Skin in the Game
Page 1
A CAIN/HARPER THRILLER (#1)
D.P. LYLE
SUSPENSE PUBLISHING
SKIN IN THE GAME
A CAIN/HARPER THRILLER
by
D.P. Lyle
DIGITAL EDITION
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Suspense Publishing
D.P. Lyle
COPYRIGHT
2019 D.P. Lyle
PUBLISHING HISTORY:
Suspense Publishing, Paperback and Digital Copy, October 2019
Cover Design: Shannon Raab
Cover Photographer: Shutterstock.com/ Arlo Magicman
Cover Photographer: iStockphoto.com/ dlewis33
ISBN: 978-0578516950
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
BOOKS BY D.P. LYLE
Jake Longly Thrillers
Deep Six (#1)
A-List (#2)
Sunshine State (#3)
Dub Walker Thrillers
Stress Fracture (#1)
Hot Lights, Cold Steel (#2)
Run to Ground (#3)
Samantha Cody Thrillers
Devil’s Playground (#1)
Double Blind (#2)
Original Sin (#3)
Royal Pains: Media Tie-in Novels
Royal Pains: First, Do No Harm (#1)
Royal Pains: Sick Rich (#2)
Anthologies
For the Sake of the Game
It’s All in the Story
Thriller3: Love is Murder
Thrillers: 100 Must Reads
Non-Fiction
Murder and Mayhem: A Doctor Answers Medical and Forensic Questions From Mystery Writers
Forensics For Dummies
Forensics For Dummies, 2nd Edition
Forensics and Fiction: Clever, Intriguing, and Downright Odd Questions From Crime Writers
Howdunit Forensics: A Guide For Writers
More Forensics and Fiction: Crime Writers Morbidly Curious Questions Expertly Answered
ABA Fundamentals: Understanding Forensic Science
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To my wonderful agent and friend Kimberley Cameron of Kimberley Cameron & Associates. KC, you’re the best.
To John and Shannon Raab and all the wonderfully dedicated people at Suspense Publishing. Thanks for your creative insights and hard word to make this book the best it can be.
To my writers group for helping make this story work. Thanks, Barbara, Terri, Craig, Donna, Sandy, and Laurie.
To my always first reader and editor Nancy Whitley.
To my long-time friend Jim Fabrick for his knowledge and experience with SERE Training.
To Nan for everything. And for offering some truly creepy ideas for this story.
PRAISE FOR D.P. LYLE
“Terrific—truly sinister, scary and suspenseful. Lyle never lets you down.”
—Lee Child, #1 New York Times Bestselling Author
“Skin in the Game hums like a tuning fork in perfect thriller pitch. Heroes Bobby Cain and Harper McCoy are skilled with blade and mind, and the villain here sent chills up my spine from page one on. This is further proof that D.P. Lyle is at the top of his game.”
—T. Jefferson Parker, Author of
The Last Good Guy
“D.P. Lyle writes wonderfully and with real insight. He’s a born storyteller.”
—Peter James, UK #1 Bestselling Author of the Detective Superintendent Roy Grace Series
“Skin in the Game is The Most Dangerous Game on steroids. Fast, relentless, and cunning.”
—David Morrell, New York Times Bestselling Author of Murder as a Fine Art
“Unputdownable. Bobby Cain wields both his knife and tongue with lethal expertise. Lyle’s seamless prose, gritty voice, and whiplash pacing culminate in an unforgettable climax, showcasing a heartwrenching exposé into the world of human trafficking. And what a wild ride along the way. Ray Donavan meets Deliverance!”
—K.J. Howe, International Bestselling Author of Skyjack
“D.P. Lyle’s novels are chillingly authentic. An expert technician just keeps getting better. Packed with edge of the seat tension, Skin in the Game takes hunting to an astonishing, and frightening, new level.”
—Robert Dugoni, New York Times Bestselling Author of the Tracy Crosswhite Series
“Skin in the Game is a bracing and blisteringly original thriller that challenges old genre rules while making up plenty of its own. D.P. Lyle has fashioned a tale sharply edged enough to leave our fingers bleeding from turning the pages as fast as we can. His intrepid protagonists are among the best drawn and richly realized of any heroes seen in years, with echoes of both David Baldacci and C. J. Box, making Skin in the Game a winner from page one. A smooth and sultry tale that shoots for the moon and hits a literary bull’s-eye.”
—Jon Land, USA Today Bestselling Author of the Caitlin Strong Series
“From the first line of Skin in the Game, D.P. Lyle grabs your attention and your imagination, and never lets up. This is a masterpiece of suspense that is built upon strong characters, solid plotting, and excellent scene setting. Lyle uses misdirection as expertly as did Raymond Chandler, and builds tension that will cause the reader to turn on all the lights and lock the doors. Don’t miss this one.”
—Joseph Badal, Tony Hillerman Award Winning Author of Natural Causes
SKIN IN THE GAME
A CAIN/HARPER THRILLER (#1)
D.P. LYLE
CHAPTER 1
APRIL
She had a plan.
Not much of one, and not likely to succeed. But she had little choice.
That he was going to kill her was a given. No question. She knew that shortly after their lives intersected. At first he had been a Good Samaritan, a knight in shining armor. Polite and kind and helpful. When her car gave up, sputtering to a stop on the grassy shoulder of the winding, rural road, middle of nowhere, dead of night, as she was returning from a birthday party, berating herself for staying so late when she still had papers to grade. There he was. His SUV sliding up behind her, washing her in its headlamps, him stepping out, approaching, saying, ”Car trouble?” An easy smile on his face.
In the darkness, she couldn’t peg his age, could be thirty, could be fifty, but she could see that he was handsome, well-dressed in slacks and an open-collar dress shirt. Harmless, soft-spoken. He popped the hood, rummaged around, told her it looked like her distributor had given up. Offered her a ride home.
Sure. Thanks. He seemed so safe.
Then things changed.
The Taser to her shoulder, the foggy and helpless way she lay there, back of the SUV, knowing he was binding her, gagging her. Yet her muscles wouldn’t respond to the silent screaming inside her brain. Run, fight, resist.
Then she was here. Wherever here was. A barn, large, drafty.
What she feared never happened. No rape, no touching, at least not that way. He had stripped her, tied her to a table, and shaved her. Completely. Even her long, dark hair was gone. She begged and pleaded, asking again and
again what he was doing.
Making you perfect.
Those words shot a chill through her.
No doubt, he would kill her.
He had to. He’d made no attempt to hide his face. No concern that she might later identify him. The unmistakable truth was that there would be no ‘later’ for her.
Then, that same night, she curled on an air mattress, blanket pulled to her neck to ward off the damp chill. Her handcuffed left wrist tethered to a massive support pole by a thick chain. She had tried everything: squeeze her hand from the cuff, dislodge it from the chain, loosen the chain itself from the tree-like stanchion.
Nothing worked.
The next morning, it began. Back on the table, each extremity restrained, the hum of the tattoo machine, the sharp pricks of the needle.
Again, she asked him why.
“To make you the masterpiece you deserve to be,” he said while gently cupping her chin.
Now, her fifth night in captivity, wrapped in the blanket, waiting. Right wrist tethered now. Too bad. She had hoped for the left.
She had a plan.
One she had hatched last night as she lay in the dark, trying everything to slip her hand free. Working until the bones ached, the flesh raw, sweat covering her, making no progress.
That’s when she realized that to escape, to survive, she had to sacrifice her hand. Not in a coyote gnawing off a leg way—she could never do that—but still a sacrifice.
Too bad it had to be the right. She almost laughed at that. Worrying about which hand when death was the endgame.
The weather in Tennessee in April could be anything. Sweltering, or as cold as deep winter. Most of the day, fat rain drops had hammered the tin roof, echoing inside the cavernous space, dragging the temperature lower.
Hard shivers racked her. She wound the blanket tightly around her naked body, legs drawn up so that her feet were covered. Still her toes felt almost frozen.
So she managed to slip her bonds, then what? Were the doors—the large one ahead of her, or the smaller one to her right—locked, bolted, chained? And once she was outside, into the cold night, where was she? She had no idea. She pictured open land, trees, no civilization in sight. Was that the case? Did it matter?
Doing nothing was a death sentence.
Earlier, as he gathered his tools, she had asked when this would end. “Soon,” he had replied. “Two days at most.” Once her transformation was complete.
“What then?”
“Your presentation to the world.”
His unhurried footsteps faded, leaving her in an eerie darkness, faintly blushed by the glowing coils of the electric heater he left on for some measure of comfort.
Timing was everything now.
She waited, listening, inhaling the damp, musty air laced with the faint electric aroma of the heater. Had he really gone? The last two nights she had thought so, but within minutes he had returned, muttering about forgetting something. Yet he hadn’t searched for or picked up anything. One final check on her. He was nothing if not meticulous.
She envisioned him nearby, waiting, just in case. She did not turn or move and willed her breathing to slow. Let him believe she was asleep, that she had accepted her captivity, that this night would be like the others. She would sleep and wait for his return.
Exhaustion tugged at her. She fought it. She had slept only in fits and spurts over the past five days. Was it only five days? Seemed an eternity.
Her eyes burned and her entire body ached with fatigue. A few more minutes, she told herself.
She jerked awake.
Where was she? Her confusion only momentary. The support pole, only inches from her face, reflected the red glow of the heater coils; its humming, the only sound she could hear. She rolled to her back and then her other side, the chain that bound her rattling. How long had she slept? What time was it? She had no idea. Time was a lost commodity in the massive barn.
She sat up, directing her gaze toward the side door. The one he used to come and go. Was he out there waiting? Did it matter? She had to act now. Had to take that one-in-a-million shot. Otherwise, all would be lost. There was no Hollywood ending here. At least not the kind where the armored knight rides up, slays the beast, and lifts her onto his pure white stallion. If this script had a good ending she would have to write it herself.
She had a plan.
She stood, angry at herself for falling asleep while a growing panic filled her chest.
Time to act.
She grasped her right hand with her left and squeezed. Hard. Ignoring the pain, she called on all her strength but the bones proved more resilient. Tears collected in her eyes. She banged the hand against the pole but that did little, except abrade her skin, blood now oozing along her fingers. Again she squeezed and yanked, hoping the blood would serve as a lubricant. It didn’t.
Plan B. Something more drastic. She had feared it would come to this. She steeled herself, closed her fist tightly, settled it against her buttock, took a deep breath, jumped straight up, retracting her legs, and landed hard on the floor. The lubrication of the blood now worked against her, her hand sliding from beneath her as she struck the floor hard. Pain shot up her spine, her breath escaping in a whoosh.
Goddammit.
She stood, set herself again, this time concentrating on pressing her fist even more tightly against her right buttock and repeated the jump/fall.
The pain was horrific, the cracking of the bones audible. She rolled to her back, tears welling in her eyes, her breathing deep and raspy. Nausea swept through her followed by a cold, hard sweat.
Two deep settling breaths.
Move.
She grasped the chain and tugged, the cuff further crushing her damaged hand. The pain was too much.
Do it.
Again, she tried. The angry ache worse.
Could she do this?
She stood, backpedaled, the chain and her arm now extended before her. A deep breath, a fall backwards. The chain snapped taut. The bones of her hand resisted before finally collapsing through the metal ring. She hit the floor hard. Fire shot up her arm. The world spun. She gulped air until the dizziness settled. The pain didn’t.
Time to move.
She climbed to her feet, momentarily wobbling. She held her breath and listened, half-expecting to hear his footsteps. Nothing.
The side door. Locked. Toggle on the inside. She twisted it, eased the door open, and stepped outside.
Above, a nearly full moon peeked between fluffy clouds. No rain. Cold.
She examined her mangled hand. In the moonlight, it appeared blackened and swollen. A deep throbbing spread upwards into her shoulder.
She scanned her surroundings. A patch of open field to her left, dense woods ahead and to her right.
The pines offered cover so she headed that way. Naked except for the blanket she wrapped around her shoulders, feet bare. The ground cold and hard against her soles. She covered the two hundred feet to the trees before turning and looking back.
A house. A large house. Two lights on inside.
His house.
Was he inside, asleep? Was he aware she had slipped away? Was he standing at a window watching her every move?
No time to ponder that. She scurried deeper into the trees, pine needles and small rocks biting at her feet. The uneven terrain sloped downward. Toward a road? A stream? Would this path lead her to civilization? No way to know but now she was committed.
She moved more quickly. Through the trees, their branches clutching at the blanket, slapping against her exposed legs and arms. In and out of ravines, over masses of limestone, thick clusters of pine trees, small open areas, up and down.
Fifteen minutes later she stopped at the edge of a shallow ravine. The cold air burned her lungs. Her hand throbbed. The soles of her feet felt as if the flesh had been ripped off.
How far had she gone? A mile? Maybe more?
The rain returned. A soft sprinkle, tapping against the pines above
her. The occasional splat of a drop against the protective blanket.
Then another sound. Behind her. Like a rock tumbling down a slope.
She spun that way.
A shuffle, a scrape.
Footsteps. No doubt.
No, no, no.
She turned and ran. Down into the ravine. Twigs and cold, hard rocks cut into her already damaged feet. She ignored the pain and picked up her pace. The channel she followed turned right and then left, the darkness thickening with each step. Then she reached the edge of the trees. Maybe a hundred yards of open land before her. A recently plowed field. Neat rows of tiny sprigs, a few leaves.
She looked back, holding her breath, listening. Silence.
What now? Cross the open area? Exposed. Back into the trees and continue downhill?
Think. Make a decision.
The field. Open the gap as much as possible and then figure it out.
Head down, blanket pulled around her shoulders, she burst out into the open. The moon slid from behind a cloud, silvering the sprouts. She locked her gaze on a single pine, bent and misshapen, distinguishing itself from the regiment of trees that hugged the far side of the field. She picked up her pace, reaching it in less than a minute.
Back into the trees. Rockier here, with even more piles of limestone boulders and ledges. She weaved through them, deeper into the trees.
Where was she? She stopped, considering whether to climb the rocks, get a better view of her surroundings, or stay low to the ground. Out of sight.
Behind her, a sharp snap. A twig breaking. Her heart did a dance and she spun toward the sound.
There he was.
Standing on a limestone outcropping fifty feet away, looking directly at her.