Playing Dead_ A Novel of Suspense - Allison Brennan [152]
“So predictable.”
She jumped, tried to turn away from Phil. He’d gone around and come at her from the opposite direction.
He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her close. He’d pulled on jeans, but had on no shirt.
She swung her arm up and around, gun in hand. He clutched her wrist and slowed her momentum. Squeezed. The gun fell from her grasp.
His face was inches from hers; he’d pulled her up off the ground with angry strength. “I didn’t want you to suffer, Claire. But you made me mad.”
She screamed at the top of her lungs. Someone had to be around! Someone would hear her and call the police. He slapped her, once, twice, three times until she was on the ground. She felt around for the gun. It had fallen right here . . .
“You’ll be better off dead,” he told her.
“Fuck you!” she yelled. With her good leg, she kicked him. Made contact dead-on with his dick. He winced, bent over, and she stood, all her weight on the uninjured leg, gun in hand—this time holding the barrel.
He put his hands around her neck. She was startled, not expecting the intense and instant pain as her breath was stolen from her.
She used all her energy and coldcocked him with the gun. He released her, holding the back of his head, and she fell to the ground, greedily drawing in fresh air. She crawled away from him. He was on his knees, a cry of pain escaping his lungs.
Go, Claire! Go.
She continued moving away from him, unable to focus, but knowing if she was going to survive she couldn’t be anywhere near him. Her head felt thick and her leg was slick with blood. She wanted to hold it, to stop the bleeding, but he’d come for her.
“Claire, you bitch!” he screamed, but he hadn’t moved. She had. Or had she? Her mind was muddled, and she didn’t know where he was.
She looked up and saw a backhoe in front of her. She almost laughed at the thought of using a slow machine as a getaway vehicle. She took a deep breath, put her hand on the metal, pulled herself up.
She turned. Where was Phil? She didn’t see him. Her heart pounded. No, no, no. Where was he? She looked right, left—
“You found your grave.”
He pushed her and suddenly she was falling . . .
. . . she hit mud, landing flat on her back. She was staring up at the starry sky, the half moon casting odd shadows in the hole she’d fallen into.
Hole?
You found your grave.
An engine roared to life. Dirt rained down on her . . .
She pulled herself to standing. Reached as high as she could. The hole was taller than she was. She tried to climb out, digging her toes into the dirt. But it was too hard. She couldn’t get out.
More dirt came down on her head. A rock hit her, stunning her.
She screamed.
No one could hear her over the grave digger.
Mitch slammed on the brakes in Langstrom’s driveway, behind a sedan. “I heard a scream.”
“Wait for backup!” Meg said. “They’re two minutes behind us.”
Mitch ignored her and jumped from the car, gun drawn. He heard Meg swear under her breath, but she followed him out, Hans close behind her.
Silence.
They walked around the parked car. Mitch knelt and felt for a pulse on the body. He glanced at Meg and shook his head. Meg mouthed to him “Riordan.”
Mitch pointed to the marks in the dirt and gravel of the drive. Meg didn’t see what he saw, but she hadn’t had as extensive training in tracking humans.
They kept low. There were voices, beyond the bushes. A hundred yards away. They were all vulnerable in the open, but Mitch couldn’t wait for backup and a game plan. Saving Claire was the only thing on his mind.
“Fuck you!”
It was Claire’s voice.
Mitch ran across the open space.
“Claire, you bitch!”
It was Langstrom, it had to be. Mitch continued toward where the voices came from. He couldn’t see anyone yet, but they had to be near here.
A startled cry, then the sound of an engine.
He turned to the right and saw the backhoe on the far side of the property. A pile of dirt was being poured out . . . into a hole?
Where was Claire?
Mitch sprinted toward the backhoe. “FBI! Freeze!” He aimed his gun at Langstrom.
“If you shoot,