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Authors: J. A. Konrath
Tags: thriller
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happening.
“Had some sort of scope,” Munchel goes on. “Some infrared night-vision bullshit.”
“Could she ID you?” Pessolano asks.
“Abso-fucking-lutely.”
Swanson tries to think, tries to remember if his passport is up-to-date.
“We can go to Mexico,” he says. “We can leave to night.”
Munchel snorts. “Hell no. I love America. I’m not leaving. Not because of some split-tail. Besides – there’s another option.”
Swanson’s heart is beating faster than when he took the shot and killed the pervert. He should be feeling good right now. Satisfied. Complete. Maybe even a little excited. Killing Rob Siders had been easier than he thought, and every detail had been executed perfectly. But instead of celebrating, he feels terrified and ready to throw up.
“What option?” Pessolano asks.
“I put that GPS tracker you lent me on her car.” Munchel grins wide, his teeth the color of corn. “I know where she lives.”
8:22 P.M.
JACK
“L ET’S PLAY A GAME,” Alex says.
I sit on the sofa. My hands rest in my lap, the handcuffs digging painfully into my wrists. My ankles are wrapped in silver duct tape. Latham has tape on his legs, wrists, and mouth. Alex dragged my mother, still bound to the kitchen chair, into the living room with us. Mom’s eyelids are drooping. She doesn’t look well.
Alex holds a nickel-plated revolver. It has a two-inch barrel and a rubber grip. A small gun. It probably only holds five bullets. My guess is confirmed when Alex swings the cylinder out and pushes the ejector rod, dumping five.32-caliber rounds into her palm. She thumbs one back into an empty chamber, spins the cylinder, and slaps it closed.
“I’m going to ask you some questions, Jack. If you get one wrong, I’m going to point the gun at either your mother or your fiancé, and pull the trigger. Like this.”
Alex aims at my mother and fires before the cry can leave my throat.
The hammer falls on an empty chamber with a metallic
click.
“A one out of five chance,” Alex says. “Those are pretty good odds. Do you understand the game?”
I push the panic down, deep down, forcing myself to think rather than react to fear.
“What if I get the answer right?” I ask.
“Then I’ll ask another one.” Alex spins the cylinder. “Let’s begin.”
She walks over to me and stares down. Her eyes are empty. I wonder if she’s enjoying this. She doesn’t seem to be.
Alex doesn’t have the classic male psychopathic response, because her particular mental disorder isn’t linked to sex and testosterone. That means she stays calm, works within her peculiar kind of rationalization, without letting emotion take over. Her cruelty isn’t hot and breathy. It’s cold and calculating.
In my opinion, that makes it worse.
“How did I escape from Heathrow?” Alex asks me.
What is she looking for? Praise? Begging? Cowering? Or does she just want a wrong answer so she can shoot someone I love while I watch?
“You lured someone into your room, burned them, and took their ID. A guard, maybe.”
“It wasn’t a guard. Try again.”
“Another inmate.”
Alex snorts. “If I took another inmate’s place, I’d be sitting in her cell right now. One more guess, then we play some Russian roulette.”
I rack my brain, trying to remember what I know about Alex, about her past. She grew up with a family of psychos. She liked to kill animals. She was infatuated with her brother. She could act normal, function within society, until her peculiar tastes took over. She used to be a marine. She was an expert marksperson, and an expert martial artist. She murdered many people, torturing most of them first. She was of above-average intelligence. She had been analyzed by many specialists.
Many specialists.
“Your shrink,” I decide.
Alex has killed several of her psychiatrists. She seems to get a particular thrill out of it, and I could easily picture her carrying on that legacy at Heathrow.
I know I’m
“Had some sort of scope,” Munchel goes on. “Some infrared night-vision bullshit.”
“Could she ID you?” Pessolano asks.
“Abso-fucking-lutely.”
Swanson tries to think, tries to remember if his passport is up-to-date.
“We can go to Mexico,” he says. “We can leave to night.”
Munchel snorts. “Hell no. I love America. I’m not leaving. Not because of some split-tail. Besides – there’s another option.”
Swanson’s heart is beating faster than when he took the shot and killed the pervert. He should be feeling good right now. Satisfied. Complete. Maybe even a little excited. Killing Rob Siders had been easier than he thought, and every detail had been executed perfectly. But instead of celebrating, he feels terrified and ready to throw up.
“What option?” Pessolano asks.
“I put that GPS tracker you lent me on her car.” Munchel grins wide, his teeth the color of corn. “I know where she lives.”
8:22 P.M.
JACK
“L ET’S PLAY A GAME,” Alex says.
I sit on the sofa. My hands rest in my lap, the handcuffs digging painfully into my wrists. My ankles are wrapped in silver duct tape. Latham has tape on his legs, wrists, and mouth. Alex dragged my mother, still bound to the kitchen chair, into the living room with us. Mom’s eyelids are drooping. She doesn’t look well.
Alex holds a nickel-plated revolver. It has a two-inch barrel and a rubber grip. A small gun. It probably only holds five bullets. My guess is confirmed when Alex swings the cylinder out and pushes the ejector rod, dumping five.32-caliber rounds into her palm. She thumbs one back into an empty chamber, spins the cylinder, and slaps it closed.
“I’m going to ask you some questions, Jack. If you get one wrong, I’m going to point the gun at either your mother or your fiancé, and pull the trigger. Like this.”
Alex aims at my mother and fires before the cry can leave my throat.
The hammer falls on an empty chamber with a metallic
click.
“A one out of five chance,” Alex says. “Those are pretty good odds. Do you understand the game?”
I push the panic down, deep down, forcing myself to think rather than react to fear.
“What if I get the answer right?” I ask.
“Then I’ll ask another one.” Alex spins the cylinder. “Let’s begin.”
She walks over to me and stares down. Her eyes are empty. I wonder if she’s enjoying this. She doesn’t seem to be.
Alex doesn’t have the classic male psychopathic response, because her particular mental disorder isn’t linked to sex and testosterone. That means she stays calm, works within her peculiar kind of rationalization, without letting emotion take over. Her cruelty isn’t hot and breathy. It’s cold and calculating.
In my opinion, that makes it worse.
“How did I escape from Heathrow?” Alex asks me.
What is she looking for? Praise? Begging? Cowering? Or does she just want a wrong answer so she can shoot someone I love while I watch?
“You lured someone into your room, burned them, and took their ID. A guard, maybe.”
“It wasn’t a guard. Try again.”
“Another inmate.”
Alex snorts. “If I took another inmate’s place, I’d be sitting in her cell right now. One more guess, then we play some Russian roulette.”
I rack my brain, trying to remember what I know about Alex, about her past. She grew up with a family of psychos. She liked to kill animals. She was infatuated with her brother. She could act normal, function within society, until her peculiar tastes took over. She used to be a marine. She was an expert marksperson, and an expert martial artist. She murdered many people, torturing most of them first. She was of above-average intelligence. She had been analyzed by many specialists.
Many specialists.
“Your shrink,” I decide.
Alex has killed several of her psychiatrists. She seems to get a particular thrill out of it, and I could easily picture her carrying on that legacy at Heathrow.
I know I’m
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