Page 18 of Lone Spy (Starstruck Thrillers #2)

Chapter Sixteen

It's cold. The gurney under me is hard through the thin mattress. The tools and medications vibrate in their cabinets, as if rattling a request to be released. The stark light defies the night darkening the only window—a black oval above Martin’s head.

He sits across from me, his short auburn hair dewed with raindrops. Pale brown eyes dart behind his glasses. The man’s shoulders are hunched forward, almost protective.

The posture strikes me as strange. This guy is strong, really strong. The broad expanse of his chest seems like it should be pushed out in the peacock fashion of most gym enthusiasts. A tingling awareness leeches the pain from my body, filling me with a nervous, flighty energy.

"If you just lie back," he says, still not looking at me, "I'll get an IV started."

"I'd rather sit up." My voice is raspy, throat raw from breathing in all that smoke.

"I'm sorry, but it's regulation. You have to be lying down if we're moving."

But, of course, we are already moving. A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my smoke-ravaged throat. "I understand," I say, forcing my tone to be soft. I need to sound weak, not on the edge of my sanity. "I'm just too frightened to lie down right now. That was so..."

My gaze traces the space as if I'm searching for words, but really, I'm looking for something, anything I can use to defend myself.

My eyes slide from the intercom on the wall behind his head, to the tinted white cabinet faces on either side of his chair.

They leap to the equipment for monitoring vital signs over my right shoulder, down to my hands briefly, then over my left shoulder to the tinted cabinets labeled in red with things like Maternity Kit, Burn Pack…

"You're in good hands," he promises me. "Now, I just need you to lie back."

There is a syringe in his hand. How did he get it? I didn't see him remove it from any of the cabinets.

I shake my head, wordless. Fear rushes through me.

The skin at the corner of his mouth tightens. "Please," he says, frustration edging into his voice.

He's bad at acting. The thought rings through my mind like a bell. This man is pretending to be an EMT, and he's not good at it.

The ambulance turns, then accelerates. The siren starts up, adding a layer of sound so thick that Martin, or whatever his real name is, has to raise his voice to ask me again to lie down.

"No," I say. It comes out loud and sure. I am not lying the fuck down.

He leans forward like he couldn't hear my answer. His free hand, the one not holding the needle, shoots out and grabs my injured one.

Shit, shit, shit.

I yank away from him, but he doesn't let go. Instead, he just falls forward with me. The scent of body odor and sweat fills my nose. I kick wildly, crazed now.

He grunts as my knee connects with his ribs. I twist my arm, pulling against his thumb, breaking his hold, and scramble away. I half crawl, half fall off the end of the gurney, catching myself on the closed doors.

I twist around to face him, my knees bent, hair falling into my eyes. He stands to face me. We sway in unison, shifting weight to stay balanced.

The ambulance takes a left, and we both are thrown to the right. His thick thigh leans into the cot I just evacuated. I trip until I hit the wall, grabbing onto one of the cabinet handles.

He rights himself and takes a step toward me—one more, and he'll have me cornered. Sweat beads his upper lip, victory shines in his eyes. He's big and armed. I can't win.

I grapple with the cabinet my hand is on, ripping it open, rifling through it. Plastic-wrapped tools tumble out, crashing onto the ambulance floor.

Martin takes another step. The needle comes up—the thin metal glinting in the bright lights. The siren blares.

I give up my search and just grab his wrist, but he's much stronger than me. His weight bears down, my back presses into the open cabinet behind me.

Metal digs into my lower back, scraping my shirt up as I slide down it. Sweat stings my smoke-strained eyes. His other arm comes up, a sharp fist to my stomach.

I bow over it, taking his hand holding the needle down with me, forcing it suddenly close to his thigh. I jam it forward, desperate, crazed, and with enough momentum that it pierces through his pants.

"Fuck!" he screams.

His forearm tenses to pull it out, but I jam the plunger home. He rips it out and his fist opens, dropping the empty syringe. Then that hand grabs my throat. He lifts me, slamming my head into the cabinets behind me so hard that stars dance across my vision.

He's glaring at me, glasses askew, lips pulled back. I scratch at his forearm but it's like digging nails into a tree limb—all I'm going to do is leave marks in the bark.

I bring my knee up into his groin. He grunts and his hold loosens enough for me to tear free. I throw myself onto the gurney—the only place to go—but before I can get anywhere he's got a meaty fist in my hair. I scream, the desperate sound burning my injured throat.

He drags me back; my nails claw at the rough sheet. The cool crinkle of a plastic-wrapped tool touches my fingers. I clutch my fist around it. My back presses to his front. He growls in my ear and something inside me breaks.

It snaps.

No fucking way.

I am so done with this bullshit.

No more.

Hard knuckles grind against my scalp, fingers twisted in my hair, controlling my head. My body bows away from the man behind me. The harsh sting of antiseptic mixes with the rank musk of him. Of us. Of two people fighting like the reaper is in the room—and only one of us will escape him.

The siren wails, bathing the rattling space in its cacophony. I rip at the plastic packaging in my hand, unseeing.

Cool metal meets my heated skin. A sharp blade slices the tip of my middle finger. Yes! My heart rages against my rib cage. I grip the roughened handle of the scalpel, the sharp blade meant for precision facing up.

Martin's large hand wraps around my throat, his thumb knotting under my jaw. He squeezes. Air cuts off. I don't give any more fucks.

I stab the blade up over my shoulder, digging it into him—nothing precise about it. A sharp sound of surprise. Rip it out. Blood spurts, hot against my cheek. Stab it in again. He snarls.

The hand around my throat loosens. Wrenching the blade out again, I try to twist away but his fingers are still tangled in my hair.

The back of my left shoulder presses against his heaving chest. I can see his throat now—sweat-slicked and peppered with black stubble.

Adam's apple bobbing—a moving target I don't plan on missing.

I slash at it, manic, desperate. Done.

A line of skin opens, blood flooding from it. He throws me. My right side hits the gurney's thin mattress hard. My teeth clack. The scalpel, slick with blood, jerks free, skittering across the floor—the sound of it lost to the siren—and under the chair Martin was sitting in.

Fuck.

Martin's hands are on his throat, blood eases between thick fingers. It's not flowing fast enough to kill him. His glasses are gone, eyes lit with rage. Welcome to my world, fucker.

I roll off the gurney, hitting the hard vibrating floor and crawl toward where I saw the scalpel disappear.

"What's going on back there?" The driver’s voice comes through the intercom. A hand wraps around my ankle. It starts to drag me back. I grab for an oxygen tank velcroed next to the chair.

A strangled sound escapes me as my arms strain to hold on. Martin doesn't relent. The tank breaks free from the wall. I slide, turning onto my back, bringing the tank around.

Martin's bent over me, blood dripping from his wounds onto my legs. I swing the tank at his head. It connects with a clang loud enough to hear over the siren.

The blow knocks his head into the metal rail of the gurney hard enough it bounces off. Rage and pain contort his features. I try to hit him again but he swats the tank away. The cylinder thwacks the wall and rolls out of my reach.

Martin lunges, his hands again finding purchase around my throat.

His weight bears down. My vision tunnels.

Panic seizes my chest. I flail, trying to scratch his face, but with his arms straight I don't have the reach.

I dig my nails into his forearms, dragging them down, shredding skin and drawing blood.

His eyes meet mine. They lose focus. Martin's grip falters—the bruising strength of his fingers lessening. He blinks once, twice. Shakes his head. Blown pupils search my face.

The syringe. The drugs are taking effect.

I get in a wisp of a breath. He teeters, then collapses, head colliding with mine, our faces close, his breath on my cheek, hands loose.

Some strange noise escapes me—a terrified, triumphant sob. I can breathe but barely. Martin's weight covers me. His legs longer than mine, shoulders broader. I turn my face to the side; Martin's parted lips fall to my neck, and the man's breath caresses the bruises left by his fingers.

The space we are in is narrow, sandwiched between the wall and the gurney. I grab for the metal legs of the seat with my right arm, pulling to twist my body so that his weight is on my side instead of flush.

Hot tears of frustration burn my eyes. The scalpel glimmers at me from the darkness under the seat. I pull myself closer, creating more space on my right side. Martin rolls off, releasing me.

My breath comes in harsh pants. Sweat slides down my spine. My fingers touch the scalpel, sticky with blood. I wrap my fist around it and then haul myself up, climbing onto the chair.

Martin lies prone, blood easing from his wounds and pooling on the floor. The bright lights reflect in the puddle’s vibrating surface.

The siren cuts out, and the rumble of the engine sounds like a purr in comparison. Wait, we're slowing. Oh shit. The driver is coming for me.

This fight isn't over. I climb back on the gurney to navigate around Martin's prone form. His back rises and falls, the bellows of his lungs still working. Should I end him? Finish what I started?