What lunatic would… her mind snapped back. Her pants were around her thighs, then her ankles. He rose over her, his hands and mouth on her. He rutted like a pig.
"No-"
His large hand knocked her almost unconscious. Her mind swooped to the brink of hysteria. From somewhere, she didn't know where, she remembered a man from training-a rapist- talking about his anger on tape.
"Did your mother or father fill you with this much rage? Did the neighbor lady play with you? What?" Her tones to her own ear sounded amazingly matter-of-fact.
His breathing grew more rapid. He crawled on her, his powerful knees forcing hers farther apart. Her mind staggered around like a drunk in a busy street-the wet earth, twigs and brush grinding into her bare buttocks-the odor of his breath.
"You never told me about Mom-this sickness you seem to have
… "
A slap stung her face, smearing blood, sharpening her mind. With a start, it occurred to her that he wasn't entering her. That something wasn't… he was flaccid. "God, after all this you can't get it up?"
The words just came. Then a giant sneer took over her mind. This pig couldn't do it. With all his rutting he couldn't pull it off. Raucous, crazy laughter escaped her lips.
"You poor bastard. You want to rape me. No, you want to hurt me, subjugate me to your sick fantasy. And you can't get it up."
The slap distorted her face, probably broke something, but didn't stop her. "Or was it the mommy talk?" Her jaw cracked with the thud of his heavy fist, but still she couldn't stop. Now his bloodied hand was thrust between them; he was working himself.
"When it's this bad you try playing with yourself, do you? Maybe if you undid the cuffs… damn it, with my bloody lips I can't even say it… if you undid me, maybe I could-"
She began to laugh her crazy laugh and couldn't stop until she coughed on the blood. "Maybe I could give you a hand." Her laughter pierced the night.
A minute passed while she felt the rhythm of his hand and then his frustration. Faster and faster he moved, as if he were jerking on a soft, seasoned rope. Her lips felt like balloons- she couldn't absorb another punch. Still, like a moth drawn to the flame she couldn't resist speaking again. "My ass is freezing, why don't you call it a night? This is no way to get even with whoever screwed you over."
He stopped. "Later," was all he said as he rolled off and put his clothes back together.
''Would forcing sex on me really buy you something?'' she asked as he pulled her pants back up around her waist.
"I promise, you'll beg me to do it."
This time she said nothing. He fastened her pants, zipped her coat, and told her to walk.
Leave clues. She must leave an easy track. She began to scuff the ground every third step. If she could break a branch, she did it. They walked at the edge of the forest, him behind her with a gun at the back of her head. For a split second, she pondered whether Kier would be better off if Tillman pulled the trigger.
Chapter 31
Some men would invent evil spirits if they learned they did not exist.
Kier landed squarely on the man's back, flattening him to the ground. One twist around the neck with the garrote and Kier had a lethal hold. Soon the mad flailing gave way to unconsciousness, allowing Kier to release the pressure. The guy had no cuffs in his pack like the rest. Instead, Kier used the laces from the man's boots to tie his hands, then cut one Achilles tendon. What ammo he didn't keep, he tossed in the brush. To make them useless, he removed the firing mechanism from the two pistols and the M-16, discarding the vital parts.
Kier worked quickly, knowing that the watcher-by far the deadlier of the two-might arrive at any moment. As soon as they knew a soldier was down they would send out a squad.
Passing through the densest part of the forest, mostly on his belly, Kier returned to the rock and the dogwood. No one remained there. Kier had no thought as to where the man might have gone, except down the trail to find the flunky.
Kier decided to wait before proceeding to the house. A feeling that it was the wrong target began to take hold. If Tillman was around, he would likely be near the Donahues' house, watching and waiting. It was much more like this man to be part of the trap than the bait.
Something made him look back in the direction he had come. A chipmunk sat in a moon ray, frozen on a log, watching, flicking his tail as if it had been disturbed. There was no sound, but a shadow stood against the leaves of a nearby myrica. If it was a man, he was good. No more than twenty feet separated them. Despite his will to remain watchful and still, Kier's heart quickened. Every fiber of his being said he was in danger. For just a second, he wondered why the man didn't strike.
Without a plan, without thought, he bolted to his right just before he heard the sound of a clip sliding into a pistol. Then he sprang for a log, rolling next to it. At any second, a grenade could drop beside him. If the man was throwing a grenade, he wouldn't be able to shoot for a couple of seconds. It was a horrible gamble, but Kier curled to a crouch, then jumped the log. Straight at
his target he ran, knowing that at any moment he could be shot to pieces by an M-16.
He saw the hand cocked, poised to throw, the bulk of a pistol in the other hand. Kier fired into the metal breastplate that would cover the man's chest. The bullet knocked him backward. Then Kier fell upon him.
A tangle of gouging fingers and raining fists fought the encumbrance of the so-called bulletproof jackets. Of their vitals, only the men's faces were unprotected. The soldier fought with a ferocity that Kier had never encountered. Kier could feel thick fingers closing on his neck. They had come to rest almost head to head. At the same moment, each struggled to get atop the other. As they both came to one knee, Kier grabbed a thumb to break the man's chokehold. When the fingers started to slip, the man pulled back and swung with his fist. It caught Kier straight on the jaw, stunning him. Kier shook it off and plunged at his opponent, pinning him back to the ground.
He realized the man was looking in his face, talking, no longer struggling.
"Stop fighting. I'm the FBI. Special Agent Doyle."
Kier barely comprehended the words. With the opening, he swung again, landing the punch squarely on the smooth-shaven chin. The man's face went slack and Kier struck again. He didn't move.
"FBI, my ass," Kier muttered to himself, cuffing the man with his own handcuffs. Still, something in the back of his mind made him uneasy. What if he was the FBI? No. Couldn't be. This was a hired killer. He had been about to throw a- Kier's eye went to the green metal shape. Unbelievable. It was a stun grenade-wouldn't kill anybody.
A groan made Kier turn. Returning to Doyle, Kier knelt and shook him until he became fully conscious.
"I'm Doyle," the man said. "I was trying to talk."
"How does the FBI get with a madman like this guy?"
Doyle shook his head as if trying to think. ''We were tipped off that Tillman-Jack Tillman's his name-was doing criminal things. I got hired through a mere agency overseas just like everyone else, only I'm undercover FBI."
"Why should I believe you?"
"You've got to. And when you hear what I have to say, you will believe me."
Kier crossed his arms, silent. "You were holding a pistol."
"Check the clip. You probably heard me pop in the rubber bullets," he said. "It might help if I speak with Agent Mayfield."
"She's not here. What's Tillman up to?"
"It's a very long, involved story."
"Try me."