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Diana Duncan
“I saw that you were perfect and I loved you. Then I saw that you were not perfect and loved you even more.” ~ Angelita Lim
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Las Vegas, Nevada
August 30, High Noon
Kate Chabeau stared down at the sweaty blond man working feverishly between her thighs and waited to die.
Jack Carson raised his head and attempted what she assumed was supposed to be a reassuring expression. “I know it’s tough, but don’t squirm.”
She clenched her teeth. “Does it usually take this long?”
“Depends on how she’s wired.”
Slowly, carefully, she eased a strand of long brown hair back from her eyes. “Exactly how good are you?”
“Plenty.” Carson’s voice grew more strained by the moment. “But this is ... beyond me.” He eased gingerly from between her legs. “I’m calling in backup.”
“They said you had the best hands in Vegas.” Perspiration trickled down Kate’s spine as he slowly straightened.
“I do.”
Leaving her sitting immobile in her black convertible, he jogged toward the other members of the bomb disposal squad, convened a safe distance away.
If the best hands in Vegas couldn’t disarm the explosive under her seat, then who would save her?
Wait! She bit back the silent scream echoing inside her head. Come back! Don’t leave me to die alone!
The sun beat down on her exposed head and burned through her sleeveless black dress, stinging tender skin. Heat shimmered off the asphalt, a wavery curtain isolating her from heavily armored police officers surrounding the perimeter. They’d evacuated the parking lot and adjacent buildings. Other than what seemed like hundreds of police vehicles in the distance, hers was the only car in sight. If you didn’t include five vans swarming with media personnel.
She scowled. If the vultures got lucky, she might die in time to boost six o’clock ratings.
How many minutes did she have left? Fighting riptides of fear, she glanced at the wilted calla lily lying on the passenger seat beside her camera. Once stark white petals were brown and curling in the heat. Another “gift” from her stalker. The head-case had previously left her lilies and creepy notes ... but this was the first bomb.
Her nightmare might finally end here, her body violently ripped to pieces.
The engine idled a little faster. Kate’s pulse sped into matching BPMs. Could a change in engine tempo trigger a bomb? The young bomb tech had told her she was fortunate her cell call to 911 hadn’t detonated it. She’d been fussing with a mocha frappuccino lid malfunction and started the car before she’d spotted the threatening note tucked into the console.
The satellite radio station, tuned to “all eighties, all the time,” segued into Phil Collins’s “In the Air Tonight.”
She closed her eyes. Fate, you sarcastic bitch.
Two years ago, the same song had been playing before the first time she’d died.
