The barn door slid shut again with a clap that sounded like the thunder that followed a bolt of lightning.

Adam kept his gaze pinned on the darkness, waiting for it to separate. Slow, deliberate footsteps approached, and he recognized that Berkle knew exactly what effect this had on his victim, that he had refined his technique over time.

“I guess I hit a nerve,” Adam said.

No answer. The hair rose on the back of his neck. The silence added to the uncertainty, and the uncertainty added to the victim’s fear. Not that Adam was uncertain. He knew what was going to happen to him. Barring a miracle, he was going to be killed. Horrifically.

Because he was under no illusions—was not sidetracked by the false hope that if he cooperated, didn’t fight, he might be spared—he was left free to think of how to make sure Berkle didn’t get away with it. If he died tonight, he wanted to make damn sure he was Berkle’s final victim.

It would be up to Rob, and Adam had faith in Rob. Had faith in what Rob felt for him. He could acknowledge that now. It was a comfort. Maybe it was crazy, but knowing how much Rob would care if he didn’t make it, made it easier to face the fact that he probably wasn’t going to make it.

He regretted that he hadn’t let Rob know, had resisted admitting even to himself, that he felt the same.

He had to make sure that he gave Rob what he would need to make the case stick. If he could mark Berkle somehow, injure him…because if Berkle didn’t show up tomorrow for Frankie’s “beauty contest,” that was going to turn some unwelcome attention his way. It had been stupid of Berkle to leave Adam’s legs free. He was going to make the most of that.

And Rob would have all the help he needed because Sam Kennedy had believed Adam, had even acknowledged that he might be on the right track.

He was mentally prepared, but the attack that came out of the darkness still slipped through his guard. He had to keep turning, dancing on balls of his feet, and with his arms tethered, his mobility was limited. Berkle lunged forward and there was a hot blaze across Adam’s ribs. He cried out and kicked up—and he kicked hard. His foot connected, but it was with the lower half of Berkle’s anatomy. Personally satisfying, but not what Adam was going for.

He heard Berkle’s intake of breath. “You fuck,” Berkle said. He came at Adam again, slashing indiscriminately, giving into temper and outrage that Adam dared to fight back. Adam lashed out again, and the blade cut across his ankle and shin.

He yelped. But he landed that kick too, though without the force he wanted. He thought—hoped—he hit Berkle’s chest, but maybe not hard enough to leave a bruise. “Bad fucking idea,” he gasped.

Really, it was. Berkle wasn’t used to anyone fighting back. That was his mistake.

The problem was, even this much effort had worn Adam out. He was dizzy and tired—losing blood probably or maybe concussed. Or both. The cut on his ribs stung like a sonofabitch. His arms felt like they were ripping out of their sockets. His hands were throbbing pieces of meat. His feet were raw and aching as he stumbled in the miniature circumference of his prison.

He had to have time to catch his breath. He gasped, “Tell me about it. You must want to talk.”

Nothing.

“All these years and no one to know how smart you are? Not the cops. Not the feds. Of course you want to talk.”

He could hear Berkle breathing. Closer than he’d thought. It sent a chill down his spine.

“Tell me about the first one. Tell me about Dove.”

That got a response.

Berkle growled, “You piece of shit. You think you can talk to me about Dove? You?”

This time Adam caught the glint of the blade arcing down toward him. Instinctively, he lifted up and swung back—and made the discovery that his hands were looped over some kind of hook. A meat hook? The ties binding his wrists slid and stretched against the metal. Not enough to snap, unfortunately.

He kept kicking, fiercely, indiscriminately, and thought he grazed Berkle’s face, thought he felt the bristling softness of his beard. He felt Berkle back off again, give him space.

Why didn’t he turn on a light? Why were they doing this in the dark? What was it that Berkle didn’t want to see? Did he enjoy it this way? Or was the fact that Adam was fighting back throwing him off his stride?

“If you feel that way, why’d you kill him?” Adam stretched his fingertips, trying to feel the outline of the hook. Curved steel. Yes, it was a hook, and that meant that in theory at least, he could lift his hands over the end of it. He needed to get some lift, some elevation. “Dove was just a kid. You stabbed him right through the heart.”

“Don’t say his name!”

“Dove,” Adam yelled. “Dove Koletar.”

“God damn you. I had to. I had to,” Berkle groaned. “He knew how it was. he knows that.”

He came in like a combine harvester, arm scything the darkness, slashing this way and that.

This time Adam was ready. This time instead of kicking Berkle back, he used him as a springboard. His right foot landed on Berkle’s thigh, and he jumped as high as he could, thrusting his arms out in front.

To his astonished and ecstatic relief, he cleared the end of the hook and crashed down on the dusty barn floor. The next instant he was up and scrambling for the door. His arms felt like dead logs and his balance was off, but desperate hope gave him jets.

He fell against the door, leaden fingers scrabbling for the bolt.

Berkle, after an incredulous instant, was right behind him as Adam’s slippery fingers slid the bolt. He ducked down and Berkle struck the metal door so hard, the blade of his knife pierced it. Adam threw the door open, for a split second taking Berkle’s knife with it.

Adam ran from the barn, sprinted down the row of tall cages—the dogs were going crazy—as Berkle snatched his knife free and came after him.

Run.

But as his bare feet pounded the frozen ground, he was working out the logistics and realizing he was never going to make it. Battered, bruised, his arms bound in front of him and throwing him off stride, he was just too slow.

Too slow…

What if Berkle turned the dogs loose? What if Berkle got a rifle?

No. Don’t think about that.

He kept running, kept stumbling drunkenly on, barely feeling the rocks and frost cutting into his feet. When he spotted the red and blue lights swirling through the darkness, cresting the hill and speeding toward them down the empty road, he thought he was hallucinating.

He ran toward them, toward the highway. “Hey!” he yelled without the breath for the words to carry.

So far away. They were so far away…

Berkle, on the other hand, was close behind. He was not fast, but he was fast enough given Adam’s numerous handicaps.

Adam staggered on.

The lights sped toward them, now close enough for Adam to make out two or more vehicles, an SUV out in front, racing their way. He put on a final burst of speed, stumbling up the short embankment and reaching the wide, country road. He put his hands up in supplication. He didn’t have the breath left to yell.

A hard hand dug into his shoulder, spinning him around, hurling him to the ground. Adam hit the pavement. It knocked the wind out of him. Stunned him. He could taste the salt of his own blood and dirty snow. The night was alive with sound. His own strained breathing—and Berkle’s too—brakes were screeching to halt, voices… He could smell burning rubber and the hint of pipe smoke on Berkle’s clothes. Until that moment, he’d always liked the scent of pipe tobacco. About an inch from his nose there was a crack in the pavement of the road. Through that tiny fissure—bleached of color in the moonlight—grew a wildflower.

“Drop your weapon.” The voice was deep, fierce. Familiar. Not familiar. Rob?