Free Callie's Last Dance (a Donovan Creed Novel) by John Locke Page A

the world, it’s a small metal cylinder, silver, with the words “Lens Cleaner” printed in black. But this particular cylinder contains a mixture of cyanide and dimethyl sulfoxide.
    Angie screams and tries to get to her feet, but falls face-first to the floor. Meanwhile, Frankie’s in mid-air, diving toward Callie’s knees. Unable to get off a shot, she clubs him over the head with the butt of the gun as he tackles her. She lands hard on her back, with him on top. She feels the wind go out of her as his head crashes into her stomach. Frankie’s hurt, but he’s tough, and has Callie pinned beneath him. She’s still holding the gun, but with the silencer attached, it’s too long to wedge between them for a shot. Frankie gets to his knees and cocks his fist. Is he planning to shatter her perfect nose?
    Yes.
    Does he?
    No.
    She drops the gun, and Frankie lunges for it.
    Just as she hoped he would.
    When he makes his move, she twists her body enough to slide out from under him. He stretches out to grab the gun, but Callie gets her elbow above the back of his head and smashes his face to the floor. Then scrambles to her feet and kicks his ribs.
    Frankie’s tough. He never loses his grip on the gun, and turns it on her. Callie kicks his hand, sends the gun flying. As he watches it sail through the air, she lands a front kick to his temple. Frankie goes dizzy. His head goes upward, exposing his jaw. When she connects with a roundhouse kick, it’s lights out Frankie.

21.
    “WHAT TIPPED HER off?” Creed says, hours later, when Callie gets to that part of the story.
    Callie laughs. “You’re going to think I’m an idiot.”
    “Tell me.”
    “The washer and dryer.”
    “What about them?”
    “They were covered with scratch marks!”
    Creed laughs. “Of course. Twenty minutes of hopping from one appliance to the other, with the dog trying to get you!”
    “And I never even noticed,” Callie says, “or thought about it. But to Angie, it must’ve looked like a war zone!”
    “Especially with her dog lying unconscious on the floor.”
    “Digby.”
    “Right,” Creed says. “So…”
    “So what?”
    “Tell me what happened with Frankie.”

22.
    Two Hours Earlier…
    FRANKIE REGAINS CONSCIOUSNESS in gradual stages of ascending violence. When he’s lucid enough to realize he’s on his back with his wrists and ankles securely tied, he screams bloody murder. Callie turns the lights on so he can see what he’s up against.
    Cheesecloth.
    She’s holding a small wad of cheesecloth in one hand and a kitchen knife in the other. Puts the knife blade against his lips.
    “Open up,” Callie says, cheerfully.
    “Fuck you!”
    She moves the knife tip a few centimeters to the right and jabs it into his cheek. When he yells to protest, she pushes the center part of the cheese cloth into his mouth. When he gags, she forces the knife in his mouth and presses the blade against his tongue to keep him from spitting out the cheesecloth.
    He yells and bucks his body, but wisely keeps his head still.
    “Hot?” she says.
    Frankie makes a pain sound. His eyes bug out. Tears collect in the corners of his eyes and drip down his cheeks.
    “You’re tasting distilled habanero,” Callie says, “from the Chili pepper. In its purest form, the habanero tops three hundred and fifty thousand Scoville heat units. Very few people can handle this type of heat on their tongues, and it’s clear you’re not one of them.”
    “ Uhhhnnn ! UHHHNNN !” He cries out. It’s the only pain sound he can make without hurting himself worse.
    She sighs. “I won’t lie to you, Frankie, you’re in for a bad time. Because while this seems blisteringly hot to you, it’s the weakest extract I brought. And I brought many.”
    She lets the heat intensify another thirty seconds, then says, “Okay. Unclench your jaw and I’ll remove it.”
    “W-water!” he gasps.
    Callie says, “You’re eyes are tearing up. Here, let me help you.”
    He closes his