She started the engine and pulled away from the curb, winding through the cemetery and wondering about Dr. Rashad. The police hadn’t indicated any movement on the case, but Promise felt she should do something. Perhaps she’d call on Monday and request a status update.
She sped up slightly, and her doors locked. Her shoulders relaxed. It had to be a coincidence that Dr. Gary Fissure, a colleague from Great Britain, was also missing. She’d collaborated with him on a paper several years previous.
The wind picked up, and rain splattered against the windshield again. Several roads spread out in different directions. She hadn’t been paying close attention when she’d driven in. How stupid of her. So she took the first left, allowing her mind to wander as she drove among the peaceful dead. She flicked on the wipers and turned down another road in the sprawling cemetery.
Suddenly, her passenger door was wrenched open and the damaged lock protested, emitting a screech-popping sound.
A man forced his way inside, rocking the car, and slammed the door. Droplets of rain wettened her leather seats.
She reacted in slow motion. How was this happening? How had he broken the door lock of her new car? Her eyes widened, and she turned her head to fully face him. That quickly, she recognized him. “You were watching me.”
“I was.” His voice was low and mangled, gritty and surpassing hoarse. Those blue eyes were even darker inside the vehicle.
Adrenaline flooded her, and she finally reacted, slamming on the brakes and reaching for her door. Her seat belt constricted her, but she fought it, silent in her desperate bid to escape him.
He manacled one incredibly strong hand around her arm and yanked her back into place. “Drive.”
Her shoulders collided with her seat back, and she opened her mouth to scream. Her headache blasted into a migraine instantly.
He pressed a gun into her rib cage.
Her scream sputtered into a whisper. She looked frantically around, but the road ahead and behind her was empty.
“I said drive,” he repeated, no infliction in his tired tone.
She swallowed, and fear finally engulfed her. The sound she made was so much of a whimper that she winced. “My purse is on the floor. Take whatever you want and get out.” Her voice shook almost harder than her hands on the steering wheel.
“I have what I want. Drive.” The gun and his hold on the weapon remained level. He took up more than his own seat, his arms and torso solid muscle. His face was hard and angled—cut in a way that almost looked unreal.
His words chilled through her. How was she going to free herself from him? She pressed the gas pedal again and drove along fresh graves, spotting the exit farther ahead. Her heartbeat increased its force, and her ribs ached. “What do you want from me?” She held her breath.
“Just your brain,” he said, the sound raw.
She jerked, her head turning to him again. “To eat?” she gasped.
He blinked. Once and then again. “No, not to eat.” His wince drew his cheeks up and his darker brows down. “Geez. To eat? Why would I eat your brain? Ick.”
Her kidnapper had just said “Ick” and looked at her like she was insane. She eyed him with her peripheral vision so she could better describe him in a police report—if she survived this. At least six foot six, long dark blond hair with even darker streaks strewn throughout, handsome face. Somewhat rugged but also sharp, and with healed burn marks down his neck. His eyes were world-weary and wounded, and he’d obviously survived hell. Now she had to survive him.
Wait a minute. His words registered even deeper. Her brain? Heat spiraled through her chest. “Did you want Victory Rashad’s brain too?”
“Yes.”
Oh, God. He was going to kill her—just like Victory Rashad. Panic took Promise again, and she slammed her foot on the gas pedal.
“Wait,” he said, grasping her arm. “I won’t hurt you. I’m here to help you.”
Affirmative. Yes. The guy with the gun was interested in providing assistance. Right. She ducked her head and floored the gas pedal, bumping out of the cemetery and speeding down the quiet road.
“Slow down,” he hissed, his hold tightening enough to bruise.
She zipped around a corner and into traffic, driving as fast as she could.
He swore and grabbed for the key, which wasn’t in the dash. She’d used the starter button. She swerved around a minivan and finally spotted a police cruiser up ahead. Slapping at him, knowing