and started surfing again, looking for some new challenge and turning up empty. Not a damn thing out there. At least, nothing worthy of his skill. Nothing worthy of his time.
Hell, nothing worthy of him.
And then he’d found it. Play. Survive. Win. He’d played for over two years, relishing the challenge, thriving on the adrenaline rush of chasing or being chased.
Even that, though, had eventually gotten dull.
And then the new version had shown up in his in-box, and the anonymous package containing the message and the syringe had arrived soon after….
New rules. New challenges. And a thrill like nothing he’d ever experienced before.
Suddenly the playing field was all of Manhattan, and his tools were real weapons, not merely a computerized image. As in the online version, his role in the game wouldn’t start until the target successfully interpreted the qualifying clue. But once she did, then the game wouldn’t be over until he killed her. Or until she finally located and nailed the final clue, which would send the signal to stop.
He wasn’t worried that would happen, though. If the clues were as far-reaching and complex as those in the online game, the target would have to be constantly on her toes to successfully interpret them. That meant he had the advantage: He didn’t have to decipher codes, he simply had to hunt.
He had another advantage, too. He never lost. Ever. And he wasn’t about to start now.
Yes, he couldn’t wait for the chase to begin.
He hoped Melanie Prescott would play. He thought she probably would. Once she realized what was at stake, she’d play like her life depended on it.
And why not? Her life did depend on it. And the clock was ticking….
Chapter
15
I still held the gun, but we’d moved into my apartment, the open door a concession to my continued (though lessened) fear of this man. I was sitting beside him on the sleeper sofa as he manipulated Jennifer’s laptop. Mine was in the shop getting a variety of upgrades, and I didn’t figure she’d mind.
I was sitting at an angle, facing him, and while he concentrated on the computer, I concentrated on him. I still wasn’t prepared to totally trust him, but I had to admit he had a trustworthy face. A firm chin and a strong jawline shaded by the faint stubble of a beard. He looked to be in his thirties, rugged and sexy in a Russell Crowe kind of way. I guessed that the color in his skin had come from working outdoors, and that the muscles that strained against the short sleeves of his burgundy T-shirt weren’t the result of working out with a personal trainer. This was a man who wouldn’t blink at the idea of getting his hands dirty.
The hands in question looked rough, calloused even. But his fingernails were clean, and for some absurd reason, that put me at ease.
The uninvited thought alarmed me, and I tightened my grip on the gun. Mystery Man had been good-looking, too, I reminded myself. And he’d tried to kill me.
“You okay?” He turned his head to look at me, and I nodded, focusing on his gray eyes. Unlike the cruel eyes of the delivery man, this man’s eyes reflected warmth and concern, with a hardness I found reassuring instead of scary. I relaxed, but only a tiny bit.
“Just get on with it,” I said.
He looked like he might say something, but then he decided against it. The PSW website was up on the screen, and I watched as he entered his password, then pulled up a saved message. “SemperFi?” I asked, reading over his shoulder.
“My login. I used to be a Marine.”
“Mmm.” That didn’t surprise me at all.
“Just read.” He turned the computer so the screen faced me. I leaned closer and skimmed the info. When I finished, I realized I was a little sick to my stomach.
“Twenty grand?”
“I got it, all right,” he said. He opened his wallet and flashed some bills. “Showed up in my checking account this morning. I went straight to the bank and withdrew a chunk. I’ll take the rest when
Hell, nothing worthy of him.
And then he’d found it. Play. Survive. Win. He’d played for over two years, relishing the challenge, thriving on the adrenaline rush of chasing or being chased.
Even that, though, had eventually gotten dull.
And then the new version had shown up in his in-box, and the anonymous package containing the message and the syringe had arrived soon after….
New rules. New challenges. And a thrill like nothing he’d ever experienced before.
Suddenly the playing field was all of Manhattan, and his tools were real weapons, not merely a computerized image. As in the online version, his role in the game wouldn’t start until the target successfully interpreted the qualifying clue. But once she did, then the game wouldn’t be over until he killed her. Or until she finally located and nailed the final clue, which would send the signal to stop.
He wasn’t worried that would happen, though. If the clues were as far-reaching and complex as those in the online game, the target would have to be constantly on her toes to successfully interpret them. That meant he had the advantage: He didn’t have to decipher codes, he simply had to hunt.
He had another advantage, too. He never lost. Ever. And he wasn’t about to start now.
Yes, he couldn’t wait for the chase to begin.
He hoped Melanie Prescott would play. He thought she probably would. Once she realized what was at stake, she’d play like her life depended on it.
And why not? Her life did depend on it. And the clock was ticking….
Chapter
15
I still held the gun, but we’d moved into my apartment, the open door a concession to my continued (though lessened) fear of this man. I was sitting beside him on the sleeper sofa as he manipulated Jennifer’s laptop. Mine was in the shop getting a variety of upgrades, and I didn’t figure she’d mind.
I was sitting at an angle, facing him, and while he concentrated on the computer, I concentrated on him. I still wasn’t prepared to totally trust him, but I had to admit he had a trustworthy face. A firm chin and a strong jawline shaded by the faint stubble of a beard. He looked to be in his thirties, rugged and sexy in a Russell Crowe kind of way. I guessed that the color in his skin had come from working outdoors, and that the muscles that strained against the short sleeves of his burgundy T-shirt weren’t the result of working out with a personal trainer. This was a man who wouldn’t blink at the idea of getting his hands dirty.
The hands in question looked rough, calloused even. But his fingernails were clean, and for some absurd reason, that put me at ease.
The uninvited thought alarmed me, and I tightened my grip on the gun. Mystery Man had been good-looking, too, I reminded myself. And he’d tried to kill me.
“You okay?” He turned his head to look at me, and I nodded, focusing on his gray eyes. Unlike the cruel eyes of the delivery man, this man’s eyes reflected warmth and concern, with a hardness I found reassuring instead of scary. I relaxed, but only a tiny bit.
“Just get on with it,” I said.
He looked like he might say something, but then he decided against it. The PSW website was up on the screen, and I watched as he entered his password, then pulled up a saved message. “SemperFi?” I asked, reading over his shoulder.
“My login. I used to be a Marine.”
“Mmm.” That didn’t surprise me at all.
“Just read.” He turned the computer so the screen faced me. I leaned closer and skimmed the info. When I finished, I realized I was a little sick to my stomach.
“Twenty grand?”
“I got it, all right,” he said. He opened his wallet and flashed some bills. “Showed up in my checking account this morning. I went straight to the bank and withdrew a chunk. I’ll take the rest when
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