Oh, God! This jerkwad was going to hurt her! Rape her! Kill her! Fear curdled her insides.

She kicked, landed one blow with her heel and her assailant let out a hiss of pain.

Good!

She tried again but was jerked roughly to one side, her airway cut off, the pain in her lungs hot and tight.

This can’t be happening, she thought wildly. She was coughing and gasping, digging at the strap, struggling and flailing, throwing her weight around. Anything to loosen the ever-tightening collar!

No! No! No!

Kicking crazily, trying to land another blow on his shin, she slipped. He used the chance to wrench her up by the belt, holding her in the air. Dangling like a doll.

Hit the creep. Get the belt off your neck! Save yourself! Though her lungs were on fire, she flung her fist backward, trying to hit the monster in the nose or eyes or anything! The fingers of her other hand were scratching at the strap on her throat.

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.

Help me. Please, someone, anyone help me!

She wasn’t a wimp, but her strength was fading, the pain excruciating.

Passing out would be better.

No!

Don’t give up!

Fight!

Oh, God, the pain…I can’t breathe! Help! Please help me!

She gave up hitting and used both hands to try and free herself from the constricting strap.

Her fingers clawed at her neck.

Dug deep.

But it was too late.

Her lungs were bursting.

Pain screaming through her body.

Her heart thudding.

Blackness converging over her.

In that horrid instant, Laney knew. She knew she would never see her twenty-first birthday.

CHAPTER 10

Hayes had been right.

Roy’s had definitely gone downhill, Bentz thought, driving past the restaurant.

Still a little shaken from his recent “Jennifer sighting,” he found a ridiculously small parking spot a couple of blocks from the restaurant. He wedged the Ford Escape into it and fed the meter. Ignoring the pain in his leg, he managed to avoid a couple of speeding skateboarders who whipped by, the wheels of their boards grinding against the concrete as he hitched his way to the front doors.

Named for its original owner and not Roy Rogers as many people thought, the place still had a western facade complete with Dutch doors that looked as if they belonged on a barn. There had once been a plastic rearing horse mounted over the front awning, until some smart-ass had climbed up on the roof in the middle of the night and painted the white stallion’s private parts fire-engine red.

That had been the end of the white stud.

Now the awning displayed a sign that simply said: Roy’s.

Good enough, Bentz figured as he pushed open the doors and stepped back in time.