Allison Brennan - The Prey

“Hell if I know. I’m heading down to FBI headquarters now, but I’ll swing by and pick you up. I think Roger may be right. Throw MacIntosh off balance. If we can find him. Meet me outside of the terminal.”

Black. Cold. Very, very cold.

Rowan tried to open her eyes but they felt weighted down with wet sand. Even the smallest effort resulted in a massive headache. She tried to take a deep breath, but her chest was constricted. Her numb fingers and toes began to tingle as she tried to move, and the tingle turned to pain.

It was then that she realized she was trussed up like a pig, her arms and legs pulled behind her and tied together. No wonder she ached.

It smelled like vomit. Very likely, she thought, as she remembered the sting of being shot with the tranquilizer dart. Heavy-duty narcotics could make anyone sick. At first she thought the cold was an aftereffect of the tranquilizer, but the floor was cold. The faint hum of an air conditioner ran behind the walls. Someone had turned it on full blast. She involuntarily shivered.

Her mouth was dry and foul tasting, her body racked with pain as she slowly wriggled, trying to loosen the binds. As sensation returned to her fingers, she felt nylon rope. The more she tugged, the tighter the rope became, so she stopped moving.

At least she was alive. Alive and thinking.

Bobby.

When she’d first seen him holding the shotgun, she’d frozen. This was her brother, whom she hadn’t seen in over twenty years. He looked completely different. She doubted she’d have recognized him on the street. He was forty-one now, a man. His hair was short, cropped. His face fuller, his body broader. He even seemed taller, which wasn’t unusual. Many boys grew well into their late teens and early twenties.

But it was him.

Then he’d pressed a button and her entire life blew up.

John had to be dead. There was no way he could have gotten away so fast. She’d felt the explosion nearly a quarter-mile away.

The guilt hit her first, then a deep, physical sadness that started in her chest and spread out, making her feel more tired, her limbs heavier, her heart weaker.

She hadn’t told John she loved him. But she did.

And he went to his grave not knowing how important he’d become to her in such a short time. How she didn’t want to say goodbye, that he was now an irrevocable part of her life. Her soul.

Bobby had stolen John from her. Her future, however tentative, was shattered without a thought by the one person who knew how to destroy mercilessly.

She choked out an uncontrolled sob, grief causing her to shake, her heart pounding painfully in her chest. What did she have to live for? The memories of everyone Bobby had killed? Her mother? Her sisters? Michael and Tess?

John.

I love you, Rowan.

Another sob escaped her throat, but turned into a moan. Her cheek rested on a hardwood floor. She listened, waiting for Bobby to come and kill her. She had nothing left to live for. But all she heard was the dull, static noise of the waves crashing against the beach below.

Waves. Ocean. The familiar rhythm was soothing. They were on the coast. She breathed deeply, ignoring the stabbing pain in her chest. The house smelled musty, stale. Closed up. The artificial Lysol smell of unused house.

As the tranquilizer wore off, her eyelids became lighter and she managed to open them. Pitch black. She could see nothing. But it felt like she was in a large room with high ceilings. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw a faint change in the shades of black. Curtains, drawn over windows. That was the direction of the ocean.

Unused house. The house next door? Could he have been in the vacant house next door to her rental all this time? The property management company aired it out once a week, but other than that, no one would have been around.

If he had been living next door, he’d know the shift changes of the FBI agents. Michael. John. Recognize everyone who visited her. Know how to get to Tess.

He’d been watching her.

He’d seen how his actions affected her. He’d been playing his game, using her. He relished it. The control, the power. How long? Had he been to her cabin in Colorado? Followed her to Malibu? Been to the studio to watch her work?

Had he broken into her house and gone through her clothes? Her computer? Her papers? How close had he been without her knowing it? He’d been in her house to steal the advance copy of her book. When? While she slept? While she was working? While she ran?

The emptiness in her soul slowly filled with red rage, so hot it began to physically warm her. Bobby had been in control all this time. She’d been a pawn, reacting to every one of his moves on the chessboard he’d created. Bobby had won each and every move, except the attack on that brave prostitute in Dallas. Now, he was taking his final turn.

She would stop him.

She had to find a way to take him down with her. He wasn’t going to kill her outright. If he were, he’d have done so already. He would have killed her with a bullet in the back instead of drugging her. Because of that, because of his propensity to play with her mind, she had a chance.

Her survival meant nothing to her anymore. But her death would mean something if she dragged Bobby down to hell with her.

Footsteps on hardwood. Stairs. He was coming upstairs toward her. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap . Closer, heavier. Pause. Rattle. He was behind her. A lock turned and she strained to face him, but couldn’t. The door creaked.

Her heart beat so loudly it drowned out her thoughts. She broke out in a sweat despite the too-cold air conditioning.

Lights blazed and she squeezed her eyes shut, but not before pain shot through her head at the sudden brightness.

“Hello, Lily. I know you’re awake.”

She heard her brother cross the floor toward her. Bobby grabbed her hair in his hand and yanked. She tried to open her eyes, but the light blinded her.

He laughed, dropping her head. He untied her, pulling hard on the ropes in the process, but she refused to cry out. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of breaking her. When her limbs were free, the blood rushed to her hands and feet in a painful flood. She tried to get up but failed, collapsed, breathing heavily.

“I’ll let you pull yourself together, Lily Pad. It really wouldn’t be that much fun to kill you now when you don’t even have a chance.” His voice was older, but still held the singsong taunting of his youth.

“I. Will. Kill you.” Rowan’s uneven breath sputtered a curse.

He laughed again. “Hope. Enjoy it while you still have some. I have… things to get ready for you downstairs. So just relax while you can.”

She heard him cross the floor and close the door behind him. The lock turned. He’d left the light on and she slowly opened her eyes. She was in the middle of a large bedroom. Though her vision was blurred, she made out the bottom of a bed, a pale blue dust ruffle ten feet away.

Gradually, she pulled herself on all fours, ignoring the ache in her chest, the throbbing of her shoulder from where the dart had hit her, the hot, painful tingling in her hands and feet. She remained in that position for quite some time, until the nausea passed and she could sit up.

Her vision cleared, and it looked as if someone were lying in the bed. Who? The owners of the house only stayed in the late summer and fall. Someone would have noticed if anyone from the property management company were missing.

She pushed herself up, ignoring the woozy sensation, a leftover from the narcotics. “Hello?” Her voice came out a croak and she cleared her throat.

She looked. Lying on top of the covers was a fifty-something woman. Her vacant eyes stared directly at Rowan, locked in terror. Small flies buzzed around her face. There was a single bullet hole in her forehead.