Page 24 of Reaper’s Wrath

Please, God. Please, let him give me some water.

He pulls the tape from my lips, and I take a deep lungful of air.

“Thank you.” I try to lift my hands to take the water, but the bar keeps them restricted. “Please, can you undo one of the cuffs, just for a minute so I can drink the water? I’m so thirsty.”

He frowns and looks me over. I try to look as demure and feeble as possible, and it must work because he uncuffs one of my wrists.

“Don’t even think of trying anything,” he warns me, though his voice doesn’t carry a fraction of the threat as his counterpart's.

I nod readily and begin to chug what’s left of the water. He peers at his watch, then curses, hurrying back to the table and picking up his phone. As I watch him and debate whether I could take him with my feet shackled, I realize he’s talking to my family again. His agitation grows.

“You don’t have the money? This won’t be good. He won’t like that at all.” His voice has gone reed-thin as he gets out his notepad and scribbles on it, shaking his head.

Why is he saying that? It hasn’t been forty-eight hours. They still have more time.

Pulling at his greasy hair, he begins to pace and mutter. “He won’t believe you.” He’s still on the phone, but I don’t think he’s talking to them. I think he’s talking to himself.

The phone isn’t even pressed fully against his ear when he suddenly stops and looks around as though hearing something. A bell tolls somewhere nearby, but I don’t hear anything else.

When his arm falls to his side, I briefly hear my brother’s voice yelling over the line.

The sound splits my heart in two.

I would give anything to be with him right now. My other half. If he were with me, we’d find a way out together.

The man ignores DiAngelo’s cries and simply ends the call, then walks to a boarded-up window and stares out a slit between the boards. When he turns back around, his spine lengthens, and his eyes are a window straight to hell.

He’s back.

My nightmare.

“Why the fuck are your hands free?” he roars.

Peering down at his hand, he reads the note left by his counterpart, rips off the page and burns it, then lets loose a demonic roar.

Death charges toward me.

Hand clamped around my throat, he lifts me to my feet by my neck. His unseemly strength for his size is unsettling—like the stories you hear about superhuman strength in emergencies.

“You’re fucking worthless.” He shoves me backward, and the chain of my necklace snaps free as my body tumbles backward. My feet are still shackled and thus unable to keep me upright. My back slams against the concrete, knocking the wind from me.

Towering over me, he flicks open a switchblade.

Terror unlike anything I’ve ever known has me scrambling backward.

“Please, don’t do this. My family will pay. I know they’ll find the money. Just give them more time.”

He squats down and grabs the chain linking my feet and yanks me toward him. My back drops flat again as I slide across the concrete before his knee presses into my chest.

“You talk too goddamn much.” His hand slashes at my neck. I desperately try to pull away, but he has me pinned. The blade slices across my neck with a searing pain. Instinct has me clamping my hand over my throat.

The psychopath’s face lights with a grin. “What? Nothing to say now?” He stands and admires the blood on his knife. “You know, I think I’ll leave it at that and watch you bleed out slow. I hate when it ends too soon.”

He walks to the table and finds a rag, then cleans the knife before going still. I hear a sudden gasp before the knife clanks onto the table, and he spins around. Wide, terrified eyes take in my prone form on the ground. With a high-pitched scream, he bolts from the building.

I’m stunned, but I still have enough adrenaline racing through my veins to keep my thoughts focused.

This is my chance to get away.