Face of a Killer by Robin Burcell

Author:Robin Burcell [Burcell, Robin]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
Published: 2010-09-24T03:00:00+00:00

25

Sydney’s heart slammed into her throat. She caught a glimpse of the boy at the end of the alley near the boat. Tried to silently plead with him to run for help—an absurd thought since he was the instrument used to lure her here. The man pulled her against him, held her arm behind her back. His hot breath hit her ear as he said, “Senorita. Slowly we walk to that car. Nod if you understand.”

She struggled against him, and he gave a slight tug on her arm. Pain shot through her. She forced herself to still, waited a moment, knew who had the advantage. It wasn’t she. He could snap her neck in one quick move. Attempting to nod her acquiescence, she felt him loosen his grip around her mouth, slightly, perhaps to test her cooperation.

“Quietly to that car. Do you understand?” She nodded, figuring any forward movement was good. A chance to get away. Get someone’s attention. But if he thought she was getting in that car, he was dead wrong. Bad enough she’d allowed her desire to find a boat she wasn’t sure still existed get in the way of all rational thought. “I have money,” she said. “Several hundred dollars.”

“Move, senorita,” he said, holding her tight, while he walked her down the narrow street to the waiting car. She could see the boat just beyond it, taunting her, the long tendrils of some hanging plants, rosemary she thought, growing down the sides of the boat, while large pots of flowers filled the middle. And as they neared the car, she eyed her surroundings, saw the boy was gone. There was a man behind the wheel on the opposite side; no one else seemed to be there and the doors were closed. She knew that would be her chance, when he’d be at his most vulnerable. Because he was going to have to let go with one arm to open the door. And she could use the strength in her legs to brace herself, fight back. If nothing else it would cause a scene; maybe someone would report it.

And then they were at the car. He reached out, opened the door, and she put her foot on the floorboard, ready to push off and back, take him down.

Except the wind gusted in that one moment.

Rustled the plants hanging down the sides of the boat. In that split second, her foot poised, her body braced, she read two words: Cisco’s Kid.

And she thought of the picture in her pocket.

And allowed the man to place her in the car.

“Who are you?” the driver asked. “And did you come alone?” Hispanic man, maybe late forties, he eyed Sydney from the rearview mirror, waited for her to answer, and she thought he looked vaguely familiar, at least the two square inches of him she could see in the mirror. She glanced at the man seated beside her, didn’t recognize him at all, thirties, also Hispanic, busily searching through her backpack. He

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