Chosen To Die - Lisa Jackson An Alvarez & Pescoli Novel

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think like that. Stay awake. Stay alive. Be ready for this twisted maniac and blow his balls straight to hell.

      Gritting her teeth, she popped the magnetic lock on the shotgun release but nothing happened. It wouldn’t budge. Despair welled but she still had her pistol. Her fingers closed over it now, and she took comfort in knowing it was there.

      Shoot first, ask questions later.

      She heard another grinding metallic groan as the roof around the roll bars crumpled, crushing down on her.

      In a blinding second of understanding, she knew she was about to die.

      Perfect!

      I watch in satisfaction as the Jeep spins and rolls over the edge of the cliff and into the ravine. Trees shake, great piles of snow fall from limbs, and the sounds of shrieking metal and shattering glass are muted by the storm.

      But I cannot rest on my laurels or pat myself on the back, for there is much work to do. And this one, Regan Elizabeth Pescoli…no, make that Detective Pescoli is different from the others.

      She might recognize me.

      If she’s alive.

      If she’s conscious.

      I must be careful.

      Quickly, I roll up the plastic tarp which I laid on the spot where I had such a perfect and clear shot of the road. I lash it onto my pack, then make certain my ski goggles are covering my eyes and that my ski mask, cap, and hood disguise my face. Once assured my identity is obscured, I haul my rifle and begin trudging through the thick snow, grateful that the blowing snow will cover my tracks.

      My vehicle is parked in an abandoned logging camp two miles from the spot where the Jeep has landed. Two miles of steep and difficult terrain that will take me hours to cross. Pescoli is not a petite woman and she might fight me.

      But I have ways to deal with that.

      I start hiking down the back side of the hill that overlooks the road and through a culvert to cover my tracks. It’s tight and dark, no water trickling, and it takes a lot longer, but the extra half mile is worth it. Not only will it be harder for the imbecile cops to track, but also it leaves Detective Pescoli in the frigid air a while longer, lets the cold seep deep into her bones so that she’ll welcome help from anyone. Even though she’ll be wary.

      I don’t believe she could have survived the crash and gotten out of the car or escaped, not with the damage that I saw and heard as the Jeep spiraled over the edge of the cliff. But even if by some miracle she did survive well enough to extract herself and crawl away from the wreckage, I’ll be ready.

      A tiny jolt of adrenaline surges through my bloodstream at the thought. I’ve always loved to hunt, to stalk prey, to test my skills against the most worthy of opponents.

      Smiling beneath the neoprene of my ski mask, I realize Regan Pescoli is certain to be one.

      Run, I think, the gloved fingers of my right hand tightening over my rifle. Run like the devil, you stupid cop-bitch!

      But you’ll never get away.

      Pescoli could barely breathe.

      Her lungs were tight, so damned tight. And the pain…God, the pain.

      She felt as if all the weight of the crumpled Jeep was compressing on her body, grinding against her muscles, squeezing the air from her lungs, the life from her body.

      Don’t be a melodramatic idiot.

      Get out!

      Get out now!

      Save yourself!

      You know what’s happening and it’s not good. In fact, it’s very, very bad.

      Desperately, adrenaline spurring her, she tried to release her seat belt, to thrust the damned air bag away from her face as pain splintered up her shoulder and she let out a wounded yowl.

      Jesus!

      Where once her body responded to her every command, now she was helpless.

      Come on, come on! You don’t have much time!

      Even now she knew he was out there.

      Felt his presence.

      Realized he was coming for her with deadly and sure intent.

      God in heaven, move, Pescoli, get the hell out of here!

      Sucking in her breath, gritting against the pain, she forced her fingers into the space between the seats and pushed hard on the seat belt release button.

      Click.

      Finally!

      Now if she could force the crumpled door or somehow try to get through the windshield…But nothing happened, the belt didn’t so much as budge.

      What? No!

      She tried again.

      She heard the same metallic sound of release, but the damned thing was jammed. Like the shotgun catch.

      Panic-stricken, she tried over and over again, grimacing against the pain, fearing that any second the killer would appear and that would be the end of it. Of her.

      Don’t give up! There’s still time!

      The blood that was oozing from a cut near her temple was freezing on her skin and she was shivering, her teeth chattering as the wind and snow raged through the shattered windshield, yet a nervous sweat ran down her spine.

      Any second she expected the sick son of a bitch to appear.

      Damn it, you’re a sitting duck! Get the hell out of this rig!

      If she could just reach the police band radio or her cell phone or…

      Again she tried to release her seat belt and realized it was no use, the damned buckle was jammed tight. Hell! She was going to have to cut the seat belt…but with what? Grabbing at the console, she tried to open the lid, but it, too, was mangled. “Oh, for God’s sake,” she muttered, forcing one finger through the opening…while in her left hand, she still held her gun. There was a knife in her pocket. If she could just reach it…or the radio…or her cell phone…or her safety pack. If she were just wearing her safety pack—but she’d been off duty, so the small radio she sometimes wore at her shoulder was lost in the backseat. She hadn’t thought she’d need it in confronting Lucky.

      Jaw tight, she tried to reach into her pocket where she kept a pocketknife with a serrated blade, one that could saw through the seat belt.

      She struggled to push her right hand into her pants and tried vainly to tamp down her panic, the feeling that any second she might go into shock and render herself useless.

      Don’t even think that way. Just keep working. You can do this, you can.

      Swallowing back terror, she felt the knife with her fingertips. Come on, come on. She eased her hand farther into the pocket, all the while listening above the pounding of her heart and the wintry rush of the wind for footsteps or snapped twigs or any noise that didn’t fit in this frigid wilderness, any human sound that would warn her of the predator who stalked her.

      She would be found by her colleagues; she knew that. Eventually. Given enough time, the sheriff’s department would locate her vehicle. Though not equipped with a computer, there were devices within the vehicle that would send out signals and the Jeep would be located. By the good guys.

      But with the department stretched thin, and her own request that she needed some time alone, she would either be captured or freeze to death before anyone came looking.

      Fear and fury swept through her just as her fingers clenched around the knife.

      Finally!

      She concentrated on pulling the small weapon up her leg, out of the pocket, away from the pain.

      Hands shaking, she finally extracted the knife. Painstakingly,

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