Only seconds earlier, screams had seemed impossible to restrain. Now she couldn't push a single squawk past a constriction in her throat tighter than the grip on her leg.
She blinked against the pitch-black darkness. Why had she chosen tonight of all nights to roll down the hurricane shutters? She grappled for the lamp.
The needle-like fangs sank deeper. Pressure increased. It couldn't be as heavy as it felt. Surely fear exaggerated sensations. If only she'd worn sweats to sleep tonight rather than the cooler ribbed T-shirt and panties.
Her clammy fingers fumbled with the switch. The lamp wobbled, tipped, clattered to the floor. Her first muffled whimpers of fear whispered free.
Please, someone hear me. Help me.
Echoes of childhood whimpers for rescue, quiet pleadings she'd prayed someone would hear on a psychic level because she wasn't allowed to scream or they would bring back the spiders. Or the snakes.
Just small, green garden snakes, she reminded herself. Her kidnappers hadn't wanted to risk damaging their collateral.
The thick coil began to unfurl along her leg, jaws still clamped on to her.
Her pulse pounded in her ears like the rap-rap-rap of helicopter blades beating the air. What if the snake released her ankle? She swallowed back bile at thoughts of it biting her stomach.
Her face.
The pressure eased. A slow serpentine glide started up the outside of her leg. Panic clawed at her insides.
She forced herself to think. It wasn't moving quickly. She just needed light to dial the phone for help. Quietly. If she stayed calm, someone could get the key and come for help.
Someone?
Her mind blanked of all room numbers except Max's. Of course he was the logical choice. The man worked with animals. Max would know what to do.
Carefully, she inched her hand across the coverlet. She stifled the urge to flail against the insidious caress inching toward her hip.
Her fingertips brushed the light. Steady this time.
Max might even have the perfect answer for her over the phone. Once she gave him a description of the snake, he would reassure her it wasn't poisonous. Then she would just hang out with her fanged buddy until her own personal exterminator found a key.
Darcy twisted the switch. Harsh yellow light sent sparks pricking in front of her until her eyes adjusted. She blinked, focused and turned to face her attacker.
Beady eyes the size of dimes stared back from the foot of her bed.
Full-blown nausea born of terror roiled. Her dreams hadn't been an exaggeration at all. Obsidian eyes seared her from the head of a ten-foot-long brown snake as big around as her white-knuckled fist.
Max! she mentally screamed without twitching even a muscle. Her gaze jerked back to the bedside table. No phone waited beneath the light.
Frantically she traced the path of the telephone cord across the room. Fifteen feet away. It might as well have been miles. The phone rested beneath the window where she'd left it when she'd called her sister before going to bed.
Darcy drew in a shaky breath, using every ounce of training to squash her terror. Help wasn't within reach, and damn it, she'd learned to deal with pests in survival. Which left her with only one option.
Time to kick some snake butt herself. She just hoped the reptile wasn't looking for supper.
Unwrapping his turkey-sandwich supper, Max settled behind the laptop computer resting on the utilitarian table in his VOQ room. He clicked through the multiple menus, logging into the remote account linking him to the CIA's mainframe computer.
Rain gurgled through the gutters outside his door while he waited for the connection to complete. He bit off half the sandwich. Scratched a hand over his bare chest. And tried not to think how much better his day could have ended if he'd been two doors down in the room with Darcy.
The secured black-and-green screen hummed to life, snagging his attention back to the job at hand: sending his report. The list of additional captioned addresses stretched like a damned laundry list. Why worry about a tap leaking military plans when he was all but using a freaking bullhorn transmitting his reports to a stadium?
Not much of a team player are you, son? his father's voice taunted through the years.
Sure he was. He'd just found his animals respected rules and loyalty better. Max tipped back in his chair to open the small fridge behind him for a bottle of water.
A pop cut the air.