His curses split the air like gunshots. Bushes crashed behind her. His footfalls thundered in her ears, even over the pounding of her heart.
Animal panic clawed inside her. She forced her feet to move faster over rain-slick ground.
He slammed through the brush behind her. Faster. Closer. His fingers clawed at the sleeve of her blouse.
She yanked her arm free, rending the fabric.
He grabbed again. His fingers closed around her flesh. Biting into her arm. Bruising. Holding.
Oh God, he had her.
Risa’s feet skidded out from under her.
Dryden held her up, keeping her from falling to the forest’s floor. His fingers bruising her arm, he slammed her against the trunk of a tree and pressed his elbow into her back, pinning her.
Rough bark ground into her cheek and chest.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” His guttural growl rasped in her ears. “You’re not a person. You’re a beast. An inadequate beast. You’ll do whatever I say. And when I’m finished with you, you’ll know who your master is. Your master is me.”
White noise rang in her ears and blotted all thought from her mind.
His hand closed around her throat, he pulled her back against his body. In the corner of her eye, she saw the knife, the wet steel flashing red. He touched the blade to her chest, just below the notch in her collar bone. “And this is how I’m going to do it, Risa. This is how I’m going to cut you.” He drew down on the knife, the cold edge slicing into her skin.
A scream erupted from her throat, wild and piercing and raw.
Trent
A scream gashed the air.
Trent stomped the brake and slammed to a stop behind the black-and-white Dryden had stolen from the police station. Throwing open the door, he leaped out and hit the ground running.
Trent had called 911. He’d called Subera. The FBI and the county sheriff’s department were on their way. But he couldn’t wait for them. He couldn’t wait for anything. He had to find Rees before it was too late.
He didn’t even glance at the towering Victorian house. Dryden wouldn’t take her there. Not until she was dead. Not until he was ready to exhibit her body, probably in the still-rumpled sheets where she and Trent had made love.
The bastard would never get the chance.
Trent raced across the lawn, the grass slick with rain. His shoes skidded with each stride, but he managed to keep upright, keep running.
Another scream.
The image of Dryden’s hands on her—his knife cutting her skin, stealing her precious life—throbbed behind his eyes.
No.
Trent’s hands broke out in a cold sweat, the grip of his Glock slippery in his fist. He raced in the direction of the scream. When he reached the edge of the woods, he slowed. He couldn’t just crash through the trees. He needed to get the drop on Dryden. He needed a clear shot so he could take him out without hurting Risa.
Trent surged into the woods, moving as fast as he dared and as quietly as he could. Thorns ripped at his suit jacket. He tore free and pushed on. Rain mixed with sweat, soaking his hair, dripping into his eyes. He rubbed a hand over his forehead and strained to see through the brush. Through the thick cloak of leaves.
Up ahead he could hear the low tones of Dryden’s voice. An eerie, almost musical sound. But he couldn’t hear Rees. No screams. No soft hum of her voice. Not even whimpers of pain. Where was she?
His heart seized in his chest.
Was he too late? Had it taken him too long to figure out where Dryden had brought her to stage his hunt? Was she already dead?
No.
He couldn’t lose Rees. He couldn’t. She was his light. His hope.
Dryden’s voice still hummed through the twisted branches of oak and hickory, breaking the quiet patter of rain on leaves.
Drawing a deep breath then holding it, Trent struggled to make sense of the killer’s words over the pounding of his pulse. He struggled to hear a sound from Rees. Any sound. Any sign she was still alive.
Nothing. Only the rain. Only Dryden’s voice.
Damn Dryden. Damn him straight to hell.
If Dryden had killed Rees, he wouldn’t come out of the forest alive. Trent wouldn’t wait for the courts to dispense justice this time.
He held the Glock ready in front of him. Picking his way around trees and through brambles, he raced as quickly and quietly as he could. His breath chugged from his lungs like a steam engine.
A flash of color cut through the green cloak of leaves. A deep burgundy.
Risa’s blouse.
Heart pounding high in his chest, Trent crept closer.
Dryden stood behind her, one hand on her throat. One hand holding the knife to her chest. Her blouse hung open, revealing tatters of a black lace bra. Blood oozed from a wound on her chest. The son of a bitch had cut her.
But she was alive.
Trent trained the Glock on Dryden’s head and fingered the trigger. From this angle, Trent couldn’t get a clear shot. He needed a better angle. He lowered the gun and stepped silently to one side.
Dryden raised the knife, pressing the blade against Rees’s throat. Glancing up, he looked across the space and straight into Trent’s eyes. “Well, if it isn’t the FBI.”
Trent’s heart seized. He lifted the gun. “Let her go.”
Rees’s eyes found his.
Dryden stared as if he hadn’t heard a word. Pupils dilated. “The throat is delicate. One slice of a sharp blade, and a person can bleed to death.”
“Let her go, and put down the knife.”
Dryden shook his head slowly. “You put down that gun.”
“Shoot him, Trent. Do it,” Risa said.
Trent judged the angle. With Dryden holding Rees in front of him like a shield, Trent couldn’t be sure his shot would hit the mark. He also couldn’t be sure the knife against Rees’s throat wouldn’t do its job. Whether he hit Dryden with a bullet or not.
“Now,” Dryden said.
“Shoot.”
Giving up his weapon was a mistake. He would be powerless. Dryden would be in control. A federal agent should never surrender his weapon.
But Rees…
Trent lowered the gun.
“Do you know how easy it is to field dress a deer? I could do it with my eyes closed.”
Trent hesitated. Without his gun, he would be powerless to stop Dryden. He was too far away to rush him. By the time he got his hands around the killer’s neck, Rees would be dead.
Trent listened for the sound of sirens, the hum of cars pulling up the long, twisting driveway. Nothing reached his ears but the steady rhythm of rain hitting leaves.
“First step is slicing through the windpipe and esophagus. Right about here.” Dryden pressed the knife’s edge against the tender skin of Rees’s throat. A thin line of red coated the length of the blade.
Rees drew in a sharp breath, but she didn’t move a muscle.
“One slash, if your knife is sharp enough. Then when you dump the intestines, you can pull the whole thing through. Real slick.”
“Stop.” Trent held his hands in front of him, the Glock dangling by one finger.
“Don’t do it, Trent. Shoot him. Please.”
“Waiting for the demonstration?” Dryden said. “I’m the best. I’m sure you can learn something.”
Trent tossed the gun. It landed with a thunk in a thicket of wild raspberry.
A smile curled Dryden’s lips. “That’s better. You know, it’s not nice of you to interrupt me, Burnell. I’ve been waiting to hunt this one for a long time.”
Trent’s gut clenched. This one. Not Risa. Not a fellow human being. But game to be hunted. A female to avenge himself against. To degrade. To defile. “More agents are on the way, Dryden. Along with nearly the entire sheriff’s department. You let her go, maybe you can make a run for it.”