LITMIR.BIZ

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then began to saw at the seat belt. Her cheeks were numb, her fingers unresponsive as they began to freeze.

      If she were uninjured she could have sliced through the belt quickly. As it was, it took all of her strength. She began sawing and felt rather than saw that she wasn’t alone.

      Holy shit.

      She froze. The fingers of her left hand were clenched around her semi-automatic Glock. Cramped as she was, she needed the flexibility of the pistol. Once she was free of the wreckage, she could try for the shotgun again, see if she could get the catch to release.

      She heard nothing save the scream of the wind and her own panicked heartbeat. She saw nothing but white on white, millions of furious snowflakes falling from the sky, creating a shifting curtain where only shadows and her own imagination created images. Her heart was racing wildly.

      I know you’re out there, you prick. Show yourself.

      Nothing.

      She licked her cracked lips, told herself that she was imagining things. She usually didn’t take much stock in “gut feelings” or “women’s intuition” or “cop’s instincts.” But now, in this lonely frozen canyon…

      Was that movement? In the thicket only ten feet from the vehicle?

      Heart drumming, she squinted as ice crystals peppered her face.

      Nothing.

      No! Yes, something was definitely moving…She dropped the knife and put both hands on the pistol, training it through the shattered windshield. Another shadow.

      She pulled the trigger as the image leaped.

      Bam!

      The bullet hit the bole of a snow-blanketed pine. Bark and chunks of ice and snow exploded.

      A great buck leaped out from behind the trees and sprang up the hill, a frightened gray shadow disappearing into the whiteout.

      “Oh, God,” she whispered, adrenaline spiking through her bloodstream. A deer. Only a damned deer.

      She let her breath out slowly, started sawing again, and had convinced herself she was overreacting when she saw something move in the fragments of her rearview mirror.

      She looked again and it was gone.

      Get over yourself.

      One last swipe with the knife and the seat belt released just as she felt a sharp sting against her nape.

      What?

      She slapped the back of her neck, felt something cold and metallic, a small missile lodged near her spine. Her heart turned to stone as she yanked a dart free.

      Her insides liquified.

      She nearly dropped the damned thing. Someone had shot her with what? Any kind of drug or poison could be inside the slim silver canister with its short needle and hidden charge that forced the foreign substance into her body.

      She wanted to throw up.

      Don’t! Keep your wits! The bastard’s near…

      Again there was movement in the reflective shards of what remained of the mirror—a blurry shifting.

      She blinked hard, brought up her pistol as she turned toward the window, but it was too late. Her fingers were already not responding to her brain’s commands, the images in her mind scrambled, a tingling spreading through her.

      The drug…

      Another movement in the shattered, crumpled mirror.

      The shotgun. She needed the shot…gun…

      She tried to respond, to look for her assailant, but she was feeling numb all over. Her head lolled to one side, the pistol slipped from her fingers, and the world began to spin in eerie slow motion, images becoming dim and foggy.

      “No!” she said, her tongue thick as she tried and failed to find her sidearm again.

      And then she saw him, his features distorted by the broken mirror, a tall figure in white, ski mask obscuring his face, huge dark goggles shielding his eyes.

      She was beginning to fade, to slip beneath the surface of consciousness as he said, “Detective Pescoli,” in a warm voice that indicated he knew her. He was only a few feet away…if she could just aim her weapon…“Looks like you’ve had yourself an accident.”

      She rolled her eyes up at him and with one last great effort snarled, “Go to hell.”

      “Already there, Detective, but at least now I won’t be alone. You’re going to join me.”

      Not if I can help it, she thought with a sudden burst of clarity. She scrabbled for her pistol, her hands sluggish as she brought it up and fired.

      A series of blasts echoed through the canyon.

      But the shots missed. Her aim was off.

      As close as he was, she’d missed him, hitting only trees and rocks and God knew what else.

      He sighed and clucked his tongue. “You’re going to regret that.”

      She wanted to squeeze off another round but her fingers refused to respond and the best she could do as he came closer was to swipe at him with her hand, her fingernails catching in his ski mask, then tearing down his skin. He let out a surprised yelp.

      “You bitch!”

      That’s me, jerk-wad, and I’ve got your epithelials and DNA under my fingernails. If I’m ever found, you’re as good as dead.

      She noticed blood welling on his skin and he reached into some kind of pack and pulled out something…an apron? God, she just couldn’t focus…everything was so distorted…but she should recognize the piece of clothing dangling from his hand…

      A straitjacket?

      A chilling, mind-numbing fear sliced through her.

      She realized he wasn’t going to let her die easily or quickly, he was going to keep her alive, torture her, nurture her, but inevitably kill her, just like the others.

      But a straitjacket? Being bound and rendered completely helpless…it was as if he understood her worst, most terrifying fears.

      The white blizzard swam before her eyes, his image and that of the straitjacket clouding in the swirling, dancing, icy flakes.

      As she sank into unconsciousness she felt no fear; just a hard-edged determination that if she ever woke up again she was going to take this son of a bitch down. Way down. To a place so dark he would never, ever see the light again.

      She only prayed she’d someday get the chance.

      Chapter Two

      Today

      Where the hell is she?

      As a brutal storm shrieked through the surrounding canyons, Nate Santana paced in the stable, his cell phone pressed hard to his ear, no sound emanating from the slim, useless device. “Come on, come on,” he encouraged but he knew it was no good.

      Regan, damn her, was MIA.

      No service appeared on the phone’s small screen.

      Frustrated, Santana jammed his cell into the pocket of his worn jeans and told himself to remain calm. He was just keyed up from everything that had gone on in the sleepy town of Grizzly Falls in the last few weeks. No big deal.

      And yet, he felt worry eating at his gut, reminding him that everything that had been good in his life always disappeared and that Pescoli, damned her sexy ass, was the best thing that had happened to him in a long, long while…probably since Santa Lucia…

      His thoughts took a dark twist as he considered the last woman who had changed the course of his life, then pushed her beautiful image from his mind. Shannon Flannery was past history.

      Right now, he had to deal

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