saved my life regardless.” She touched his face. “Thank you.”
He grinned his wicked grin. “You know where to plant it, baby.”
She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, whispering this time, “
Thank you, John.
”
He blushed. “I was kidding.” He was.
“No you weren’t.” She smiled and left the room.
An hour later, she signed her discharge papers and returned to his room. Rose sat by his side, holding his hand.
“You okay?” Rose asked, handing Vicki her loaner Glock.
Vicki nodded and smiled at Roscoe. “Thanks to your husband.”
“You wanna thank me? Put on a hot little nurse’s uniform and mount up!” he said, slapping his thighs, trying to hide his wince.
Seeing through his inability to take a real compliment, Vicki stroked his shoulder gently and whispered into his ear, “Maybe later.” She winked at Rose, who smiled back. Vicki wiggled toward the door, offering him a full show to linger upon. It was the least she could do.
“I should deputize her.” He sighed.
“You should behave,” Rose countered, knowing that was a long shot.
† †
†
Cole looked from the report on his phone to the man dangling upside down from the rusting metal rafters. “You sell yourself short, my friend. I would have asked for more money—though I doubt your employers are as wealthy as mine. Regardless the attack was pretty stupid. It would’ve changed nothing.”
Cole knew this guy wasn’t responsible for the first attack on Miss Starr and her partner. Had he not been chased out of town that night, he would have had his hooks in that little shit too. This guy had been hired after the other had failed—and now he gets to pay for his client’s persistence.
He read further. “Ex-military. That practically makes us brothers”—he feigned a heavy sigh—“which makes this so sad. The problem is,
she’s mine
. Besides, you’re a bit of a disgrace. Using gasoline against a woman—especially with her history—that’s cold. Let’s warm you up.”
“No. Please!”
The man in the gray hoodie burst into flames.
† †
†
As Vicki acclimated to the heavy, charred smell of the catacombs, she found Hank leaving the hidden chamber.
“Well?” she asked.
“Oh, hey.” He scowled. “Total loss.” He nodded at her angst. “And, so far, we have no idea which entrance they used. Forensics is on it—they feel as shitty as Parsons.” He looked at her. “You okay?” Hank had left the hospital a couple of hours ago to check on the fire damage.
She was sore, shaken, but would be fine. Viewing the carnage, Vicki did want a throat to choke, but that would change nothing.
Hank texted an update to Kempt.
“You can get a signal down here?”
“The forensic team’s portable cell booster was one of the few things that survived—it’s just outside the door.”
As proof, her jacket hummed. She answered.
“I can’t believe why I’m calling you,” Charlie said. “In all my years, I’ve never dreamed of something this bizarre.”
Vicki took a seat on a soot-soiled metal fuel barrel. It didn’t matter that it was dirty; she didn’t know if she could take this case anymore. Everything in her warned of another impending physiological bomb.
“If I hadn’t found your blood on those clothes—” He was rambling, not hearing Vicki’s interruptions past his apologetic confusion. “I had no reason to check this—a total fluke. I never would’ve—”
“Just tell me!” Her echoed yell drew Hank’s attention.
“I found a match, Vicki.” If the pause was for dramatic effect, it only served to make her sick feeling thicken. Her beseeching, depleted eyes turned up to Hank as he stepped to her side.
Charlie’s words caused Vicki Starr’s world to implode.
“Your
twin
sister
?” Hank could scarcely form the words.
Vicki could barely nod.
A soul will never attach to strangers
, Sky had insisted.
“
Ivy Turner
… your twin sister.”
Her inflamed eyes filled from frustration rather than sadness. “I don’t”—her voice caught in her throat—“I don’t understand.” Tears spilled onto her hot cheeks.
Hank scanned the irrelevant chamber for answers as confusion took hold. His face twisted in inexplicable loss. “Twins—that … doesn’t even make sense.” He turned and challenged the flame-gutted room again. “I mean, your birthdays don’t even match.”
She shrugged. “So Dad lied—no big shock there.” Even with her hand braced on the barrel, her head spun. “No wonder my horoscopes were always off.” She couldn’t laugh. Had she just gained, or lost, two months of her life?
“That’s not the worst of it,” she said.
It was Hank’s turn to take a dirty barrel.
“Charlie said that Ivy and I were the result of
heteropaternal superfecundation
—”
“What the hell does that mean?”
She glanced up. “Fraternal twins … from two fathers.”
“How the hell does that work?”
“Because, apparently,
good ol’ Mom
had sex with Dad
and
another man at practically the same time.” She swallowed her shame. “Means I come from some pretty awesome stock.” She wiped her tears.
Vicki envisioned her beloved mother … and her powerful father. The rage that the affair would have induced—Lionel Starr’s insistence that his wife discard the illegitimate infant. Vicki wondered now, how often had her mother looked into Vicki’s eyes and recalled only loss? The revelation tore at Vicki’s soul. Could a simple turn of fate have destined Vicki, rather than Ivy, to be gutted on the table?
“This changes nothing about who you are.”
“No, Hank, it changes everything.” She sobbed under the crushing weight of the revelation.
Hank handed her a small packet of tissues from his pocket. “What are the odds of you landing your twin sister’s case?”
She remembered her nightmare but said nothing.
Hank had to stand, his face gray with confusion. He circled the room, combing his fingers through his hair. He turned to her, admitting, “This is fucked.”
His barefaced exasperation with
her
personal hell actually made Vicki laugh.
† †
†
“She’s in a hurry.” Cole followed the GPS tracking dot betraying Vicki’s location.
He set his phone down on a stump so he could view the screen as he leaned against the log. The thick forest air was rich, warmed by the late afternoon sun. He pulled off his black jacket so he could expose his arm.
Cole grew to love the needle’s pinch—delivering the experimental serum into his vein—like a man grows to crave the harsh bite of strong Scotch. Possessive of the surge that coursed through his muscles, he hoped it never cleared the go-ahead for human trials.
He felt twenty years younger—and supercharged. The stronger grip, the faster reflexes—the endurance. His heightened senses and awareness were addictive. Sure, the more he used, the angrier—and more lascivious—he got, but he could live with that.
As he watched her car, turn by turn, via the GPS tracker, he pictured her flawless young body and pushed against the tension in his groin with the palm of his hand. “Soon,” he whispered, as the pulsing dot grew closer.
† †
†
As Vicki pulled around her now-familiar corner, something new caught her attention. Her twisted gut pinched harder. The black vehicle protruding from the trees just past the berm belonged to the dark man; she was sure of it.
Vicki wasn’t finished being angry. Parental betrayal can be the most vicious salt in any wound. Now she had a target for her rage. She pulled into the trees.
“You’re not getting away this time, fucker.” She pulled her new weapon, confirmed the vehicle was empty and then stepped cautiously into the woods.
† †
†
He watched through the trees. She had taken the bait. “Come, little fly.” All week he had watched her take this same road, sometimes three times a day—small town routine had grown on her. He had left just enough of his car exposed in the brush to catch her attention. Like the moth, drawn to its fiery fate, she drew in after him. Even with all her frights, the woman was obstinate. He liked that.
He loved the thrill of stalking, but now the game had changed. He had been moving wide to flank her, but she spied him. “
Clever girl
,” he whispered, but the professional in him wasn’t happy that he had been seen so quickly—he liked it better when his prey didn’t know he was there.
But Vicki Starr was better than most, and there was a shiny, strange stirring in him, a thrill that had never been present before. She was actually trying to stalk
him
—as if she had a chance. Most people were not so futilely brave or reckless.
The firelight coursing through his muscles fueled his delight. Cole didn’t play games, but as it was afoot, something deep within him, something fresh, like a new childhood friend, wanted to play.
He knew she thought she was following him, that she had the upper hand and would soon be able to strike. He let her feel that way. He wouldn’t need another delicious shot of his slow-burning adrenaline cocktail for hours. Until then he was superior in all ways.
He also knew this part of the forest. He had studied it for days, and it was far removed from that hateful bitch on the dark side of the woods, far to his left.
He allowed Vicki to follow him closer, toward the hidden entrance. Not because he couldn’t easily carry her limp body into it from anywhere out here, but because this was more fun. Maybe it was the new juice talking, but—unlike the dozens of meticulous, professionally executed jobs before her—this time he felt compelled to have some fun.
And the little fly stalked the spider into his web.
† †
†
She momentarily lost sight of him. She knew the man was moving fifty paces ahead of her when her periphery picked up something incongruent. There was a right angle among the soft contours of nature’s architecture.
She should have ignored it, but the moss and decaying forest floor concealed something man-made, like a large buried frame on the ground, camouflaged around wet graying planks of heavy wood.
A door,
she thought. A black-gloved hand seized her face from behind as a pinch of icy pressure pushed into the side of her neck.