Chapter One
The chance Victoria Molina-Vandergraff was waiting for
came on the third night. She was ready, primed with rage,
disgust, and a tentative plan. Still, she almost missed
it.
One minute, she was trussed up on the floor of the
stolen panel van as it careened around a curve on the dark
dirt road, silently cursing the two jerks in the front
bucket seats and cheering the cop who was hot on their
tail. The next, she was tumbling over the gritty carpeting
as they slid on rain-wet gravel. The vehicle left the
roadway and bounced across what felt like a shallow ditch.
For a breathless instant it was airborne. Then it slammed
into a tree.
The screeching crunch of folding metal filled the air.
Safety glass rained with a musical tinkling. Tory slid
helplessly, scraping dirt from the carpet with her
cheekbone before she hit a side panel. The van jolted
back, shuddering. The engine died.
Headlights stabbed the darkness as the police car
rounded the bend behind them. Brakes screamed and gravel
flew as it slued to a halt. Seconds later, the officer's
amplified voice, deep and edged with anger, blared from
the unit's loudspeaker.
"Out of the vehicle! Hands in plain sight. Move!"
"Holy shit! What we s'pose to do now?"
The kidnapper that she'd dubbed Zits long miles back
along the road from Florida growled the question as he
glared at his pal behind the wheel. Big Ears whined an
excuse as usual, even as he started the van and slammed it
into reverse, spinning its wheels in the mud.
Zitslet fly a string of curses as uninspired as they
were virulent. Craning his neck to see out the window, he
said, "Christ, if it ain't the sheriff of that hick town
back there. Says so on his car hood."
"All I see is his big-ass gun," Big Ears moaned. He
gunned the van hard, hunching in his seat at the same time
as if he could make the vehicle move with his body. "We
gonna die. I told you ripping off that convenience store
was a dumb idea. `Nah,' you said. `They're backward as
hell in a little old place like Turn-Coupe, Louisiana.
Won't be no security camera,' you said, `No alarm, no cops
this time of night ...'"
"How the hell was I to know?"
"You're the brains, ain't you? Now we're screwed.
Backcountry sheriff like that don't give a shit who he
shoots."
"It ain't gonna be me!"
Zits hit the glove compartment latch with his fist and
reached inside for his pistol. Then he heaved from under
the mangled dashboard and crawled between the seats into
the cargo area.
"Where you going?" Big Ears demanded, even as he
gunned the van again, gaining a few inches.
"To fix us a way out."
"And how the hell you gonna manage that?"
Zits, going to one knee beside Tory on the canted
floor of the van, didn't answer.
She could see his teeth glinting in the glare from the
police cruiser's headlights. She pressed back against the
side panel as he shoved the pistol into his waistband and
pulled a knife from his boot. Before she could draw breath
to scream, he slashed the duct tape around her ankles.
Jerking her upright, he cut the tape at her wrists, then
ripped it off along with several centimeters of skin.
"There now," he drawled in vicious sarcasm. "Looks
like it's your lucky day."
"What are you going toβ"
Zits didn't let her finish. He hauled her around and
gave her a hard shove toward the rear cargo doors, even as
he pulled his pistol free again with his other hand.
In that instant, Big Ears shifted the van into drive
and stomped the accelerator. It roared and bucked forward
into the tree again. Tory plunged toward the back door.
Zits crashed into her. His shoulder hit her head, smacking
her into the door glass. Her brain jarred in her skull.
She was blind for a second as a red haze appeared before
her eyes and pain surged in her head. Still, somewhere in
her mind was the memory of the hollow thud made by Zit's
pistol as it fell to the floorboard.
Zits cursed. Shoving away from Tory, he scrambled for
the lost gun.
"Out of the vehicle! Now!"
"Damn lawman's coming after us," Big Ears gabbled in
panic. "We got to rock this heap free, get her moving."
Suddenly, everything was surreal to Tory. The deep,
vibrant voice of the sheriff coming out of the night was
like that of some hero in an action movie. She dragged
herself upright in slow motion. Through the back door
glass, she could see the sheriff as a dark silhouette
against the glare of the patrol car's headlamps. He
stepped forward, and his shadow stretched across the road
as tall and wide as that of some legendary giant. Behind
her, Big Ears rammed the van's engine into reverse again,
spinning the wheels until the stench of burning rubber
filled the air and double sprays of mud spewed from the
ditch to plop across the gravel road like small
explosions.
"Yeah, we'll get out, but our gorgeous rich bitch is
going first." Zits reached past her to shove open the rear
door.
He meant to use her for a shield. It worked in the
movies, using the victim to gain safe conduct, but Tory
wasn't so sure the hick sheriff out there would cooperate.
He had no idea she'd been kidnapped, didn't know her from
Adam's Eve.
"Wait a minute!" Big Ears yelled as the van plunged
forward again, rocking in its ruts. "We moved, feel it?
We're 'bout outta here!"
She wasn't going with them.
Tory surged to her feet as Zits turned his head to
measure their chance of escape, but the lurch of the van
sent her sprawling. Her elbow came down on the missing
pistol. Instantly, she shifted position, scooped it up.
Zits swung around. She saw the flash of the knife in
his hand.
"Stop!" Tory leveled the pistol, tightened her finger
on the trigger. She could use the weapon, thanks to
private lessons in self-defense before she went off to
college. And she would if it was her only choice.
Zits wrenched to a halt. They hovered in a stand off.
"I got it, Chris!" Big Ears yelled. "We're gone!"
The van was moving. She had to get out. There was no
time to think, no time to plan. Lunging away from Zits,
she scrambled for the open back door. She grabbed the
frame and staggered upright, wavering an instant to gain
balance. Then she jumped.
It was sheer instinct, what happened next; the results
of years of adolescent gymnastic lessons and
demonstrations from a skydiving team captain on how to hit
the ground without breaking your neck. Tory rolled with
her forward momentum, letting it carry her toward the
sheriff, away from her kidnappers, At the maneuver's peak,
she found her feet and came erect with wobbly grace and
the heavy pistol still in her hand. She faced the sheriff,
threw the heavy ponytail of her hair behind her back to
clear her vision as she searched his dark features for
some sign, any sign, of safety.
Then Tory knew. She felt it coming even before she saw
the tall man in front of her steady his weapon, before she
saw red-orange fire streak from its bore.
The single shot exploded like a cannon's roar. It
punched her backward like a hard blow to the upper chest
and shoulder. Her ponytail whipped over her shoulder and
across her face. The pistol flew out of her hand. The
gravel roadbed rose up and slammed into her. She lay too
stunned to breathe, staring into the night sky while at
the periphery of her vision the dark stain of blood spread
across the dirty silk of her once-white jogging suit top
like some night-blooming flower.
She heard the van's engine revving in the distance,
felt the jolt in the roadbed beneath her as the vehicle
spun free in a hail of mud and gravel. The lawman shouted
an order, fired again. She flinched at the sound, a
muscular reaction without meaning. But the van with Zits
and Big Ears inside didn't stop. It hurtled forward with a
clash of gears and the screech of dragging metal. Then it
roared away into the night.
The pain hit Tory in a silent eruption. It tore at her
shoulder and chest, a living thing clawing under her
collarbone. She wanted to cry out, needed to fight it or
get away from it. She couldn't. Her lips parted in a gasp
of silent agony.
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