Read Online Taken (Second Sight) by Hazel Hunter - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Hazel Hunter
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didn’t have a lot of experience with improvisational theater but he had a little. It wasn’t exactly his favorite.
“Drop your weapon,” Prentiss said, louder this time. And for emphasis, he put the gun to Isabelle’s temple and shoved. “Drop it or she gets a bullet!”
Isabelle moaned in response and Prentiss didn’t know if it was her or the way he was playing the scene but Mac held his gun in the air, dangling from one finger.
“Whatever you say,” Mac said. “You’re in control.”
Prentiss couldn’t help but smile though the mustache barely hung on.
“Drop the gun,” Prentiss ordered.
Slowly, Mac complied. He crouched lower until he could lay it on the floor and then put it down with a light clatter. Right at his feet. Then he stood.
Does he think I’m an idiot?
Prentiss glanced to his right.
“Kick it into that cell,” he ordered.
Though he took his time, Mac did as he was told. The gun skittered loudly over the concrete floor and quickly over the threshold.
Prentiss aimed the gun square at the man’s chest and stepped from behind Isabelle.
This was proving interesting .
• • • • •
Mac? Isabelle thought.
The voices were so dim.
Is that you?
God, she was tired. It would be so easy to just sleep.
The grey haze of the reading was slow to clear but something was pushed into her temple and the pain there actually helped.
“Whatever you say,” Mac said. “You’re in control.”
She tried to shake her head but it was so heavy. Though she slowly opened her heavy lids, she could barely see her lap through the haze. Then the images from the reading began to organize themselves: Prentiss with his mother, his victims, his work in acting, more victims, his preparations, all the costumes.
“Drop the gun,” Prentiss said.
The gun , Isabelle thought tiredly. Something about the gun.
But what?
She tried to shake her head again.
I can’t think.
“Kick it into that cell,” Prentiss said.
But as she heard the gun scrape across the floor, she remembered.
• • • • •
If he could keep from getting shot, Mac had a chance at saving Isabelle– if he could keep from getting shot . Backup couldn’t be far behind.
The Chameleon was true to form. The cop uniform was impressive. So was the completely different look.
Mac stared hard at Isabelle. She was alive but barely moving.
“Into the cell,” the Chameleon said, waving the gun and pointing with it.
Mac glanced at it and then back at him and realized that Isabelle had moved. Slowly, she raised her head but her staring and unfocused eyes told him that she didn’t see him.
“Fake gun,” she breathed, before her head dropped again.
The Chameleon jerked his gaze toward her and then back to Mac. The look in his face said it all: anger, surprise, and fear.
As he raised the gun to hit Isabelle with it, Mac charged him. Adrenalin compounding fury, Mac covered the space in a heartbeat.
“Shit,” the man had started to say, just as Mac slammed into him with a flying tackle.
They smashed into the ground, the fake Glock flying down the corridor, as the air rushed out of the Chameleon in a loud grunt. Mac immediately landed his fist in the middle of the man’s face and felt a second connection reverberate when the back of his head crunched into the floor. The next blow landed on the side of the Chameleon’s head sending blood from his nose spewing out in an arc that cut Mac across the chest. As he stood, Mac grabbed the front of his uniform and hauled him to his feet. Then he planted his fist so hard in the man’s stomach that his feet left the floor. Then he did it again. And again.
As the rage poured out of him, Mac grabbed the Chameleon’s throat, and forced him against the bars. Though his eyes had already begun to roll back in his head, Mac squeezed. A gurgling choke emerged from the bloody mouth, the mustache hanging from the corner, and Mac squeezed tighter, banging him against
“Drop your weapon,” Prentiss said, louder this time. And for emphasis, he put the gun to Isabelle’s temple and shoved. “Drop it or she gets a bullet!”
Isabelle moaned in response and Prentiss didn’t know if it was her or the way he was playing the scene but Mac held his gun in the air, dangling from one finger.
“Whatever you say,” Mac said. “You’re in control.”
Prentiss couldn’t help but smile though the mustache barely hung on.
“Drop the gun,” Prentiss ordered.
Slowly, Mac complied. He crouched lower until he could lay it on the floor and then put it down with a light clatter. Right at his feet. Then he stood.
Does he think I’m an idiot?
Prentiss glanced to his right.
“Kick it into that cell,” he ordered.
Though he took his time, Mac did as he was told. The gun skittered loudly over the concrete floor and quickly over the threshold.
Prentiss aimed the gun square at the man’s chest and stepped from behind Isabelle.
This was proving interesting .
• • • • •
Mac? Isabelle thought.
The voices were so dim.
Is that you?
God, she was tired. It would be so easy to just sleep.
The grey haze of the reading was slow to clear but something was pushed into her temple and the pain there actually helped.
“Whatever you say,” Mac said. “You’re in control.”
She tried to shake her head but it was so heavy. Though she slowly opened her heavy lids, she could barely see her lap through the haze. Then the images from the reading began to organize themselves: Prentiss with his mother, his victims, his work in acting, more victims, his preparations, all the costumes.
“Drop the gun,” Prentiss said.
The gun , Isabelle thought tiredly. Something about the gun.
But what?
She tried to shake her head again.
I can’t think.
“Kick it into that cell,” Prentiss said.
But as she heard the gun scrape across the floor, she remembered.
• • • • •
If he could keep from getting shot, Mac had a chance at saving Isabelle– if he could keep from getting shot . Backup couldn’t be far behind.
The Chameleon was true to form. The cop uniform was impressive. So was the completely different look.
Mac stared hard at Isabelle. She was alive but barely moving.
“Into the cell,” the Chameleon said, waving the gun and pointing with it.
Mac glanced at it and then back at him and realized that Isabelle had moved. Slowly, she raised her head but her staring and unfocused eyes told him that she didn’t see him.
“Fake gun,” she breathed, before her head dropped again.
The Chameleon jerked his gaze toward her and then back to Mac. The look in his face said it all: anger, surprise, and fear.
As he raised the gun to hit Isabelle with it, Mac charged him. Adrenalin compounding fury, Mac covered the space in a heartbeat.
“Shit,” the man had started to say, just as Mac slammed into him with a flying tackle.
They smashed into the ground, the fake Glock flying down the corridor, as the air rushed out of the Chameleon in a loud grunt. Mac immediately landed his fist in the middle of the man’s face and felt a second connection reverberate when the back of his head crunched into the floor. The next blow landed on the side of the Chameleon’s head sending blood from his nose spewing out in an arc that cut Mac across the chest. As he stood, Mac grabbed the front of his uniform and hauled him to his feet. Then he planted his fist so hard in the man’s stomach that his feet left the floor. Then he did it again. And again.
As the rage poured out of him, Mac grabbed the Chameleon’s throat, and forced him against the bars. Though his eyes had already begun to roll back in his head, Mac squeezed. A gurgling choke emerged from the bloody mouth, the mustache hanging from the corner, and Mac squeezed tighter, banging him against
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