Chapter Thirty-Five
River lay beneath a pile of books and broken knickknacks. Damn his arm hurt like a son of a bitch. Had the impact broken it? God, he hoped not.
When Kent had checked out the reason for the crash, River had laid still, played dead. And the bastard had bought it. Then Vicki’s bold attempt to piss off her captor had come, to challenge him, trick him into loosening her bonds. She wouldn’t go down without a fight. River grinned. God, I love that woman.
Kent still droned a succession of foreign words. Candlelight flickered. Died. Brightened.
River moved his leg, discovering the bookcase he’d brought down atop himself had broken the chair he’d been tied to. He shifted. Books slid off his body, bumped into others on the floor. Bits of glass and ceramic crunched and popped. He glanced toward the doorway, and when he realized his movements hadn’t caused alarm, he tugged his arm free.
The chanting ceased, and River froze. Is he coming back?
“Don’t stop now, you psychotic prick,” Vicki taunted. “Your constant babble almost put me to sleep.”
Damn, he needed to hurry. The undertone of fear lacing her words told him her brave front was faltering. Soon she would panic, and Kent would have exactly what he wanted. A terrified woman, her heart pounding—the ideal sacrifice.
With a sharp twist, he freed one hand then untied the other. Rolling, he pushed the bookcase up enough to scoot from beneath it, broken chair and all. Damn heavy piece of furniture. He let it fall onto the scattered books with a muffled thump.
Kent’s voice wafted through the air, his chants resuming.
River scrambled to his feet, and his thigh screamed with a sharp pain. Half a dozen paces away, his gun lay on the counter. He could get it, end the madness in the next room. Focusing, he forced himself to straighten and ignore the injury.
Vicki whimpered, her resolve clearly crumbling. The sound of her terror ripped at his soul. The gibberish Kent spoke intensified, each syllable a spike shooting through the air.
River stumbled to the counter. The cool grip of the .40 cal beneath his hand speared optimism in his heart. The tight knot twisting his gut loosened. He could save her. Salvation was at hand.
“You bastard! No!” Vicki’s screams slashed the air. “Oh God!”
Air jammed in his throat, and he took a step toward her. Stopped. The urge to dive headlong to her rescue all but overwhelmed him. He sucked in a breath, let his training take lead.
With a quick jerk of the Glock’s slide, he chambered a round. Pain seared his biceps, but he ignored it. He bent his arms, positioned the gun near his cheek, the end of the barrel pointed at the ceiling.
“River!”
Her cries clawed at him. Then she went quiet.
Controlled bursts of air rushed in and out his mouth. Half a dozen long strides and he stood at the doorway. He shut his eyes tight. Dear God, what if I’m already too late?
“River, help me!”
He opened his eyes, sucked in a breath, and stepped into the dining room. Vicki lay on the table, her face contorted with fear, every inch of her tense with terror. Her sweater had been ripped open, exposing her creamy skin and lacy bra.
No blood. A trickle of relief coursed through him, threatened to weaken his knees.
He aimed his pistol at Kent, who loomed over her. The bastard gripped the hunting knife he’d dubbed his new athame in both hands, held it high in the air. His ritual interrupted, Kent looked up, and surprise jolted River.
Dear God in Heaven. Those eyes. Candle flames reflected in the man’s depthless, demonic black orbs.
River squeezed the trigger.
Kent jerked, and the picture window at the rear of the house exploded.
Stepping toward him, River fired again. A second deafening shot roared through the close quarters.
Kent moved back, a grin twisting his mouth.
River fired again, and his target twitched. The doorjamb at the other end of the room splintered, the window beyond shattered onto the deck. How the hell is the bastard still standing? Through narrowed eyes, he scrutinized Kent’s torso but found no evidence of blood. By God, I’m six feet from him. No way in hell I missed three times.
Kent held his arms out to the sides, tilted his head. “Polo.”
River took aim for a fourth shot, but the killer danced through the far doorway with shocking speed, his form a blur of motion. River’s mind worked overtime to comprehend what he’d just seen. Fuck me.
Lenny’s references of enhanced speed and strength resounded in his mind. The thought that everything the UFO reporter had told him might be true shook the very foundation of his belief system. Hell, there were so many cracks already—like when the psychotic bastard had lifted Vicki off the floor with a single hand—his ideas about the world he lived in were pretty much shattered.
“River!”
He turned, found her sweet, loving face staring up at him. “Are you all right?” He loosened the rope on her wrist, and she pulled her hand free.
“I’m fine.” She turned to work on the other hand. “Go get him, River. Stop him before he gets away.”
He didn’t argue. He moved to the doorway Kent had exited. With quick, practiced movements, he tracked the killer into the living room. The rear doors remained closed and locked, which meant the bastard was still in the house somewhere.
He rounded the couch, checked behind the kitchen bar. All clear. Broken glass and chips of ceramic crunched beneath his shoes. He paused to listen, but the dog barking upstairs made it impossible to hear anything.
Movement to his right brought him careening around to find Vicki standing in the dining room doorway. She’d wrapped her sweater around her torso and hugged herself to hold the material in place. She tilted her head toward the front of the house.
“Front door.”
He eased forward. Cold air drifted through the open doorway, twined around his ankles. He moved down the hallway and out onto the porch. The dog’s barking receded, replaced by thousands of crickets merrily rubbing their legs together.
River scanned the yard. Clear. “Let’s get you to the car. Call for backup.”
“I tried.” She followed him down the steps. “But there was no reception.”
He nodded. That explained why no one had shown up. He popped the trunk, grabbed a spare windbreaker, and handed it to her.
Gratitude beamed in her eyes as she slipped it on. The jacket swallowed her. She pulled the zipper, concealing her torn sweater and exposed torso. Her gaze darted around. “Where do you think he went?”
“Back to Hell, I wish.”
A salt-filled breeze rolled from the ocean, caressed the stand of thin pines across the street. Their needles brushed against one another, creating a muffled hiss as the wind rushed through. Above the copse hung the moon, luminous and full.
The sight rocked him to his core. Well, hell. A bright gray circle. The last symbol before the pointed capital D.
He turned to ask Vicki what it might mean, but a branch cracked somewhere in those pines. His senses snapped on high alert. Was that Kent? He scanned the trees and spotty underbrush, but even with the brilliant moonlight, the dense shadows allowed him to see only so far.
“Polo.”
The whispered word floated along the breeze and raised the hairs on his neck. It was an invitation to play the game, to seek the murderer and avenge all the lives the Valentine Killer had taken. To mete out justice. To have revenge against a partner who’d betrayed him in the worst possible way.
“Marco, you asshole.”