Page 159 of Flint’s Strike

I can’t focus. Too many stars bursting in front of my eyes. He’s big. That’s all I know. He hauls me up and slams me against the wall.

“He wants to talk to you.” The man’s raspy voice is too close. Almost right in my ear. A rough hand closes around my throat.

Air. Fuck! I need air.

I bring my knee up, catching him in the balls, and he lets go with a whimper too small for a guy his size. I blink hard. He’s got his hands crossed over his crotch, half bent over, but I’m not getting out of this kitchen if I can’t get him to move.

“Call the cops!” I shout.

That pulls his attention toward the door. I grab the frying pan from the dish rack, and slam it into the back of his head. That sends him to his knees.

It’s enough for me to get around him, and I make it to the living room before he catches me. We go down together, crashing into the side table. The lamp topples over, and I land next to my project bag.

I don’t think. Just grab one of the needles sticking out the side, twist, and use all the strength I have left to stab him. Fuck! He’s wearing a suit. A goddamn suit, and the bamboo needle snaps in two before it can do any damage. I throw a punch, the skin on my back pulling tight with the motion.

Blood spills from his lip. For a second, I think I might get away. I’m dizzy, but I force myself to my feet.

His fist finds my knee—my left knee. The whole leg buckles, sending me sprawling. I’ve got nothing left except the knowledge that if I give up, I’ll die. And I really don’t want to die.

He stands over me, fists my hair, and yanks my head back until he can wrap his other arm around my throat. The pressure builds, each breath harder than the last. I claw at his arm, but the suit is too thick. Kicking and thrashing, I catch his ribs with an elbow, and the pressure loosens enough for me to draw half a breath.

But that’s all he gives me.

The room starts to gray at the edges. I’m not winning this fight. Somewhere under the panic, under my body’s desperate need for oxygen, I know I’ve lost.

The gray is darker now. My limbs are still flailing, but that’s not me. A body starved for air does whatever it can to survive.

Umberto’s music fades away. Everything fades. Except one thought.

Parker.

I never told her…

Never told…

I…

Unsub

I remember the thirst. The way the sweat ran down my back. How hot it was in that basement. I remember seeing the Order to Vacate posted on the front door.

The beating the senator’s man gave me on that bridge broke my collarbone. So I didn’t fight—I couldn’t—when he dragged me down the stairs and zip-tied my good wrist to a radiator pipe on the floor. The senator told me if I didn’t cause any trouble, he’d make sure I was taken care of.

I didn’t know what that meant for me. But I knew what it would mean for Eliot. And for Parker Elmore. So I started working the thick, plastic zip tie against the pipe as hard as I could.

Chapter Sixty-Three

Parker

By six fifteen, I’m ready for a margarita. Two, even. Nate and I filed the paperwork to subpoena the financial records from Ridgeline Policy Partners, and District Attorney Olivar is confident she’ll be able to get a conviction once the case goes to trial.

My phone rings when I’m less than a mile from Isabel’s house. Caller ID says it’s from the Ranger non-emergency line.

“This is Captain Elmore.”

“Captain, this is Val from dispatch.” There’s a hint of confusion in her tone. “This might be nothin’, but I’ve got a woman on the line tryin’ to report a missin’ person. She says the guy’s datin’ a Ranger who invited him to a barbecue last weekend. I remember you talkin’ to the Chief about a cookout, and I thought⁠—”

I pull over, the car jerking as my foot hits the brake a little too hard. “Put her through. Right now.”