impossible. But Patrick did know one thing: he would call right now. He would call and check. Call right fucking now and check to make sure that bastard was still locked up tight.
Patrick thought of serial killer Ted Bundy; he remembered reading how Bundy had managed to escape the police twice after capture.
My God, what if he escaped, Patrick? That means he was here. God Almighty he was HERE.
“No,” he said. Insisted. Pleaded. “No, no, no.”
Patrick locked Caleb’s door and pulled it tight, then did the same for Carrie’s. He sprinted back to his bedroom, his eyes wide and wild. He began going through their closets, pushing and shoving clothes out of the way, ripping them off their hangers and tossing them over his shoulder, checking every conceivable hiding spot.
Amy was still on the floor attending to her foot. Her own eyes grew wild from her husband’s frenzy. “What? What?”
Patrick ignored her; he just continued with his frantic search. The bathroom next.
“Patrick!”
He emerged from the bathroom a minute later. Satisfied their entire bedroom was empty save for him and his wife, Patrick turned to Amy, his eyes still lidless. “Stay here and keep this door locked.”
He flipped the lock, pulled the door tight, and checked the handle to ensure it didn’t budge. He heard Amy call after him one last time as he bolted downstairs to make the call.
* * *
Curled over on one side, his back to the bedroom door, four-year-old Caleb was desperately holding in a giggle, wishing he could have seen the look on his Mommy’s face after playing his funny joke on her.
THE END
* * *
Turn the page for a special excerpt of Jeff Menapace’s pulse-pounding sequel, Vengeful Games…
Chapter 1
Chicago, Illinois
Autumn, 2008
Although the interior of the house was black with night, Monica could have slinked her way upstairs and into their bedrooms eyes closed. She had been in their home—alone—several times already. Her job demanded this kind of tactile homework. She had to be perfect. Always. But it was never a burden. She loved her job. It was why she was so good.
Monica never cared to know the reasons behind her assignments unless they were critical to the job. Reasons meant little to her. It could be a terrorist hiding in suburbia, or a school teacher having an affair. She didn’t care. It was the work itself she prized. Her first solo assignment at nineteen was carried out with the exactness of a veteran—her hand never shook, her movements never second-guessed.
At the top of the landing, Monica made an immediate right into the boy’s bedroom. He was a freshman in high school. Five-foot nine. Scruffy brown hair. Skinny. She’d studied him on his way home from soccer practice. Every day after school until five. He walked home.
Monica now stood over his sleeping body and withdrew a pistol from her leather bag. Teenagers were always so easy. They slept like the dead. The boy snored deeply, his mouth ajar. She smirked at the opportunity and placed the suppressor of her Glock into his mouth. The boy never opened his eyes, even when the two quiet thumps bounced his head and turned the back of his pillow red.
Mom and dad were down the hall. She didn’t have to hurry with this one, and that was just fine by her. Quite often a job would require a quick in and out with little time to savor and enjoy. But with this one, she could (and would) secure the situation, and then take her time.
She glided into the master bedroom, hung at the foot of the bed, watched their sleeping silhouettes. She felt the familiar tingle flutter its way down her spine until it made a pit-stop in her belly, swirling hot and bad, waiting for the chance to continue its exquisite journey south.
Monica had once read that Adolph Hitler would often ejaculate while delivering passionate speeches to his minions. A crazy notion to most, but she understood the moment she’d read it. She desired sex as often (she assumed) as most women did, but achieving orgasm was near impossible no matter how earnest the man’s efforts may have been. But when an assignment like tonight’s allowed her to take her time? She was able to explode with ecstasy—multiple times.
One poor fellow unknowingly volunteered to be her first successful effort at sexual gratification when Monica was only twenty-two. The young man was not an assignment, just another random penis stepping up to the plate in hopes of hitting it out