Dragonfury 02 - Fury of Ice

already tried that, and trapped in an elevator with a pissed-off guy was the last place any sane woman wanted to be.
    “You thinking of running when the doors open, she-cop?” Uncoiling like a poisonous snake, his voice slithered through the silence, making her scream inside her own mind. He nudged her with the toe of his boot. “Come on. Make it interesting. Run.”
    Angela swallowed her rage along with an unwise retort. She couldn’t fight fire with fire. Words wouldn’t get her anything but more bruises. The best strategy was silence. Her nonreaction would drive him nuts. Maybe even piss him off enough to make a mistake and hand her the information she needed to break free.
    “What? Nothing to say? You done fighting?” He leaned in, getting too close, winding her tight, provoking without touching. “Such a pity. I like a little fight in my female.”
    Fight . Right. What he liked was a live punching bag, one that cried and begged for mercy. No way would she give him the satisfaction. Or an easy victory.
    Flexing her hands, Angela worked the blood back into them. As her fingertips tingled, she got ready. The quiet creak and sway of the Otis told her they were almost there. Yeah, she might be praying for rescue, but that didn’t mean she should sit back and wait for it. She had skills, carried a mental toolbox full of fighting techniques and tactical knowledge. She needed to use it—stay focused, pay attention, find a way out.
    Which was a great plan…in theory. The only problem? The beatings and medical procedures had sapped her strength, and now, nausea ate her from the inside out. Wave after wave washed in, eroding her confidence, devouring the place where know-how lived. And as bile threatened the back of her throat, she tasted the vile protein shake again. Angela huffed. Protein shake, her ass. She hadn’t landed in Spa-land, and the green drink they’d forced down her throat hadn’t been jammed full of antioxidants. Drugs. The aftertaste washed over her tongue as the medicine sloshed in the pit of her stomach.
    The elevator slid open with a soft ping.
    Lothair pointed, motioning her through the entrance into…
    Where exactly? The descent proved she was underground, in some sort of facility. But the structure was far from new. Paint peeled, leaving bald patches on the walls in some places and latex curls hanging from cinder block in others. And the concrete floor? Worn as though the passageway had been well traveled, but not maintained.
    Angela stepped out of the Otis and into the corridor. The paper slippers slid on her feet, catching on the uneven floor as fluorescents buzzed, making her head ache, but at least the air was fresher down here. A continuous click-click-whirl sound rattled through the corridor. Angela glanced up at…
    Thank God. A steel grille. The place had a ventilation system. Maybe she could—
    A big hand clamped down on one of her biceps.
    She jerked, wrenching her arm out of Lothair’s grip. He smirked, planted his palm between her shoulder blades, and pushed. As she cursed and stumbled forward, calling him every name she could think of, he kept up the shove routine, herding her ahead of him until they came to steel bars. Straight out of a prison, the barrier was old, but effective, blocking the corridor in both directions.
    Lothair shoved her sideways, away from the electronic keypad. Her shoulder collided with the wall. Angela barely noticed. She was too busy to bother with the pain. Her focus was pinpoint sharp, glued to the digital screen and…
    Bingo.
    The idiot.
    He hadn’t blocked her view. And as Lothair’s fingers got busy punching in the access code, she paid attention, squirreling away each number and…
    Gotcha.
    Man, the bonehead was clueless. She had the access code. Now all she needed was to make sure she could find her way out when the time came. A problem for most people, but not her. She controlled the swing vote, had an ace up her sleeve, so to speak: a photographic memory that provided perfect recall.
    Thank God the Razorbacks didn’t know that. A blindfold would’ve been the kiss of death for her.
    The steel bars retracted with a clang, echoing through the deserted corridor. Well, “deserted.” It was all relative, really. She was here along with Mr. Asshole, after all.
    Lothair shoved her again. “Move it.”
    “Screw off,” she rasped, her throat raw from that awful drink.
    “There you are,” he said, sounding pleased. “The spirited