Chapter One

June, 2:36 a.m.

Marissa Bonaventure sat bolt uprightin bed. Wood cracked and splintered, a door banged, furniture scraped. She gulped for air, her heart galloping in her chest. A hovering silence followed. She waited, the thundering of her heart trying to outrun her fast breathing, but there was only silence. Okay, Jesus… She squeezed her lids tight then peeled them open again. Only a nightmare. She blinked groggily at the dim numbers on her digital clock—2:36 a.m.—her mind slowly registering that she'd only been asleep for about an hour. She'd worked late cooking at Bleu Boheme restaurant tonight, some lactose intolerant asshole endlessly chewing her ear off about all of the cheese on the menu. Well, yes, sir, this is a French restaurant, after all, and generally—

A gruff voice growled a command, and then her roommate, Lila, started screaming. Holy frick! Not a nightmare.

There were men in her apartment!

Coming fully awake on a searing blast of adrenaline, Marissa vaulted for the cordless phone on her nightstand. Her wildly groping fingers knocked the receiver out of its holder and sent it skidding across the thin synthetic carpet. "Oh, God, crap." She threw herself after the phone, and crashed off her mattress, the sheets tangled around her legs. Air drove from her lungs. "Crap," she gasped again. "Crap." Darts of pain shot through her elbow.

The report of heavy boots in the hallway vibrated through the floor beneath her, the footsteps thundering toward her bedroom. Panic shot through her stomach and clawed up her spine. She stretched one arm toward the phone by her hamper, scooting her body across the floor like an epileptic caterpillar trapped in its cocoon.

The door slammed open.

She jerked to a sitting position, her heart lurching to a dead halt. A broad-shouldered shadow loomed into her doorway, the light from her digital clock offering only a vague impression of dark, baggy clothing, the cut of a hard jaw…and the most sinister eyes she'd ever seen in her life. A scream launched up her throat but stuck there, unable to make it past the strangulation of terror gripping her larynx.

"In here!" the intruder shouted down the hall, his head turning to reveal what looked like stripes of gangrene on his jaw. No…a black flame tattoo.

Another man entered, and her mouth sagged. And she thought Gangrene Face's shoulders had been broad. The man who'd just shoved into her room was twice as big, his shoulders size Incredible Hulk, and a hundred times scarier. She saw him clearly as the lights from a Navy helicopter on its weary way home to NAS North Island raked through her organza curtains like a prison searchlight. A body clothed in a black leather jacket and dark cargo pants was revealed, along with the man's shaved head, sporting tattoos—same black flames as Gangrene—climbing from above his ears to the top of his bald head. He looked like an Aryan Nation sociopath, brutal and violent and…what could he possibly want with her?

He stalked toward her, and her stomach iced. She scuttled sideways against the wall like a crab, her teeth set in a grimace, her eyes darting toward her bedroom window. Only a few feet away, but…five floors down equaled lots of bone breakage on the streets of San Diego.

"She must be the bit o' skirt we're lookin' for," Gangrene told Hulk in a British accent which really didn't fit this scenario.

Hulk drew up right in front of her, six-feet-umpteen-inches of darkness, chilling, ruthless power emanating from him.

She kicked violently at the jail of her sheets and found a scream, finally, belting it out as loud as she could.

"Shut your gob," Hulk snarled.

Like a genie being commanded into its bottle, her voice obeyed immediately and rammed back down her throat. Yes, yes, upsetting a man like this is an extremely bad idea.

He reached for her.

She pressed backward so hard, she wondered the drywall didn't crack against her spine.

Grabbing her shoulders, Hulk jerked her out of the wrap of her sheets and onto her feet, the violence of the gesture jolting a cry past her lips. With a bruising grip still on her upper arm, Hulk hauled her at a stumbling pace from her bedroom into the hallway.

"Please," she gasped, hot tears spilling down her face. "What do you want from me?"

They passed her roommate's bedroom, and Marissa glimpsed Lila peeking out from behind the door, a bed sheet wrapped toga-style around her body. Not such a good night to get caught sleeping in the nude.

Lila's lips trembled. "Oh, Marissa," she breathed.

Her roommate's you're doomed tone turned Marissa's legs to pudding, just, squish, down she went onto her knees.

Hulk made a guttural sound of impatience and yanked her to her feet again.

"P-please," she stammered. "D-Don't hurt me, please." She pulled against his hold, but it was like trying to stop a Kodiak bear. Her feet skidded along the length of the hallway, carpet burning the soles of her feet.

"Fuckin' cow," Hulk snarled. So much for not upsetting the man. He tossed her over his shoulder, the chains on his biker jacket biting into her skin through the thin fabric of her pajamas. The rounded position of her back pulled painfully at her spine, and she choked on her next breath. The fragility of her body, something she usually so successfully ignored, roared dead-center into her consciousness. Panic greyed the sides of her vision at the feel of hard, solid muscles beneath her. This man was massive. He could do anything to her, anything, and she'd be utterly helpless to stop him.

"Lila!" Marissa screamed, more tears dripping off her nose. "Call 911!"

"Oh, shit!" Lila lurched out from behind her door.

With a careless backhand, Hulk swatted Lila across the mouth, the blow, shockingly, lifting Lila off her feet and rocketing her all the way back onto her bed. She thumped onto her mattress with a frightened cry, her makeshift toga breezing above her waist and her legs flinging wide, giving everyone a full-on shot of her muff.

Gangrene leered at the sight. "Hang about, Murk. I want to give this one a stuffin'."

"There's no time," Hulk—apparently, Murk—retorted. "We've got to leg it, Teer, everyone else is at the warehouse by now."

Teer grumbled something foul, but tramped out of the apartment along with Murk, thankfully for Lila's virtue, and got into the elevator.

Fingers tangled into the back of Murk's jacket, Marissa prayed for some late night partier to come home conveniently now and find her upended on this behemoth's shoulder. She filled her lungs with a potential scream just in case, but no such luck. The parking lot was equally Judgment Day deserted and dark. The scratching together of palm fronds in a mild June breeze was the only sound besides the clomp of both men's heavy boots on the asphalt.

They stopped at a rusted-out blue Honda Civic, one headlight-eyeball dangling from the front by wiry veins, and then screech, metallic hinges wailed for oil as Murk hauled open the trunk. He flung Marissa off his shoulder with all the care he'd show a dead body, and—the trunk!

She fastened cat claws into his T-shirt and clambered back up his body. "No!"

He peeled her off and thrust her toward the dark opening again.

She crammed her foot against the edge of the trunk, the metal sharp and cold against her bare flesh. "Don't put me in there!"

With a growl, he folded her into a ball and slammed her inside.

Ribs met spare tire in a dizzying blast of pain. Her spine throbbed. She wheezed a breath and shoved upright, ignoring the pinpricks of light sparkling across the field of her vision.

With a palm on her shoulder, Murk rammed her back down. "Bloody hell," he hissed.

"Not in the trunk!" She opened her mouth to yell for—He stuffed a ball gag into it, then flipped her onto her stomach. The stench of brake fluid assaulted her nostrils; a lug wrench ground into her cheek. Liquid fear clutched her lower belly as Murk secured the strap of the ball gag tight against the back of her head, then bound her wrists.

She bucked and flailed, whipping herself back over. She gnashed on her ball gag and tried to scream around it. Not in a trunk!

"Stop throwin' a benny, you fuckin' split arse." Murk's gaze was tundra cold, black as the end of the world.

She sobbed in panic, her nostrils pinching and releasing, pinching and releasing. She couldn't breathe! She kicked her legs up.

"You keep givin' me trouble, ducky, and I'll sock you in the turnip so many times you'll never find your way back from ugly, savvy?" His voice was deep and dark like first generation Hell, but also incongruously laced with that touch of British culture. He braced a hand on the open lid of the trunk, his Guns Roses T-shirt hiking up to reveal a peek of gnarled scar on his belly. Somebody had tried to gut this maniac jerk? Shocking!

The trunk lid started to come down…

She shook her head wildly at him, trying to scream again, her chest and throat tightening.

He slammed the lid shut, interring her in black. She thrashed her head from side to side, her heartbeat erratic, her eyes bugging and rolling as she tried to see anything…anything.

The engine turned over, then the car moved forward. Stars burst apart at the sides of her vision, her fingertips going numb. Stop it, Marissa! Calm. Down. All this panicky crying was only clogging her nose, making it harder to breathe and to rationally think her way through her fear of suffocation, a phobia which was the result of a rather clichéd near-drowning experience at the age of twelve. The not so clichéd part—at least she hoped in families besides hers—was that her ten-year-old sister had watched from the edge of the pool while Marissa struggled in the water. And done nothing. Natalie had known about Marissa's limitations, yet she hadn't called for help, hadn't thrown any Mickey Mouse arm-floaties her way. No. She'd just given Marissa a look of cool dislike which, to this day, Marissa didn't understand…and Natalie had never bothered to explain.

Even earlier today, Marissa had once again been subjected to one of Natalie's love-bombs. "The position of head chef at Le Bistrot Angoulême restaurant is being offered to Natalie Bonaventure." Marissa had gritted her teeth behind the smile she'd offered the owner of San Diego's new up-and-coming French restaurant. "Oh? You mean, my sister?" The woman who'd spent four years at the prestigious Johnson and Wales University in Providence while Marissa had slammed through a program at the San Diego Culinary Institute in seven months. Stuck in California due to her mother's poor health, Marissa's options had been limited, but it'd all worked out since she'd been able to go out and gain something called, hello, real world experience. You're fricking kidding me, right?

Fate had no concept of fair. For Marissa's whole life, her younger sister had been able to steal her aspirations with pitiful ease, effectively deepening the fear of failure which had always dogged her. Jesus, it was hard enough to deal with her own personal challenges—how long had it taken to be able to stand for extended periods at a cook station?—without having the additional emotional strain of competing with a woman who should've been a support to her. What Marissa had ever done to inspire Natalie's one-woman mission to outdo and undermine her, she had no earthly idea, but she was ready to stop twisting herself into knots trying to figure it out. In the end, she should be partially glad for it. If not for a particular, unforgivable act of cruelty on Natalie's part, Marissa might not have ever resolved herself to acquire the backbone, both figuratively and literally, she'd always lacked.

Marissa forced a deep, even breath, then another, her lungs working more efficiently now. Without realizing it, her side trip into anger had helped calm her fear. Yes, stay composed. She'd need all her smarts for what lay ahead.

Gravel clattered beneath the car tires, and the Civic pitched to a stop. Marissa tensed, readying herself for more dreams to be shattered. Because whatever was about to happen now, she wouldn't be making it back to her normal life afterward. She was very sure about that.

The trunk lurched open, and Mr. Personality heaved her out and set her on her feet. Her body was running with sweat, tears still wet on her cheeks. She scanned the area, and her belly tangled around itself. Not good. An abandoned warehouse hulked several yards away, some windows broken, others boarded up, black rot weeping down the entire front of the wooden fa?ade. Dirt and gravel surrounded the building, a chain-link fence beyond that, and then more warehouses stacked in a row. Some looked to be operational, but this early in the morning, no one was about. No one to offer help or a shred of hope.

The stereophonic boom of rap music heralded the arrival of two more cars. A green Ford Taurus blasted up the path, careening to a halt in a spray of gravel. On its tail followed an lowrider Impala, rear hydraulics deflated nearly to the bumpers, its muffler spewing a guttural rumble that sounded like it belonged to a boat engine. The blare of rap shut off, then two men climbed out of each vehicle. All four were tall and muscular, dressed in a mismatched collection of castoffs, and grubby in a way that hinted at crust lurking in unmentionable places. They reeked of a backed-up toilet. Three had black hair and tattoos which suggested more neo-Nazi devotees, although theirs were more like huge interlocking black teeth than flames.

"Hey, ass-pounder," the fourth one with fiery red hair hailed Murk, earning a sneer out of her captor. "Ho, she's a good 'un." Red's dark eyes roved over her like a pair of dirty hands.

Her skin crawled. She shuddered.

"Didn't you say you had four?" Red added.

"We just got here, shit-eater," Murk retorted. "There should be three more bits inside."

Red hitched a shoulder at his black-haired companions, and the group of them clumped toward the warehouse.

Murk grabbed her arm and pulled her along, but with her feet bare, she could do no more than hunt-and-peck over the gravel. Rumbling another impatient growl, Murk hoisted her up on one hip and lugged her across the path.

He set her back down inside what appeared to be a den of iniquity. A single naked bulb hung over an unmade bed, no less than a horde of filthy Huns clearly having screwed on the sheets. A table in the middle was strewn with playing cards, an overflowing ashtray, and a dozen empty beer bottles slowly transforming their dregs into penicillin. Off to the side, there was another table where—

The blood drained from Marissa's face in a sickening rush, a horrified breath whooshing out of her.

"What the fuck!?" Red snarled.

A gagged and bound woman with brassy blonde hair was bent over the table, a man mounted behind her, his leather pants sagged down around his knees, his hips surging vigorously against her hind end. He was shirtless, black flame tattoos sprawling in tangled branches up from his ribbed abdomen to his enormous pecs, like Joshua Tree taken a nasty turn into Sleepy Hollow. He had his victim's butt cheeks clasped in his large hands and was spreading them wide, his gaze lowered to the sight of his dick thrusting between them. Saliva gushed from the corners of the woman's mouth as she chewed her ball gag around silent screams, her reddened face awash in tears and snot.

A low groan escaped Marissa, nausea surging onto the back of her tongue, her mind rebelling against the appalling sight. The room melted before her eyes like hot wax, the floor bending sideways beneath her feet, sending her on an express trip down. On the way, she caught sight of another blonde woman, huddled against the wall right behind the rape scene, the whites of her eyes showing with the kind of raw terror Marissa thought she'd already experienced tonight, but apparently hadn't.

She had a feeling she was headed in that direction fast.