Chapter 34 In the Knick of Time
His eyes, dark with a lecherous hunger, raked over her. “You got some nice, titties,” he breathed, his voice a low, guttural rumble that made her skin crawl. “Let’s take a look.”
Before she could even register his intent, his brutal hand grabbed the delicate cashmere, the other gripping her arm to hold her fast. With a single, powerful rip, the soft fabric tore, the sound shockingly loud in the enclosed space. His eyes, burning with depravity, dropped to her chest, now only partially covered by a lace bra. He pulled aside the lace, exposing her.
Clara screamed in protest, a choked sob escaping her throat. His dirty mouth, twisted in a grotesque smile, descended. He teased her nipple with the tip of his tongue, a cold, wet sensation that made her recoil in disgust. “Mmmmmm… tastes just like a strawberry,” he murmured, his voice thick with a sickening pleasure.
She struggled against him, twisting and bucking, screaming until her throat was dry, but it was like fighting a stone wall. His powerful grip held her fast, mocking her futile efforts. He laughed, a raw, guttural sound that grated on her nerves. “Maybe you taste sweet like that down here too.” His hand, large and calloused, moved, gripping her crotch through her jeans, his fingers digging in.
A wave of nausea swept over her. She redoubled her efforts, a desperate, animalistic cry tearing from her lips. This couldn’t be happening. She had to survive. She lunged forward clamping down on an ear with her teeth.
He pulled free, backhanding her, a sudden, blinding blow that snapped her head to the side. Stars exploded behind her eyes, and she collapsed, half-dazed, over a heavy workbench beside them. The impact rattled her teeth, and the metallic tang of blood filled her mouth. He was on her in an instant, a snarling wolf.
His hands, rough and impatient, ripped at the button and then the zipper of her jeans. The denim gave way with a harsh tearing sound, and then he was forcing them over her hips, dragging them down her legs. The cool air hit her bare skin, and a wave of shame washed over her, hot and stinging. Her backside was bare before him, exposed and vulnerable. “Damn that’s nice too,” he bellowed, his voice filled with crude triumph.
“Boone. Boone!” a voice called out from behind, soft, feminine, yet firm.
Clara’s dazed mind struggled to place it. Heidi?
“Wait your turn, Heidi,” Boone snarled over his shoulder, not even pausing his assault.
“Don’t do this, Boone,” Heidi protested, her voice closer now, laced with a surprising steel. “She doesn’t deserve this.”
Boone roared, furious at the interruption. “I said wait your…” Before he could finish his statement, Clara heard a solid thwack. Heidi had hit him. It sounded like her blow had connected with surprising force.
He whirled, a bellow of rage erupting from him, his eyes blazing with fury. “I’ll kill you, you little bitch!”
Heidi, startled by his sudden turn, dropped the shovel she had used as a weapon, scrambling back with a cry. Her foot caught on something, and she stumbled, falling hard onto the concrete floor.
The momentary distraction was all Clara needed. Still slightly dazed, her head throbbing, she spun away from the workbench, her jeans tangled around her knees, a dangerous encumbrance. Her eyes darted wildly, searching for anything. Her hand closed around something cold and heavy, a metal pipe from the workbench.
With a desperate surge of strength, she swung it with all her might, a clumsy but furious arc, aiming for his head. She missed. The pipe whistled through the air, completely off target. Boone, feeling the air of the misaimed glow, turned his attention back to her.
With her jeans around her knees, she couldn’t move, couldn’t run. She was trapped, a sitting duck. His shadow loomed over her, terrifying and absolute. This was it. The end. She closed her eyes, a silent prayer forming on her lips, a last fleeting thought of Ethan.
“Federal Agents! Step back! Now!”
The voice, sharp and authoritative, sliced through the brutal tableau. It was a man’s voice, calm but firm, resonating with unyielding power. Clara’s eyes snapped open. Standing in the doorway, framed against the bright mountain sunlight, was a man in a dark tactical vest bearing the clear white letters FBI, a pistol trained steadily on Boone’s.
Boone froze, his hand inches from Clara’s face, his rage replaced by a terrifying, almost comical, stillness. The fury in his eyes warring with a sudden, primal fear.
Clara, granted this sudden, miraculous reprieve, scrambled, pulling her panties and jeans back up, fumbling with the button and zipper. Her hands trembled, but she worked quickly, the modesty a desperate need. She rearranged her torn bra, trying to regain some semblance of dignity.
“Hands where I can see them!” the agent commanded, his voice unwavering. As Boone slowly complied, two more agents moved into covering positions outside the workshop’s grimy windows, their weapons glinting in the outdoor lighting that had just come on.
They led Boone out of the workshop, his menacing bulk now strangely subdued. Before Clara could fully process what had happened, a female agent, her face kind but professional, stepped forward. “Are you alright, ma’am?” she asked, her voice gentle. Without waiting for an answer, she draped a clean, scratchy blanket over Clara’s shoulders. The warmth was comforting, a small shield against the chill.
“We need to get your statement,” the agent began, leading Clara to a dark sedan, motioning for her to rest on its hood. There were dark vehicles of all sizes and types all over the wide yard and driveway of the massive estate. As she began to give her statement, Clara watched, dazed, as two more of Thorne’s thugs were led out of the large, three-story house, their hands cuffed behind their backs. Then, Victor Thorne himself emerged, his silk shirt rumpled, his face pale and contorted in a sneer that had lost all its power, his arms held roughly behind his back. He was tucked into a different dark sedan than his henchmen. Justice. A cold, hard taste of it.
Taking her statement seemed to take hours. The questions were precise, detailed, dredging up every terrifying moment, every humiliating touch. Clara answered mechanically, her voice flat, her mind screaming to be gone, to be home. She longed for the familiar comfort of Aunt Bea’s cabin, her cabin, for the rugged, comforting presence of Ethan.
“Where’s Ethan?” she asked, her voice cracking, her only concern now. “Is he okay?”
The agent, patiently writing, paused. “Ethan Kincaid? We sent local law enforcement to deal with that situation, ma’am.”
Clara snorted, a harsh, disbelieving sound. “Local law enforcement? They’re under Thorne’s thumb too.” The thought of Ethan, out there, perhaps walking into a trap, maybe even Deputy Miller himself, sent a fresh surge of panic through her.
The agent looked up, her expression calm, reassuring. “Not anymore, ma’am. My boss made things pretty clear regarding their future if they did not comply with his directives. They’re fully cooperative now.”