Jack Daniels Six Pack (156 page)

“Remember to wear protection. Or make sure he wears protection.” I wasn’t sure how my father’s relationships actually worked, and wasn’t sure that I ever needed to know.

“I promise. And speaking of protection, please make sure you protect yourself when you’re chasing Alex.”

“I will.”

“You’re going to kill her, aren’t you?”

I’d been wondering the same thing, but hearing a kindly old man say it made it sound horribly wrong.

“I’m…going to stop her.”

“I’ve saved every press clipping you’ve ever been in, Jacqueline. You arrested her before. She escaped. You can’t risk that again.”

“It’s…it’s complicated.”

“This isn’t murder, sweetheart.”

Jesus. The M word. I had a hard enough time living with myself as it was. I became a cop to catch murderers, because murder, in every single case, was wrong. Even in cases of revenge.

Every night since Latham’s death, I’ve lain awake in bed conjuring up scenarios where I blew Alex’s head off. Alex was always armed, trying to kill me as well. I evened the score, while also retaining my morality and humanity. But if I had the chance to murder her, in cold blood, would I take it?

“She’s a rabid dog, Jacqueline. It’s not murder. It’s mercy.”

I doubted the courts would see it that way. I doubted
I
would see it that way.

“Have a good time in Alaska, Dad. Call me when you get back.”

“You know, my heart gets a little bigger every time you call me Dad. I love you, sweetheart.”

Since Wilbur reappeared in my life, he’d accepted our relationship much more easily than I had. He’d been saying “I love you” for a few weeks now, but I wasn’t ready to return the sentiment yet. Being abandoned for thirty-plus years, even understanding the reason why, wasn’t easy to forgive.

“We’ll talk soon,” I said, and disconnected. Now for the hard call. His number wasn’t in my cell address book, so I had to use directory assistance. I hoped I’d get a machine, then I could leave a message, clear my conscience, without having to talk.

Just my luck, he picked up on the first ring.

“This is Alan.”

“Hi, Alan. It’s me.”

There was a pause. I wondered if he was thinking what I was thinking. About our years being married. About our recent affair. About him leaving me for a second time.

“I’m sorry about Latham.”

“Did Mom tell you?”

“I haven’t, uh, talked to your mother since we saw each other last.
I signed up for this thing on the Internet. Google News. Every time you’re mentioned in the paper, they send me a link to the article.”

I was touched.

“You’re checking on me?”

“More like waiting for the obituary.”

Ouch.

“Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I’m still among the living.”

“Jesus, Jack. You know I don’t mean it like that.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“You need a reminder? The reason our marriage ended was because I couldn’t stand worrying about you all the time. Do you know what it’s like to lose someone you love?”

“Yeah.” My teeth clenched. “I just came from his funeral.”

“Oh, hell. Shit. I’m sorry. I’m an insensitive bastard.”

“Yes. Yes you are.”

“Good. We agree on something. So why the call?”

I searched my mind for the right words, the words that would make him listen to me. The silence stretched.

“I’m sorry, Jack. You can’t come here.”

Being cold and wet didn’t stop me from blushing. “Excuse me?”

“I feel bad for you. And I still love you. But you know my feelings. We can’t be together unless you quit the force.”

If I still carried around any remnants of affection for this man I was once married to, they were now gone. The conceit, the nerve…

“Have you quit?” Alan’s voice went from accusatory to hopeful. “Tell me you’ve quit.”

I recovered, found my spine. “No, Alan, I haven’t quit, and I don’t want to be with you. I don’t want to see you. I don’t even want to talk to you.”

“Then why are you calling? You think it’s easy for me to talk to you?”

“I’m…” I took a deep breath, let it out slow. “I’m calling to warn you. The psycho who killed Latham might be targeting people in my life.”

“You’re kidding.”

“It would be best if you went away for a few weeks.”

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

“Alan, I don’t like it any more than—”

“Are you serious?” He’d gone up an octave. “Are you fucking serious? Your job just killed your boyfriend. That could have been me. If we were still married, I’d be the dead one. How many times have we talked about your fucking career, about how dangerous it is?”

I shut my eyes, trying to stay professional even though it would have hurt less if he were in the cab with me, stabbing me with a fork.

“Alan, I’m sorry, but you really need to leave town.”

“You’re unbelievable. Unbefuckinglievable. You know what? All these years, I’ve been waiting to say I told you so. Well, here it is, Jack.
I told you so.
Who’s next? Herb? Your mother? Your best friends from grammar school? All because you chase killers for a living?”

Professionalism flew out the window.

“This killer is chasing me, Alan! It doesn’t matter if I quit my job, move to Tibet, join a goddamn monastery! She’s after me, and she may go after you too! So, please.
Please.
Take a long vacation and let me fix this.”

“I can take care of myself, Jack. In fact, I’ve been doing that quite well since you drove me away. It’s too bad, for Latham’s sake, you didn’t drive him away too.”

The fork twisted so hard that tears came.

“Please get out of town, Alan.”

“Don’t call me again. Ever.”

“Alan—”

He hung up. The tears became sobs, and pretty soon I was bawling so bad my nose was running down my chin.

“Miss? I try not to eavesdrop on my fares’ conversations, even when they’re yelling like you were, but I noticed you said something about being chased by a killer.”

“Don’t worry,” I told the taxi driver between sniffles. “I’m sure you’re safe.”

“I hope so. We’ve had a dark sedan following us since you got in the cab. Turns every time we do.”

CHAPTER 8

S
TUN GUNS WORK
on two levels. The first is through pain compliance. Being hit with a million volts hurts like hell, comparable to being jabbed with a hot poker. But unlike a hot poker, the electric current also overrides a person’s muscles, causing them to twitch uncontrollably while simultaneously being unable to fight back.

Alex holds the stun gun against Lance’s stomach long enough to drop him to his knees. Before he can recover, she hits him in the temple with the meat of her palm, hard enough to jerk his head to the side. He collapses.

She drags Lance into the hotel room, locks the door behind her, and muscles him over to the bed. He’s heavy, cumbersome, but she lifts with her legs and jerks him onto the mattress. He begins to moan, so she juices him with the Cheetah stun gun again, causing his limbs to twitch and contract. She holds it there for a few seconds, and when she kills the power he’s limp and a line of drool is running down his chin.

It takes a few seconds to start the roll of duct tape, but when she does she uses a long strip to bind his left wrist to the leg of the bed. The other limbs follow suit, until he’s spread-eagled and immobilized.

Using the box cutter, she starts at the cuff of his jeans and slices the fabric upward to his belt line, careful not to nick his skin. Then she does the other leg. Then his shirt, until all he has on are his shoes, socks, and Duff Beer boxer shorts. Alex tosses the knife aside and tears off
the shorts with her hands, feeling the excitement build, feeling herself get wet.

It isn’t necessary for Lance to be naked. Alex could have gotten what she wanted just by unzipping his fly. But she likes seeing men naked. Especially good-looking men. It’s been a long time.

Since being out of prison, no one has stepped up to the plate. One came close, until he got a good look at her face and sarcastically demanded she wear two bags over her head, “in case one fell off.” She left him in a Chicago bar with two teeth in his mouth and a broken pelvis.

But things are definitely looking up. Alex runs her fingernails through Lance’s chest hair, then pinches his nipples. He stirs, glassy eyes focusing, and calls her a name he knew her by.

“Hi, Lance. It’s been a long time.”

Lance tries to move, sees he’s taped to the bed.

“What’s going on?”

“Shh.” Alex puts a fingertip to his lips. “No talking, or I’ll gag you. I need a few things from you, Lance. First, I need you to fuck me. Hard. Then I need to know where your EOD lieut lives, where he keeps his van, and what kind of toys you boys have in there.”

“What the hell are you—”

Alex grabs his ear, jerks his head to the side.

“I said no talking.”

He looks terrified, which is a terrific turn-on. Alex wants to kiss him, but doesn’t want to risk being bitten, or worse, rebuffed. Instead she runs her teeth across his neck and nibbles her way down his body, across his chest, to his belly button. He tastes good, like a man, tangy and hot. Alex grabs him, feels that he’s responding even though he’s frightened. This pleases her; she won’t have to use the tadalafil she liberated from the coffee shop guy.

She moves her head down, holding his cock in both hands, running her tongue up along the side of the shaft. A thought hits her:
Will I be able to function normally?
Half of her face muscles are gone. But when
she takes him in her mouth he offers no objections to her technique. And as she lowers her head farther, opening her throat, Lance’s hips begin to pump.

Alex matches his thrusts for several strokes, then releases him, both of them breathing heavy. She’s hot, hot and wet, and she wants to climb on and impale herself. But they have done this dance, many times, in the past. And though Lance may have gotten better since those days, Alex doesn’t want to have to rely on his staying power. She reaches for the nightstand, tears open the bag of rubber bands, and winds a fat one around the base of his dick.

Lance makes a noise of protest, and Alex gives the rubber band a snap, shutting him up.

She straddles him, guides him into her, and moves down slowly, deliciously, until she’s filled. Hands on his chest, she begins to raise and lower her hips. Easy at first. No need to rush. At the bottom of each stroke she presses into him, grinding her hips, which makes her gasp with plea sure each time.

Alex wants to draw it out, to tease herself. But it’s been too long and the rhythm becomes involuntary, unstoppable. She pushes into him, harder, faster, and all too quickly the first spike of orgasm seizes her, building into a large peak that forces a cry, and then spreading to envelop her entire body like a shock wave, prompting a throaty scream that makes her feel whole again.

Alex doesn’t stop at one. Or two. Or four. She goes at him from many positions, and he’s so into it that by the second hour he’s begging her to undo the rubber band, to let him come. Alex promises she will, and as she rides his face and his probing tongue works her into a frenzy she orgasms a fifth time and almost considers keeping her promise.

Instead, Alex climbs off the bed, heart hammering and legs shaky, and gives him a gentle pat on the cheek.

“Jesus, I really needed that.”

“What about me, babe?” Lance looks so desperate, so pathetic. He
wants
her, even though she’s a hideous freak.

“Consider it payback for all the times when you got yours and I didn’t get mine. Now it’s time to move on to the second part of the evening. If you tell me what I need to know, I promise I won’t kill your wife and family. Hell, you may even live through this, if Jack is fast enough.”

Lance stares at her, his face a snapshot of confusion. Alex goes to the nightstand. She flicks on the butane torch, adjusts it to a blue flame, and gives him a quick, two-second taste on his thigh.

Lance howls.

“That’s nothing. I can keep it there for a lot longer. Or move to more sensitive parts.”

She gives his erection a playful flick with her finger.

“What…what the hell do you want?”

“I’ve followed your career. You’ve done well with the police department. Been in the papers several times. Always were a bit of an adrenaline junkie, Lance. Is that why you picked the EOD?”

He stays silent. Alex brings the torch up to his face. The flame makes a hissing sound, like a snake. Lance quickly nods.

“Most squads have a van or a truck with their equipment in it. They don’t like to leave dangerous materials at work. Too risky. So they take it home. Does your boss have one?”

Another nod.

“Truck or a van?”

“A van.”

“What sort of goodies are you boys packing?”

Lance opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His eyes are locked on the torch.

“Dammit, Lance. Focus. What kind of caps?”

“Bridgewire.”

“Sun cord?”

“Maybe three hundred feet on a spool.”

“Got a pigstick?”

“Yeah.”

“Rounds?”

“Two cases. Assorted.”

“How about initiators?”

“Yeah.”

“It sounds like you’ve got a very well-stocked van, Lance. Now tell me about the big stuff.”

“My…throat’s dry.”

“That’s because you’re afraid I’m going to burn you again. And I will, Lance, unless you focus. What else you got?”

“PENO.”

“Nice. That’s Finnish, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“How many bricks?”

“Six.”

“Anything else? Tell the truth now, Lance, or we’re gonna have a weenie roast.”

“We…we got a few M18A1s.”

Alex raises her good eyebrow.

“Really? Wow. That’s impressive. So far, so good. Now, the moment of truth.”

Alex leans forward, peering into his eyes.

“Where’s the van?”

Lance doesn’t say anything.

“You sure you want to play hard to get, Lance?”

His Adam’s apple bobbles up and down like a tetherball.