With Visions of Red (Broken Bonds #3) (2 page)

My whole body locks up. Tension gathers in my shoulders, snaps my spinal cord straight. My skin flames where he his hot palm rests. As he guides me toward the pool table, I instinctually pull away from him, unable to suppress the flaring panic.

Pull it together, Sadie
. The plaid-shirted trucker doesn’t notice my aversion to being touched, but to my dread, Connelly does. There, in the pits of his black eyes, a twinkle of suspicion. A hint of doubt.

He’s too fucking perceptive. A true hunter. This trucker might know a little about stalking, but he’s light-years apart from the forensic tech who dissects and analyzes his prey down to their most basic, visceral need.

A prostitute who cringes at touch is either an intriguing specimen for him…or a red flag. As I settle in beside the trucker, I keep Connelly in my peripheral. I can almost see his brain churning the prospect; how excited he is by the thought of a woman, who’s terrified of being touched, bound and tortured. Her fear that much more palpable. The inflicted pain felt that much more deeper.

Pure lust washes over his face, and he’s having a difficult time controlling the tremor in his hand as he tips the tumbler to his mouth.

Caught.

After a week of fruitless foreplay, in one unguarded moment, I’ve become his ultimate target. By revealing my greatest vulnerability, I’ve ensnared a predator that rivals even my abductor.

This will end tonight.

“Scoot closer, baby.” The trucker squeezes my waist, forcing my body close to his. “This game is about to get interesting.”

My heart rate jacks, but I don’t move. Frozen in place, I allow Connelly to assess me openly. My triggers and my reactions. My weaknesses. I’m giving him a wealth of knowledge to use against me, but it’s a fair trade.

I’m learning even more about him.

Our desires can be our ultimate weakness, too.

The man at the other end of the pool table catches my attention. He’s sussing out his own target. He sways to the side on a drunken stagger as he raises his pool cue. As his partner leans over the table to line up her shot, he slides the stick between her legs.

She misses the shot, the tip of the cue marking the green felt. “Shit!” she snaps, glancing back at the guy. “That’s fucking stupid. I’m on your team, ya know.”

But he’s not worried one bit about the game. He continues to run the stick up the inside of her thigh, then lifts the hem of her skirt, his gaze steady on his prize. When she attempts to straighten, he moves quickly. Bracing his hand against her back, he pushes her chest-down on the table.

My stomach clenches. Out of reflex, I place my hand on my hip, seeking the comfort of my weapon…only to find my SIG not there.

Her yelp startles the rest of the patrons of the bar, including Connelly. All eyes shift to watch the scene unfold as the drunk trucker yanks up her skirt. I wait, breath bated, for someone to stop this from happening.

Only no one does.

One by one, the patrons shake their heads, and either return to their drinking or stand to leave. As her warnings turn into shouts of protest, the bar clears out. Tightness squeezes my lungs, a vise-like terror infusing my chest.

This has happened before—and it’s common.

A normal enough occurrence that a head shake or distaste expressed through simply leaving and turning a blind eye is customary.

And why would anyone care what happens to a whore? Why waste the energy to stand up for her? She’s looking for it. Asking for it. Sex is her profession.

This is why the Roanoke serial killer has gone unapprehended for almost three years. No one cares enough to investigate the murder of a prostitute, or even to report her missing. Who knows how many victims there actually are?

The country music pumping out of the old jukebox twangs on as the girl is stripped of her tank top. Ripped from her body, her faded pink bra is torn and hangs from one shoulder. Her breasts spring free to encourage the guy on.

Next to me, the plaid-shirted trucker hoots. “Get in there, Rusty! She’s been begging for that dick.”

A sickness coats my stomach as he pulls me in front of him, pinning me between the pool table and his erection. His sour beer breath caresses my cheek as he leans in close to my ear. “How about a freebie, honey. One for the road.”

I have a badge in my car. I have a gun in my car. I have the power to stop this. One swift kick to his balls, and I can overpower him. At least for the seconds needed to gain the upper hand. Then run out of the bar. Get my badge and gun. Put in a call to have these rapists apprehended.

The local precinct might not warrant a rape of a prostitute as a major sex crime, but attacking an agent? That would not be overlooked so easily.

My body is braced to put these thoughts into action—my hands gripping the edge of the pool table, my muscles strung tight, limbs ready to be put into motion—until I meet his eyes.

Black pools gauging me. Waiting to see my response.

I loathe myself because, as the girl screams, trying to fight off her attacker, I’m torn. Save one prostitute from being raped, allowing a serial killer to go free. Or witness the injustice and gain a chance to bring Lyle Connelly down.

In the moments it takes for me to weigh my options, the trucker behind me has my dress ruched up around my hips. He pushes his hand against my back, flattening my stomach against the scratchy green felt. Panic immobilizes my body, and it’s enough time for him to spread my legs and step between them, removing my power.

As his fingers snake beneath my underwear, running the length of the seam across my ass to my core, a fierce quake erupts over my body. I watch the girl at the other end of the table submit. Tears leak from the corner of her eye, dripping into her destroyed hair, as her attacker pins her arms and thrusts into her.

Anger seizes me, spiking my blood. I take one last glimpse at Connelly. His eyes widen as I give away my intentions. Mine tell him everything he needs to know.
I will get you. This isn’t over.
Then I reach for the pool cue in the center of the table, my fingers scraping and clawing the felt.

Just as my fingers nudge it, a hand snags it out of my grasp.

Connelly slits his eyes at me, a rye smile twists his lips—I’m made.

Then the pool stick makes contact with my attacker. A loud
crack
, then I’m released. Freed as the trucker shouts, “Fuck!”

I roll over and bring my feet in, then land both feet to his chest, kicking him backward as he holds his face. He stumbles into a table, and Connelly is there to finish him. He raises the broken pool cue over his head and proceeds to beat the trucker over the back of his head until he goes still.

The swift commotion garners the attention of the whole bar, which is now quiet and transfixed. I glance back at the girl. The guy has left her and is now coming after Connelly.

He lands a blow to Connelly’s kidney, dropping him to the floor. On his knees, Connelly sweeps the blood-coated pool stick and takes out the trucker’s legs. Once he’s back on his feet, he sends a rapid kick to the trucker’s stomach, then another to his head.

Shaky with adrenaline, I rush over to my attacker and feel for a pulse. He’s alive. Knocked the hell out, but he’ll live.

It hits me suddenly; Connelly is a hero. If this is called in, he might be locked up for a night. Assault and battery charges placed. But once it’s determined that he was defending a woman against rapists, the charges will be dropped to a misdemeanor. He might even walk with no charges. Connelly will be praised within his department for his heroics.

And I’ll be sanctioned.

One word of this reaches Quinn and he’ll know exactly what I’ve been up to. Working undercover with no authorization to do so. I didn’t get clearance; I set out on this UC operation alone. I’m not sure if he’ll be angrier that I ignored his order to stop investigating Connelly, or the fact that I put myself in danger.

Probably both.

A throaty whimper draws my attention. The waitress has the victimized girl wrapped in her thick arms, pulling her tattered shirt up over her shoulders. One look at them and I know this won’t be reported. The prostitute doesn’t want the law involved, and neither do the bar employees.

Here, the law is considered more of an enemy than the rapists who just attacked us.

I try to compose my facial features to resemble the downturned, resolute appearance of the two women. Though I know I’m not fooling Connelly, I have to keep my guise in place until I know for sure what happens next.

Connelly doesn’t discard the pool cue. It’s evidence, and he’s a specialist that knows the evidence is damning. He takes it with him as he walks over to his table, removes his wallet, and drops a bill on the table. He doesn’t look at anyone as he leaves the bar.

As the adrenaline ebbs, my rational mind comes back into play.

I’m not sure if this is a good thing or not; if I’m relieved or repulsed. I’ve studied Connelly for a month. Have worked the profile to understand his character, and his actions tonight deter from every conceivable outcome.

What’s worse than not being able to predict the next move of a killer? Knowing that you and the killer are the only two enlightened by the truth.

I could rationalize that his dominant nature spurred him to act against his natural impulses. He claimed me as his, and refused to allow another man to tarnish his possession.

If he hadn’t made me as an imposter, that very well could’ve been his motivation.

But there’s something stronger at play here than his need: his survival instincts.

For those who revel in the taking of lives, they value and protect their own with a fierceness that rivals the protective nature of a mother over her child.

I let these thoughts fall into the background of my mind as I collect myself. Straightening my dress, I tug it down my thighs, smooth my disarrayed hair along my shoulders. The awkward silence filling the bar follows me as I move toward the table to grab my clutch and then head to the door. I won’t be back to this bar, but neither will Connelly.

Before I leave the comforting light beaming from the lamppost, I remove my phone from my bag and poise my thumb over the lit screen, ready to hit my programed emergency button.

The rental car parked in the lot backs my story of my car being broken down, but also gives me another layer of anonymity. As I punch in the keyless entry code under the door handle, an eerie feeling touches the back of my neck.

I open the door and have one foot inside the car when I feel a rough band of rope circle my neck. Shock grips me and I gasp—but I was ready; I hold on to that single, nearly fleeting thought as I prepare to lose my ability to breathe. I’m primed for him to deflect my attempt to grab the rope, so I focus on my phone, my thumb already moving over the screen.

“I’ve been studying you, too.” His words are a low rasp as he wraps his hand around my wrist. Before I can hit the button, he rams my arm against the car. My phone drops to the gravel.

I squeeze my eyes closed, dragging in a breath past the constriction of my throat.

He closes the door, then pulls my back against his chest as he drags me away from the car. The sudden loss of the interior light submerges us in the cover of darkness. The chirr of crickets seems to grow louder, hostile, as if the insects are provoked by the intruders invading their woods.

My heel snags on a root. The shoe is lost to the soggy ground. I concentrate on keeping the other one in place; a possible weapon.

Once we’re out of eyeshot, the tall grass and trees obscuring us from the bar, I’m forced to my knees. The muddy earth is cold and biting against my skin. He loosens the rope enough for me to take an unobstructed breath. I suck in the taste of dirt and humid summer as I fill my lungs.

The press of a sharp object at my waist causes me to flinch out of reflex.

“That’s not really your style,” I say, trying to buy time—to get him talking. To do anything but use that knife.

The blade is removed, but the rope tightens around my neck. Blood rushes my ears in a
whoosh
as pressure bulges my eyes. My fingers dig at the coarse rope, trying to find access beneath the tightly bound cord. Then just as I fear losing consciousness, he loosens his grip.

The rope slides against my neck as I gasp in air around a cough, the feel of choking still clinging to my throat.

I watch his booted feet appear in my vision, the moonlight glinting off the polished, rubbed black. I keep my eyes on the ground as he stops before me.

“There are witnesses,” I say.

“None of which give a damn about either of us.”

“You know my death will be investigated. I’m not one of your victims; I won’t simply disappear.” I look up into his face then. Stare into the shadowed sockets of his dark eyes.

“There won’t be a body to investigate.” Connelly runs the pad of his thumb over the tip of the blade.

I open my mouth to say more, to let him know who I am, how Detective Quinn and the task force will link my disappearance to him—but the knife makes contact with the collar of my dress, pressing into my skin and stifling my words.

As Connelly kneels in the mud, his weapon gouging into my flesh, I force my eyes not to close. I hold his gaze as he slices a clean cut down the fabric. The sound of tearing material sends me right back into my nightmarish memories.

Sweat trickles into the shallow cut on my chest with a biting sting…then he rips the collar away, revealing my neck and chest. With another swift move, he slips the flat of the blade beneath my bra. The cold steel assaults my skin. I shiver, and that entices a smile from his twisted lips. He turns the knife and yanks, cutting my bra away from my body.

His eyes assess the my scar. And as he says, “Oh, beauty. How divine your torture must’ve been,” I hold the gaze of the killer before me. I will not look away. I will not give him the fear he feasts on.

His fingers test the scar tissue along my collarbone. Lust flickers in his eyes as his hand trails up to capture the necklace around my neck. “I rarely take such an obvious trophy,” he says, wrapping the chain around his hand. “But I can’t resist.”