P. Alderman - A Killing Tide

Gasping, she clawed at the hand at her throat, unable to do more than scratch the leather of his glove. The hand tightened, and her vision grayed.

She flung her other hand up and back, trying to claw his face, but all she got was a handful of some kind of soft wool material.

A ski mask.

He yanked her higher against his body. She tried to kick backwards, but she couldn't get a good enough angle to inflict any real damage. Her ears started roaring.

She threw her head backward as hard as she could, hitting him in the face. He howled, and his grip loosened slightly. Gulping in air, she curled her body over his arm, forcing him to bend forward, then threw herself backward, causing him to lose his balance and fall to the floor.

They crashed into the coffee table, then fell sideways, landing in a heap on the area rug with him underneath. She rolled away, scrabbling to get the distance she needed to kick him—his knees, his groin, his ribs—anywhere she could inflict enough damage to slow him down. But he recovered faster than she'd anticipated.

In one swift move, he was on her, slamming her against the hardwood floor with enough force to knock the air out of her lungs.

He was heavy, and strong. But not fit. Even as she struggled to drag air into her lungs, she dimly registered the softness on his chest and stomach.

She kneed him, but he dodged to the side, deflecting her aim. A lamp crashed to the floor beside her, shattering. She jerked her head sideways to avoid the exploding shards of glass.

Using both hands, he rammed her head hard against the floor. Pain exploded, stars swimming on the blackened edges of her vision.

Sliding both gloved hands around her throat, he squeezed, cutting off her air. She glared at him, defiant, but couldn't see anything except his eyes gleaming at her through the holes in the mask.

His hands loosened slightly, and she gulped in air to scream. Then they tightened again, choking off any sound she could've made. She bucked and squirmed, but he had most of his weight on her, and she couldn't move more than a few inches. Over the thumps they were making in their nearly silent struggle, she heard the pinging of the microwave as it finished cooking her dinner.

She continued to fight him, using her hands to punch and scratch him, anywhere she could reach. He never spoke, just eased the pressure on her larynx once in awhile so that she could draw in enough air to keep from passing out. Then he'd cut it off again, his teeth flashing at her in a grin. He was toying with her, and he was enjoying it.

She subsided, exhausted and trembling.

And heard his soft, low, laugh.

"That's better," he whispered. "This was a demonstration of what will happen to you if you don't give us the money. You won't know when I'll come back, and you won't be able to stop me any more than you could this time. Nod your head if you understand."

She nodded reluctantly, straining to memorize details, anything that she could later use to identify him. He had to be someone she knew. Somehow, she was certain of that fact. A sob of frustration worked its way out of her throat.

"Good girl," he whispered. "You've got twenty-four hours to return the money. We'll be in touch."

He grabbed her hair and used it to yank her head up, wrenching her neck. Then he slammed her head down.

The last thing she remembered was the floor rushing up at her left eye, and pain exploding in a flashing prism of color.

Then everything went black.

~~~~

Chapter 20

"Kaz? Come on, sweetheart, wake up. Talk to me." The voice, deep and filled with urgency, came at her out of a fog of pain.

Someone held her hand and gently stroked her cheek. There was a light above her; its brightness hurt. She made out the shadow of someone leaning over her.

She moaned and gulped in air. Breathing hurt, she discovered.

"You're safe," Michael reassured softly.

She thought she could hear sirens, but the pounding inside her head overwhelmed all other sound. Beside her, a dog whined. Zeke. He licked her hand. Raising it, she touched her temple, which seemed to be the source of the pain. It felt funny—wet, and the wrong size, somehow.

"Easy. Let's have the EMTs take a look at that, okay?"

"What—"

"When I drove up, the kitchen door was standing open. Zeke found you on the living room floor, out cold."

The man in the ski mask. The threat.

Twenty-four hours. She had only twenty-four hours to find the money.

She struggled to rise, but gentle hands held her down. "Don't move, sweetheart.

"Help…sit up."

"Not until the EMTs check you over."

She could focus a little better now with one eye. Michael's expression was fierce, at odds with the soft, crooning quality of his voice. "I'm okay," she insisted. "Help me up."

He grumbled something and rose, scooping her up off the floor in one fluid motion. Walking over to one of the easy chairs, he settled her in his lap, keeping his arms tight around her. The abrupt movement made her dizzy, and she laid her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes.

Her throat was sore, and she placed a hand on it.

Michael's brushed her hand aside, saw the bruises, and his expression became even grimmer. "Did you see who attacked you?"

Two EMTs arrived, cutting off her reply. One of them knelt beside their chair and grinned at her. "Hey, Kaz. How ya feeling?"

"Like someone…flattened me."

He nodded and looked at Michael. "Sir, if you'll set her down and move out of our way—"

"Not a chance," Michael replied, his voice implacable. "Check her right where she is."

The EMT eyed him and decided not to argue. She continued to lean against Michael while the EMT checked her pupils, took her blood pressure, and asked her simple questions to determine if she was alert. He cleaned her face with an antiseptic wipe and placed a temporary bandage over the cut on her forehead.

"Pupils are okay," he said, packing up his instrument case. "But let's take a ride to the hospital, Kaz. You'll need a CAT Scan and some stitches."

"No, I'm all right." She shrugged out of Michael's arms and got shakily to her feet, gripping the arm of the chair for support as a new waved of dizziness attacked her.

She felt someone catch her as she fell.

#

Four hours later, Kaz lay on a bed in the hospital emergency ward, waiting. They'd stitched up the cut on her forehead, then strapped her to a table and run her through a giant tube to take pictures of her head. Someone was supposed to come by with a verdict as to whether she would live.

She wanted out. Right now. She hated hospitals. The last time she'd been here, she'd been in the basement morgue to identify her parents' bodies.

Her whole body hurt, all the way down to the cellular level. Getting slammed into a hardwood floor a couple of times—then landed on by a 200-pound gorilla—did that. But she'd just have to take large quantities of aspirin.

Twenty-four hours . That's all she and Gary had, if she believed her attacker. And call her crazy, but she didn't think he was the kind of guy who'd be very flexible.

Michael and Lucy chose that moment to come through the curtains surrounding her bed. They were arguing, as usual. Lucy's expression when she glanced Kaz's way was worried, her eyes full of regret.

"Where the hell was your surveillance team?" Michael asked. "She was a sitting duck."

"Jackson called them off. They received some kind of tip on Gary's whereabouts that they're following up on. I didn't find out until just a few minutes before I heard your call come in."

Kaz shivered, her sense of urgency worsening. Were they closing in on Gary?

The emergency room nurse popped her head in. "The doctor wants to keep you overnight for observation," she announced cheerfully. "We've got a room all set up."