Cindy Gerard - Killing Time

But at this point he didn’t care if she told him she was Margarita Thatcher. She’d answered a question. It was a start.

“Okay, Pamela Diaz… I’ll consider answering your questions if you answer mine.” He didn’t wait for her to point out the obvious—that she held the gun and the advantage. “What’s your stake in Operation Slam Dunk?” When she hesitated again, he pressed his slight opening. “You know you’re going to have to tell me sometime.”

A humorless smile tipped up one corner of her mouth. “And why is that?”

“Because you haven’t killed me for a reason. And I think we can rule out sex.” He lifted a brow. “Yes? No?”

She snorted and he saw another sign of hope. She’d wanted to smile.

“So, that’s a yes. Which means you want something else from me… and that you need me alive to get it.”

She considered him with a long look, then finally walked back to the chair and sat down.

Tick. Tick. Tick. He had nowhere to go and no way to get there—yet. He could wait her out.

He knew instinctively that there was nothing he could say that would make her talk. She had to decide what happened next.

But he knew he was right. She wanted him for something other than a whipping boy. And to get his help—good luck with that—she was smart enough to know she had to give him something, because they’d reached gridlock. If she wanted information, she needed to lay her cards on the table. Once she did, he’d let her think she’d softened him up enough to get the upper hand. Then she’d find out how tired he was of playing with a stacked deck.

“I’m a journalist,” she said after several long moments.

Tip of the chin. Tap of the finger.

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

“A journalist?” He grunted. “Give me a break.”

“Freelance,” she insisted. “I’m writing a retrospective piece that chronicles Spec Ops military units and their deployments in Afghanistan.”

He actually laughed. “Right. And to accomplish that, you make it a practice to seduce, drug, hold at gunpoint, and”—he lifted his arms as far as the restraints would let him—“cuff your potential sources to a bed. Try again, Pamela.”

“You have a reputation as a loose cannon.”

“Ah… so this was all for your protection. What a line of bullshit. You could have walked up and asked me.”

“And you would have told me to take a flying leap.”

She had a point. “So, rather than risk that happening, drugging me was the next logical alternative.”

“I’m on a tight schedule. Expediency is what matters here, not your tender sensibilities.”

She was a ball breaker, all right. New tactic. “Do we have a timetable for when these cuffs come off?” he asked point-blank.

No answer.

“Okay, fine. Could I at least have a drink of water while you work it out in your head? I’m bone dry here.”

She thought for a moment, then finally stood and walked hesitantly across the room toward a door he suspected was the bathroom.

The fact that she was willing to show him a little mercy told him reams about her. No self-respecting tango, street thug, or banger would give two rips about his poor parched throat. While it was clear she could handle herself, this particular skill was not her bailiwick—and knowing that only made him more pissed that he’d let her get the drop on him.

As soon as she turned her back to him, he went to work on the flex cuffs, hoping that all the hours of competitions he and the guys used to stage paid off. There had been a lot of down time between missions, a lot of hurry up and wait. You could only play so many games of cards and basketball, so you got creative. Flex cuffs were plentiful and tying each other up and trying to beat each other’s escape times provided not only a diversion but a skill set that might come in handy one day.

Looked like today was the day his uncontested speed record was going to be put to the real test. And when she closed the bathroom door behind her—a stroke of luck that the lady needed some privacy—he made full use of the window of opportunity.

Pressing the inside of his wrists together, he wedged his right thumbnail under the edge of the first of a line of tiny teeth that locked into the plastic band on the catch on his left hand. Stretching, he tipped his head back so he could see what he was doing, then glanced toward the bathroom door when he heard a flush and then the sound of water running.

He had to move fast. Straining to get the right angle, he repeatedly worked his nail over the first tooth until it finally gave and slipped under the catch. The left cuff loosened a fraction of an inch. He repeated the process. Another tooth gave. Another breath of room.

He had the feel of it now. Like riding a bicycle. He repeatedly wedged his thumbnail under the next tooth, pressed, felt it give and immediately loosened another tooth, then another, and another…

The bathroom door swung open. He let his wrists go limp so she wouldn’t suspect what he was up to.

She walked to the bed, a glass of water in one hand, his gun in the other.

Tricky, but doable.

Eyes narrowed and wary, she hesitated.

“Like I can do anything trussed like a chicken on a spit,” he grumbled. “Please. Give me a drink.”

He put plenty of helplessness in his tone. Added a dose of self-pity in his eyes.

Scowling, she finally leaned over him, extending the glass toward his mouth.

He lifted his head and drank deeply. Because he was thirsty. And because he wanted to give her a reason to let down her guard.

“Thanks,” he said, appearing to be clearly defenseless and so fucking appreciative he wanted to gag. “More. Please.” Oliver Twist at his humble best.

She didn’t hesitate this time. She leaned a little closer, extended the glass. And he struck.

He jerked his left hand free of the loosened plastic loop, knocked the gun across the room, grabbed her hair with his other hand, and jerked her down on the mattress.

Water flew everywhere; glass shattered on the tile floor. She scrambled to get away but before she knew she’d been had, he flipped her onto her back, straddled her hips, and pinned her wrists above her head.

She put up a good fight, and she didn’t fight like a girl. She had some serious moves but he had size, physical strength, and a big dose of pissed-off on his side.

She bucked, jabbed with her elbows and attacked with her knees, giving him all he could handle until he finally managed to secure the cuffs around her wrists, loop them over the head rail, and jerk them tight.

Breathing hard, he pushed himself off her and off the bed. Not fast enough to avoid her flying feet, though. She clipped his cheek good with a boot heel and damn near knocked him on his ass.

Swearing, staggering, and gingerly touching his fingers to his cheekbone, he grabbed his gun from the floor, found his one-eyed jack, and tucked it in his pocket.

“So…” Sucking wind and grinning in the face of her anger and his pain, he dropped into the chair at the foot of the bed. “Welcome to my world.”

Of all the stupid moves, Eva couldn’t believe she’d let Brown get the drop on her. She knew what kind of an operative he’d been, knew not to let down her guard around him. But because she had, now her head was on the chopping block instead of his.

The sense of dread that had dogged her all the way to Peru went off the charts. Anger quickly outdistanced it. The bastard was enjoying this. She felt only a small measure of satisfaction as she watched his cheekbone redden and swell where she’d nailed him with her boot.

A good five minutes had passed since he’d cuffed her to the bed. Once he’d caught his breath, he hadn’t wasted time searching the room.

He didn’t find much. She’d been careful. If she was right and she’d been followed to Lima, she didn’t intend to make it easy for her shadow to find her—which wouldn’t make it easy for Brown to find out anything about her, either, and that, too, was by design. She didn’t want him knowing her real identity. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

To make certain, she’d rented the room by the hour. Paid cash and used one of her fake IDs. Multiple passports and extra cash were stashed in a locker at the airport, the combination committed to memory. So he wasn’t going to find anything to identify her here. But he did find the extra doses of Ketamine she’d brought along for insurance. And he’d found her Glock 19 in her purse, which meant he now had all the firepower.

Both handguns lay on a squat table he’d shoved against the wall near the foot of the bed, where he stood now—out of reach of her feet. He held a full syringe in his hand, playing with it, playing with her head.

“Ve have vays of making you talk,” he said with an arched brow and the worst German accent she’d ever heard.

The hard look in his eyes overrode his sick sense of humor. She had to stay strong. “Ooo. That was original.”

“I don’t have to be original.” He considered the needle. Considered her.

Now he was making her nervous. “You’re not going to use that on me.” She hoped to God she was right.

“Give me one good reason not to.”

She tried to get comfortable and felt a brief moment of guilt over how long she’d kept him bound in this very same position. It hurt her shoulders—and she didn’t have the added discomfort of once having had hers dislocated. “You won’t get any answers if you knock me out.”

“Maybe I don’t want answers.” The German accent and the joking were long gone as he slowly raked his gaze over her body. “Maybe, after all the shit you put me through, I want what you promised to deliver back at the cantina.”

A sick feeling slid through her stomach. “You need to drug and rape your bed partners to get a little action these days, do you?”

“Listen to all that judgmental scorn from the woman who didn’t hesitate to use a needle on me.” His smile was ugly. His voice was so soft and chilling it made her shiver—especially when he moved closer… a prowling, pissed-off lion. “Enough playing around. Talk to me, chica. I’ve reached the end of my patience. Who are you, how did you get your hands on that file, and what do you really want from me?”

He looked dangerous now. Unreasonably gorgeous and mean, suddenly, as the anger that flashed in his eyes turned to an arctic cold rage. “Talk or I walk. Right after I tape your mouth shut and give this wad of cash to the desk clerk of this fine establishment and tell him not to disturb you until the money runs out.”

He held up the bills he’d dug out of the front pocket of her jeans—another experience that hadn’t lacked in humiliation. “This ought to buy a good ten days of uninterrupted solitude, don’t ya think?”

She made herself hold his gaze. “You wouldn’t do that. You wouldn’t leave me here to die.” Or for whoever wanted her silenced to find her defenseless.

He shoved the cash into his hip pocket. “I’m a cold-blooded murderer, remember? Wasn’t that the gist of the charges you leveled against me?”

When she didn’t say anything, he walked to the door. “Suit yourself.”

“All right.” She was suddenly afraid he would leave her. After what she’d done to him, could she really blame him? “All right,” she repeated when he hesitated with his hand on the door knob and waited.

She swallowed. He didn’t need to know the whole truth. Not until she knew if there was even a prayer of trusting him. “You were right. I did lose someone that day. A friend.”