Blake Crouch - Serial Uncut

Taylor could see the appeal in that.

"How about you, Taylor?"

"Biting. Toes and fingers, to start. Then all over."

"How long have you kept one alive for?"

"Maybe two days."

Donaldson nodded. "See, that's nice. I do all my work outdoors, different locations, so I never have time to make it last, savor it. You've got a little murder-mobile, you can take your time."

"That's the reason I'm a trucker, not a courier."

Donaldson got a wistful look. "I'm thinking of renting a shack out in the woods. Out in the middle of nowhere. Then I could bring someone there, really drag it out. You remember that old magic trick? The girl in the box, and the magician sticks swords in it?"

Taylor nodded. "Yeah."

"I'd love to build one of those. Except there's no trick. Wouldn't that be fun? Sticking the swords in one at a time?"

Taylor decided it would.

Donaldson peered through the binocs again. "Here she comes. Let's get in position."

Taylor nodded. He felt the excitement building up again, but a different kind of excitement. This time, he was sharing the experience with another person. It was oddly fulfilling, in a way his dozens of other murders hadn't been.

Maybe tag-team was the way to go.

He clenched the ether-soaked paper towels, crouched behind a bumper, and waited for the fun to start.

The burger was good. The coffee was good. The cheese curds were heavenly. I had no idea why they weren't served in Chicago.

I paid, left a decent tip, then tried calling Latham to tell him I felt good enough to keep driving.

Still no signal. I needed to switch carriers, or get a new phone. It especially bugged me because I saw other people in the diner talking on their cell phones. If that Can you hear me now? guy walked into the restaurant, I would have bounced my cell off his head.

The parking lot had decent lighting, but all of the big trucks cast shadows, and I knew more than most the dangers of walking in shadows. I pulled my purse on over my head and tucked it under my arm, then headed for my car while staying in the light. The last thing I needed was the pimp to make a play for me. Or that-

"Lieutenant Daniels!"

– fat guy from the diner, who approached me at a quick pace, coming out from behind one of the rigs. I stopped, my hand slipping inside my purse and seeking my revolver. Something about this man rubbed me the wrong way, and at over two hundred and fifty pounds he was too big to play around with.

He slowed down when I reached into my handbag-a bad sign. People with good intentions don't expect you to have a gun. I felt my heart rate kick up and my legs tense.

"Don't come any closer," I commanded, using my cop voice.

He stopped about ten feet in front of me. His hands were empty. "I wanted to ask you for your autograph."

My fingers wrapped around the butt of my.38. Confrontation, even with over twenty years of experience, was always a scary thing. Ninety-nine percent of the time, de-escalation was the key to avoiding violence. Take control of the situation, be polite but firm, apologize if needed. It wouldn't have worked on the pimp, who was showing off for the crowd, but it might work here.

"I'm sorry, I don't give autographs. I'm not a celebrity."

"It would mean a lot to me." He held up his palms and took another step forward.

I was taught that you never pull out your weapon unless you intend to use it.

I pulled out my weapon.

"I told you not to come any closer."

"You're kidding, right?" Another step. He was six feet away from me.

I pointed my gun at his chest. "Does it look like I'm kidding?"

He put on a crooked grin. "Is this how you treat your fans, Lieutenant? I don't mean any harm. You want to shoot an innocent civilian?"

"I don't want to. But I will, if I feel threatened. And right now I feel threatened. Where's your buddy?"

"My buddy?"

He was lying, I could see it on his face, and I swirled around, sensing something behind me. I caught a flash of movement, someone ducking between two parked cars. I spun again, storming up to the fat guy, grabbing two of his outstretched fingers and twisting. My action was fast, forceful, and I gained enough leverage to bend his arm to the side and drive him onto his knees, my gun trained on his head.

"Get on the pavement, face down!"

He pitched forward, and I had to let him go or fall with him. Rather than face-first, he dropped onto his side and swung his leg at me.

I should have fired, but a small part of me knew I could be killing a guy whose only crime was wanting my autograph, and I had enough of an ego to think I could still handle the situation. I side-stepped his leg and rammed my heel into his kidney, hard enough to show him this wasn't a joke.

That's when his partner dove at me.

He hit me sideways, knocking me off my feet in a flying tackle that drove me to the asphalt, shoulder-first. His weight squeezed the air out of me, his hand pawing at my face, a cold, wet hand covering my mouth and nose, flooding my airway with harsh chemicals. I held my breath, bringing my weapon up, squeezing the trigger-

The trigger wouldn't squeeze. The gun didn't fire.

Now the paper towels were in my eyes, the sting a hundred times worse than chlorine, making me squeeze my eyelids shut in pain. I felt my gun being wrestled away, and the small part of my brain that wasn't panicking knew the perp had grabbed my.38 by the hammer, his grip preventing me from shooting.

I still refused to breathe, knowing that whatever was on my face would knock me out, knowing when that happened I was dead. That made me panic even more, thrashing and pushing against my unseen assailant. I tried to kick my feet, get them under me to gain some leverage, but then they were weighed down the same as my upper body-the fat guy had joined the party.

So I went for the fake-out, letting my body go limp.

The seconds ticked by, each one a slice of eternity since I was oxygen-deprived. I could hold my breath for over a minute under ideal conditions. But terrified and with two psychos on top of me, I wouldn't be able to last a fraction of that…

One second at a time, Jack. Just don't breathe.

I felt that vertigo sensation in my head, my mind seeming to stretch out and twist around.

"Is anyone coming?"

"It's clear."

Stay still. Don't breathe.

My eyes were stinging like crazy, and I wanted to put my hands to my face, rub the pain away.

Don't. Move. Don't. Breathe.

My chest began to spasm, my diaphragm convulsing and begging for air. In moments it wouldn't be under my control anymore. I would breathe in those toxic fumes whether I wanted to or not.

Hold it in don't breathe don't breathe DON'T BREATHE-

"Too much and you'll kill her." The fat guy talking.

The hand over my face eased up, the noxious rag being pulled away. I wanted to gasp, to suck in air like a marathon runner, but I managed to take a slow, silent breath through my nose.

The fumes still clinging to my face smelled like gasoline, and by sheer will I didn't sneeze or cough. I kept my breathing slow, like I was sleeping, even though my heart pounded so loud and fast I could hear it.

"She's out. Grab an arm."

I felt myself lifted into an upright position, my arms over their shoulders. Then I was dragged, my feet scraping against the asphalt, which tore at my bare toes like sandpaper. I bit my inner cheek. If I made a peep, they'd use the rag again.

"Her feet! Watch her feet! I don't want them messed up!"

"Shh! Lift higher."

Then I was completely off the ground. I tried to peek, to see where we were, but everything was blurry and opening my eyes made the pain worse. I could feel the weight of my purse still hanging at my side, and I had a dull throb in my shoulder where I'd hit the pavement, but it didn't seem dislocated or broken.