Page 34 of Heston
London could barely believe what she was doing. Threatening to kill Bates? Torture him? Was Heston serious? Could she go through with any of it if he were?
Yeah, she’d like to see Bates pee himself, but the knife in her hand was only for show. Yes, she’d used it on him, but that was when he meant to kill her. She’d acted in self-defense. He was unarmed now, and even though it sure looked like he’d meant to kill her, that he’d planned it, she knew from her FBI training that intent was not the same as the actual crime. People could plan to terrorize or torment others all they wanted. Ex-husbands did it all the time. But unless their intended victim was the President of the United States, nothing would ever happen until the ex actually carried out his plan. Any police officer would tell you that. Which was why abused women often didn’t stand a chance. Restraining orders were merely official recordings that a woman feared for her life from a specific individual. They didn’t come with police protection, bodyguards, or safe houses. No, a woman afraid for her life had to pay for protection herself. Or end up dead.
London wasn’t a killer. Was she? She’d been trained by Quantico’s best, sure. She knew how to shoot, could hit body mass nearly a mile away, could handle herself in most hand-to-hand fights, unless someone smacked her head, that is. And yes, she’d passed the torture lessons exacted on her and her fellow class members in the hidden forests of Marine Corps Base Camp Lejeune a couple years back.
She’d been proud of how long she’d lasted under extreme duress. But damn, those were was the hardest drills she’d everbeen subjected to. She’d come out of the exercise bloody, sweaty, her face tear-stained, and with every bit of her reserves spent. Hell, demolished. Despite the fact that they were the ones who’d broken her, the Marines who’d worked her over, all gave her shitty grins and knuckle-bruising fist bumps for being the only female who’d endured. Now she knew what waterboarding, electrical shock, and psychological mind games were about. Bad. Really, really bad.
Swallowing hard, she kept up with Heston’s stern march to the center of the lake. He’d changed in the course of this hike. At first, he’d been easy going. Now he’d turned scary. His jaw was rigid and sharp and his dark brows were clashed into a stern V over his nose. Even his nose had turned knife thin. He wasn’t hiking, as much as speed-walking, and his eyes were so dark, she couldn’t see any brown in his irises. He was angrier than she’d ever seen him. Angry enough to kill.
She wanted to stop and ask him what he meant to do to Bates once they got to that hole, but she was afraid he’d turn her question back on her, for her to decide, who, if anyone, should kill Bates. She didn’t want to show weakness or disrespect, didn’t even want to chat in front of Bates. So she approached the hole and—
One look at that twenty-pound boat anchor sitting on its side next to the hole…
One glance at the metal handcuffs…
At the leg irons…
At the slick black hood sticking out of a forest green USFS canvas bag. A hood like those sickos used on sicker sickos in those stupid BDSM games ,where people paid to get whipped and suffocated and...
“You bastard!” exploded out of her.
She’d been worried about frightening Bates? The man she’d once enjoyed working with. Had spent time talking to. Hours even! Sharing ambitions and dreams and—and stuff!
In seconds, Heston had Bates’ wrists fastened behind his back with those cuffs, had his knees bent, and his butt at the edge of the hole, which was frozen over. With one savage kick, Heston broke the ice, then dragged the heel of his boot around the edge and widened the hole back to its original foot-and-a-half width. He sized Bates up and went back to kicking the edges until he made the hole as wide as Bates’ shoulders.
London couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Stupid her, she dropped to her knees to take a better look at the icy hole that would’ve been her grave. The water was frothy and black as death. Full of broken shards of ice. Fresh ice had already reformed at the edges.
“I was just gonna play with you,” Bates murmured, his voice trembling, and his whole body spasming with fear. “A little. Not too much and not for long.”
“You bastard! Stop lying! You were going to put me down that hole and under the ice!” she shrieked, pointing at the damned thing as if he didn’t know it was there. “In freezing ice water! In handcuffs! With a hood over my face so I couldn’t breathe!”
She grabbed the hood. Damned thing was elastic or spandex or something stretchy, with Velcro straps in the back that had very little give. There were no holes in the front of it for a person’s mouth or eyes, just two tiny slits for a nose. The stupid thing had a shiny silver buckle under its chin and a loop, like for a dog collar.Shit!
“How about we try this crap over your big head, Devon! Let’s see if you like it?” London’s gut pitched acid up the back of her throat at the thought of anyone volunteering to be suffocated like that, of anyone putting it over someone else’s head andface for—for fun! Stifling black spots swarmed her vision. She had to lean back on her haunches to keep from face-planting. It was hard to breathe imagining that hood over her head. It was a struggle to suck in enough air. Everything in her screamed bloody murder. But she refused to embarrass herself in front of this jackhole. What the hell?!!
“And then what,CaptainBates?” Heston asked darkly, twisting this jerk’s rank, making it sound like an insult instead of the honor it should’ve been. London leaned closer to better hear him. It would sure be nice if he’d lean her way and wrap one of his strong, protective arms around her. She had never been so close to falling apart. And okay, he was right. She did want him to protect her and keep her safe. Now. Here. How could anyone hate her so much they wanted her dead? To die so horribly? In a dark, frozen lake, kicking and crying and fighting for air. Fighting to live!
“Nothing,” Bates murmured. “Honest. I wasn’t gonna drown her, just—”
Heston’s fist shot out of nowhere and plowed into the side of Bates’ head, knocking him to his side away from the hole. “Honest? You don’t get to even think that word. You’re a disgrace to the Forest Service. To your fellow rangers. To America! Just what did you intend to do to LT Wilde?” He was on his knees now, his chest heaving, both fists clenched, his knuckles white, and spitting mad. “Almostdrown her!Almostsuffocate her!Almostlet her slip under the surface of this frozen lake andalmostfreeze to death?Almostscare the fuck out of her?Almostlet her body not be found until next spring! Just what were you going to do to her, you son of a gawddamned bitch!”
“Nothing! I wasn’t supposed to kill her. Just shut her up. She knows too damned much!”
London fell back on her ass, speechless.I know too damned much? Like what? What do I know?
Heston didn’t ask. He was long past playing games. Like a pro—because he was one—he twisted Bates’ ass around until the guy had both boots stuck in freezing water. The chicken shit hissed as his boots filled. Good. Because that was just the beginning. The rule was to make sure black op assassinations looked like accidents, and therein lay a problem. Nottheproblem, justaproblem. Truth was that ice fishermen died all the time if they were unprepared. If they were idiots. If they didn’t heed the signs of hypothermia. If they were overweight and broke through thin ice. If they drilled their fishing holes along crack lines. The reasons were endless. But ending this asshole while London watched? That was the real dilemma.
Heston looked across the hole at the woman he adored. London’s eyes were no longer their usual pretty turquoise green. They’d turned dark blue. Even her hair seemed darker. Colder. Nothing like the cozy warm tropical hues when she was happy. He pursed his lips and let loose a plume of overheated angst. Make that outright rage. If anyone deserved to die beneath this ice, it was Devon Bates, bastard extraordinaire. And London should decide his fate.
“What do you want to do with him?” Heston asked, dialing his rage back enough to offer her the calm respect she deserved, to let her know this particular decision was hers. She was the intended murder victim here. Bates hadn’t brought that anchor just to ‘play.’ Heston jerked the canvas bag that had held that extreme bondage mask, pissed at the sickening fad sweeping thenation. If he lived to be a hundred, he’d never understand the thrill a man got out of beating a woman. Not after what he’d seen done to women and girls in Afghanistan, Iraq, and Iran. India. China. Thailand. Fuckin’ Hollywood USA. The bag needed to sink with Bates.
Shit!There was something beneath the mask. A Nikon camera.
London gasped like she’d been shot. Her hands went to her throat, and everything went from bad to worse. Without warning, she shoved Bates into the hole. The man sank. Bubbles sputtered over where he’d disappeared.
Panicked that she’d over-reacted, that she’d eventually regret killing Bates, Heston stuck his arm into the cold water, up to his armpit, until his cheek was flat against the ice. He spread his fingers and made contact with Bates’ short as shit haircut. Like it or not, Heston extended his arm down deep, grabbed Bates by his ear, and pulled him to the surface. Up came the bastard. Once he surfaced, Heston got a better hold on his neck and jerked him out of the hole.
Bates sat at the edge, crying like the chicken-shit he was. “I had no choice! He made me do it! You gotta understand!” Sputter. Choke. Whine. Bitch. Whine some more.
