Cleo Coyle - Espresso Shot

With the gun still pressed against my spine, Winslow pulled me into the dark playground. He dragged me backward, past a slide and a set of swings, to an elaborate jungle gym standing in the middle of the yard.

“Little bitch,” he rasped.

Swinging me around, he shoved me face-first against the metal bars. He used his body to pin me there, then his arm tightened around my neck again, like a smothering snake.

I struggled against the scumbag, but the man held firm. He’d seemed puny and weak in his dungeonlike apartment. But he wasn’t weak now. He was furious, his grip cruel. I tried to ignore the pain, stay calm, search my mind for a strategy of escape.

You’re not helpless, Clare. You outwitted him once. You can do it again.

“I could have killed you on the sidewalk,” he rasped against my ear. “But that would be too quick.”

“You don’t have to kill me at all,” I whispered. It was hard to do more than that with his arm so tightly around my throat.

“You’re suggesting I should let you live? To testify against me in court? No, no, little bitch. That will never do. We can’t have the law looking any further at my business.”

I tried again to break free, but he tightened his grip. Once again, I felt the hard poke of a gun barrel against my back.

“Why are you doing this? You don’t even have any drugs. You lied to me.”

“Is that what you think? My word, you are stupid. And your cop friends are even stupider. They searched my apartment, came up with nothing.”

“Because you were lying.”

“Because my real office is in Jersey. The dump’s not in my name, but I assure you the cabinets are full of my product. So you see, little bitch, your stupid cops are to blame. They couldn’t keep me in custody, so you can thank them for the pain I’m about to inflict.”

I struggled harder.

“Ssshhh, shhh, now. Accept your fate, and it will be easy…”

Winslow laughed again, and the pressure of the gun against my spine vanished. With one arm still wrapped around my throat, he raised the other. I struggled to turn my head-it wasn’t much, just a fraction-but out of the corner of my eye, I saw a glint of silver in the shadowy light. A long knife was clutched in his hand.

He doesn’t have a gun! He used the handle of the knife to trick me!

The blade was descending toward my right shoulder. And my move was almost instinctual. Winslow himself had given me the idea: Accept your fate.

Instead of resisting, I gave up. My knees sagged, and I let every pound of my small form go limp. I began to slip underneath his curled arm. On my way down, I opened my mouth and sank my teeth into the man’s stringy flesh. The blade came down, striking sparks off the metal bars he’d been pressing me against.

Winslow cursed me with every word ever invented to degrade a woman.

I bit down harder, a pissed-off pit bull.

Winslow cried out. Using the weight of his body, he slammed me against the jungle gym bars. I kicked at his knee with my big platform wedge and jammed my elbow into his belly. Finally, the man released me, stumbling backwards with a howl. He fell to the ground, and I ran toward Fifth Avenue.

I heard a clang, saw the flash of the hurled knife as it bounced off the slide. I stumbled and nearly fell, but I kicked off my shoes and kept going, right into the headlights of an NYPD sector car.

Tires squealed, and a uniform jumped out.

“A man dragged me inside that playground! He had a knife! Tried to stab me!”

The cop drew his gun and raced into the shadows. His partner leaped out of the vehicle and followed, barking into his radio for backup as he ran. I sagged against the police car, knees weak, bare feet scuffed, hands trembling.

The night seemed suddenly darker. I doubled over at the waist, feeling like I couldn’t get enough oxygen. Another sector car rolled up behind the first, and a policewoman hurried to my side. She helped me into the backseat of her vehicle then leaned against the roof.

“Ma’am, we’re going to get you to an ER. Is there anyone you want me to notify?”

I nodded. My neck was sore, my voice shaky, but it didn’t matter. I only had to speak four words: “Mike Quinn, Sixth Precinct.”

“CLARE? Are you all right? I heard you screaming.”

Mike stood in the bedroom doorway, a steaming mug of hot coffee in each hand. Shirtless, he wore navy-blue pajama bottoms, and his dark-blond hair was still mussed from sleep.

I blinked, rubbed my eyes, tried to banish the phantom images. Then the real memories rushed back, and they were no less nightmarish-Stuart Winslow’s attack outside the Metropolitan Museum, the fight for my life in the dark playground, my escape and rescue by patrolmen from the Twenty-second Precinct. I remembered my trip to the busy ER, then the chilly old horse stables, a renovated building that now housed the Central Park precinct, where I’d answered a series of questions.

Mike had been there for me, every step of the way. The moment he’d heard I’d been attacked, he had rushed to the hospital; and when all the examining and questioning was over, he’d brought me back to his apartment in Alphabet City, where I’d accepted a good hard shot of his Irish whiskey and passed out.

Now he crossed the bedroom in three strides, set the coffee mugs on the nightstand and took me in his arms.

“What scared you, Clare? What did you dream?”

“I was chasing Joy through a playground,” I murmured against his bare, hard shoulder. “She transformed right in front of me, into this beautiful falcon. I tried to catch her, but a photographer jumped in front of me, snapped a flash. I couldn’t see, just heard a gunshot. A woman screamed, and then-oh, God, Mike-I was facedown on a white marble floor, and there was blood, so much blood…”

“Hold on to me, Clare. Hold on as long you need to.”

For a few minutes, I did. Then my nose twitched. “Mike?”

“Mmmm?”

“Do I smell fresh coffee?”

He reached over to the nightstand, pushed a warm mug into my hands. I lay back on the bed pillows, took a test sip, and sighed. The man had come a long way from when I’d first met him. Back then, he’d been swilling stale robusta bean crap by the gallon. The hot, fresh java he’d made for me this morning was my own Breakfast Blend roast, brewed nearly to perfection (which, for me, was better than perfect).

“You know, Mike, you’re getting pretty good at this. You should seriously consider barista work.”

“Thanks. I’ll get back to you if the whole law enforcement thing doesn’t pan out.”

I finished my cup and placed it next to his on the faux-mahogany nightstand-part of a set from the Crate and Barrel catalog that I’d helped him pick out. I thought the dark, sober finish suited his rugged personality. Mike thought the faux part made it easy on his public servant-size wallet.

“Anyway, sweetheart, as far as your future nightmares, I think I can ease your worries. I had called the precinct to arrange for a plainclothes officer to watch your back-”

“That’s not necessary-”

“You’re right. But not for the reason you think. The Jersey state police arrested Stuart Winslow at three fifty-five this morning.”

I closed my eyes. “Thank God.”

“And guess what? He had rental papers on him, and keys to a storage space in Wayne, New Jersey. They opened it up as soon as a judge issued the warrant, found the man’s stash of illegally imported narcotics.” Mike smiled like an alley cat who’d just snagged his rat. “Winslow won’t be getting out of jail for a long time. Congratulations, sweetheart, you did it.”

“We did it.” I hugged Mike again, and then we were doing more than hugging. I was wearing the matching top to his navy-blue pajama bottoms, and I seriously considered removing both.