Black - The Birth Of Evil by Dekker Ted

Author:Dekker, Ted [Dekker, Ted]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Adventure, Fantasy, Science Fiction, Young Adult, Suspense, Thriller, Religion
ISBN: 9781418537159
Publisher: Thomas Nelson
Published: 2004-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

21

MONIQUE BLINKED. Her head throbbed. She was lying on her side. Her vision was blurred. Her cheek was pressed into the carpet. She could see under the bed ten feet away. She’d fallen asleep?

Then she remembered. Her pulse spiked. Someone had broken in while Thomas was sleeping! He’d come in like a whirlwind and smashed her head before she could do anything. Something else had happened, but she couldn’t remember what. Her throat was sore; her head felt like a balloon.

But she was alive, and she was still in the room.

She had to wake Tom!

Monique was about to lift her head when she saw the shoes under the end of the bed. They were connected to pants. Someone was standing at the end of the bed.

She caught her breath and froze. He was still here! Tom’s breathing sounded ragged. He was hurt? Or sleeping.

Monique closed her eyes and tried to think. The strips of bedsheet still bound her arms and feet. But her mouth. He’d taken the gag off. Why? Was this her rescuer? Had the police come to take her away? If so, then why had the man knocked her unconscious?

No, it couldn’t be anyone who had her safety in mind. For all she knew, he was crossing the room at this very minute, knife in hand, intending to finish the job.

She opened her eyes wide. The shoes hadn’t moved. She rolled her eyes upward as far as she could, desperate for a glimpse of her attacker.

Black shirt. There was a long scar on his cheek. His arm was extended. He had a gun in his hand. The gun was pointed at Thomas.

Monique panicked. She jerked up as hard as she could and screamed. “Thomas!”

The man spun to her, pistol leveled, eyes wide. Thomas bolted upright on the bed, like a puppet on strings. The man dropped to one knee and whipped the gun back toward Thomas. “Don’t move!”

But it was too late. Thomas was already moving.

He threw himself to his left. The gun spit. A pillow spewed feathers. Monique saw the American fall from the bed, hit the floor on the other side. He moved with lightning speed, as if he’d bounced off the carpet.

Then he was in the air, flying for the black-clad intruder.

Phewt! The gun spit again, ripping a hole in the headboard. Tom entered a scissors kick, like a soccer player lining up for a goal. His foot connected with the man’s hand.

Crack!

The gun flew across the room and slammed into the wall above Monique’s head. It fell to the floor at her side.

She was powerless to get it. But she swung her legs to cover it. Thomas had rolled up onto the bed after his kick and now stood by the ruptured pillow, facing the attacker in a familiar

ready stance.

The man glanced at her, then at Thomas. A smile twisted his lips. “Very good. I did underestimate you after all,” he said. Mediterranean accent. Schooled. Not a thug. Monique pushed herself up, ignoring a splitting pain in her head.

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