Read Online Unlawful Contact by Pamela Clare - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Pamela Clare
Tags: Contemporary
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prison-issue tennis shoes offering little more in the way of traction, the skin on his back prickling with the imagined heat of red lasers. He’d worked the other end of the rifle for too long and could almost hear the snipers’ thoughts in his mind.
Slip. Drop the girl. Raise your head up just an inch, you bastard!
Her car was parked nearby—the first space in the second row. He fought for footing, skidded into the door, his knees crashing against metal as the first shot rang out.
Sophie screamed, and for one terrible moment Marc feared she’d been hit. Then he felt it—searing pain in his shoulder.
“Shit!” He slipped the key into the lock, jerked the door open, then shoved Sophie through the door and piled in behind her. “Scoot over!”
An explosion of weapons fire.
A barrage of bullets.
The driver’s side window and mirror shattered, glass spraying through the air as rounds shredded the door where he’d been standing a split second ago.
Keeping low, he slammed the door, slid the key into the ignition, and gunned the engine. Then, both hands on the steering wheel, he fishtailed out of the parking lot and toward the highway. “Put on your seat belt, sweetheart. This ride is likely to get rough.”
CHAPTER 4
T RAPPED IN A nightmare, Sophie sat, shivering, a prisoner in the passenger seat of her own car, barely able to breathe as her kidnapper sped west on Highway 6 through the darkness and swirling snow. Freezing air blasted through the shattered driver’s side window, blowing away the warmth of the car’s heater and carrying in fat flakes that melted on her skin and clothes, leaving her damp and chilled to the bone.
The road behind them was a river of squad cars—state patrol, county sheriff, city police—their red and blue lights flashing through the storm and glinting off the rearview mirror. They’d long since cut the banshee shriek of their sirens and were running silent. From overhead came the choppy beat of a helicopter, its searchlight flooding both the road and the car’s interior, illuminating the whirling snow and turning night into surreal day.
The highway was eerily empty, no headlights coming toward them, no taillights ahead of them. Had the state patrol closed the highway? They must have. They were trying to clear the way, to prevent an accident, to keep people safe.
She glanced at the speedometer again and felt her stomach lurch.
He was going sixty-five . In her car. In a fricking blizzard. At night.
How could this man be the brother Megan loved so much? If he was afraid, he didn’t show it, his face expressionless. He wasn’t even shivering, though he ought to have been much colder than she was. After all, he was right next to the window. His face and beard were beaded with moisture, his prison smock damp.
He isn’t human, Alton. He has ice for blood.
The car slipped, its rear wheels skidding as the road curved to the north.
“Oh, God!” She squeezed her eyes shut, gripped the door handle tighter, her heart kicking against her breastbone.
But as quickly as he’d lost control, he regained it. “Relax, Sophie. It’s not time to start praying—not yet.”
“Re-relax?” She opened her eyes and gaped at him, fighting the hysterical laughter that bubbled up inside her. “H-how about y-you slow d-own?”
“Why?” He glanced at the rearview mirror, then back at the road. “Do you think they’ll give me a speeding ticket?”
Ass! Bastard! Son of a bitch!
She wished she were brave enough to shout all the four-letter words she was thinking. Did he really think he would get away with this? What did he possibly stand to gain?
He’s LWOP Alton. Life without parole.
Unless he murdered someone, they couldn’t do anything to him beyond locking him in solitary in the maximum-security wing. He could steal, maim, rape and be no worse off when they eventually caught him. Every moment of freedom would be a holiday for him, a vacation from the boredom of prison, a
Slip. Drop the girl. Raise your head up just an inch, you bastard!
Her car was parked nearby—the first space in the second row. He fought for footing, skidded into the door, his knees crashing against metal as the first shot rang out.
Sophie screamed, and for one terrible moment Marc feared she’d been hit. Then he felt it—searing pain in his shoulder.
“Shit!” He slipped the key into the lock, jerked the door open, then shoved Sophie through the door and piled in behind her. “Scoot over!”
An explosion of weapons fire.
A barrage of bullets.
The driver’s side window and mirror shattered, glass spraying through the air as rounds shredded the door where he’d been standing a split second ago.
Keeping low, he slammed the door, slid the key into the ignition, and gunned the engine. Then, both hands on the steering wheel, he fishtailed out of the parking lot and toward the highway. “Put on your seat belt, sweetheart. This ride is likely to get rough.”
CHAPTER 4
T RAPPED IN A nightmare, Sophie sat, shivering, a prisoner in the passenger seat of her own car, barely able to breathe as her kidnapper sped west on Highway 6 through the darkness and swirling snow. Freezing air blasted through the shattered driver’s side window, blowing away the warmth of the car’s heater and carrying in fat flakes that melted on her skin and clothes, leaving her damp and chilled to the bone.
The road behind them was a river of squad cars—state patrol, county sheriff, city police—their red and blue lights flashing through the storm and glinting off the rearview mirror. They’d long since cut the banshee shriek of their sirens and were running silent. From overhead came the choppy beat of a helicopter, its searchlight flooding both the road and the car’s interior, illuminating the whirling snow and turning night into surreal day.
The highway was eerily empty, no headlights coming toward them, no taillights ahead of them. Had the state patrol closed the highway? They must have. They were trying to clear the way, to prevent an accident, to keep people safe.
She glanced at the speedometer again and felt her stomach lurch.
He was going sixty-five . In her car. In a fricking blizzard. At night.
How could this man be the brother Megan loved so much? If he was afraid, he didn’t show it, his face expressionless. He wasn’t even shivering, though he ought to have been much colder than she was. After all, he was right next to the window. His face and beard were beaded with moisture, his prison smock damp.
He isn’t human, Alton. He has ice for blood.
The car slipped, its rear wheels skidding as the road curved to the north.
“Oh, God!” She squeezed her eyes shut, gripped the door handle tighter, her heart kicking against her breastbone.
But as quickly as he’d lost control, he regained it. “Relax, Sophie. It’s not time to start praying—not yet.”
“Re-relax?” She opened her eyes and gaped at him, fighting the hysterical laughter that bubbled up inside her. “H-how about y-you slow d-own?”
“Why?” He glanced at the rearview mirror, then back at the road. “Do you think they’ll give me a speeding ticket?”
Ass! Bastard! Son of a bitch!
She wished she were brave enough to shout all the four-letter words she was thinking. Did he really think he would get away with this? What did he possibly stand to gain?
He’s LWOP Alton. Life without parole.
Unless he murdered someone, they couldn’t do anything to him beyond locking him in solitary in the maximum-security wing. He could steal, maim, rape and be no worse off when they eventually caught him. Every moment of freedom would be a holiday for him, a vacation from the boredom of prison, a
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