Tom Trainer woke up in the back of a strange car, dizzy as hell and unable to speak, his throat burning with each breath. It took him several moments to remember where he'd been and what had gone down.
But when he did, panic struck.
Whomever this car belonged to, the asshole didn't want him happy and healthy.
He lifted his head an inch, spotted wide, thick shoulders, black hair, and an unfamiliar face in the rearview mirror. The man was talking on his cell, barely above a whisper in some foreign language. He was a real looker, a model or actor probably.
Whoever he was, Tom wanted nothing to do with him.
He put his head down against the cool leather seat again. What did he do? How did he get the hell out of here? As the car moved, he felt every pothole, smelled every bit of exhaust from the cars ahead of him. When they finally slowed, then stopped, Tom glanced up as quick as a gopher from its hole and saw that directly in front of them, cars were waiting at a red light.
It was now or never. His throat hurt like a motherfucker, and he hoped that when the time came he could run.
He took a deep breath, grabbed for the door handle, and pulled.
"Oh, fuck!"
The man.
Off his cell and pissed.
Go. Go.
Like a drunk, Tom stumbled out of the car. He was dizzy and felt like puking, but fear gifted him with a shot of adrenaline and he got himself together and ran.
"Come back here, you little shit!" the man roared after him.
Halfway down the sidewalk, Tom glanced back, saw that the man had pulled to the side of the road and was getting out of his car, flashing a deadly stare and a set of pearly white . . .
Oh Jesus.
Tom's mind spun back to Dr. Donohue's apartment, to the other man, the one who'd jumped up from the floor like a haunted-house freak and attacked him: impossibly large, tattoos or gang symbols carved into his skin, and the same needle-sharp pearly whites.
What are they?
Despite the pain pounding in his skull and throat, Tom whirled around and ran like hell down the sidewalk.