Interception

“She was murdered,” said Strahm, softly, out of the blue.

He had taken Jill home, escorting her up to her apartment and into the bedroom. There he had acted no less than the perfect gentleman, taking off her shoes for her and putting her to bed. He now sat at the foot of the bed with her bare feet in his lap, stroking them now and again, running warm hands over her skin while apparently deep in thought.

Jill, who had been on the point of dozing off to his gentle ministrations, opened her eyes and looked up, propping herself on one elbow. Strahm was looking at her with dark and wary eyes, as if waiting for a response he knew he wouldn't want to hear.

“Your wife?” she asked, carefully. He nodded. “Everyone asks, sooner or later,” he told her. “These days, I tend to save people the time.”

“I wasn't going to ask,” said Jill, sitting upright now.

“You were, and that's okay, but not many people are tactful enough to say that, so thank you.”

Strahm turned away for a few seconds, taking time to muster his thoughts, and she studied his profile in silence. When he returned his attention to her he was quietly taking off his jacket and tie and lying beside her on the bed, on his back, gazing at the ceiling. She settled back down and laid her arm across his chest, feeling each measured breath he took. Eventually, he began to speak.

Slowly, pausing now and then to frame his words as carefully as he could, he told her that he'd been away at Quantico when it happened. Elizabeth had been caught up in a gas station robbery near their home in Bethesda, and had tried to run for her car. One of the robbers had shot her in the back and left her for dead. His captain had put in a priority call and Strahm had punched through every last red light on the way home, but to no avail. Elizabeth had died less than fifteen minutes before he got to the hospital. Two days before what should have been their fifth anniversary, she had been buried wearing the gold dragonfly necklace he'd intended for a gift.

A few weeks after the funeral, fleeing the memories of their suddenly very empty home, he'd put in for a transfer.

“You don't have to say anything,” he said at last, rolling over onto his side to look at her. Jill, who had been wondering if there were words enough, laid a palm against his chest and slipped her fingers into the open neck of his shirt, where she felt a racing that belied his eerily composed demeanour.

“Were they caught?” she asked, quietly.

“One got life, the other plea bargained down to five years,” he told her.

“Not enough,” she said. Jill swallowed deeply and felt her heart hurt. All at once it was clear that the man before her had spent six years trying to deal with his loss alone, chiefly by burying it beneath his duty to the law, the way she had buried her own in many late nights at the clinic. It was no solution, but it kept her from wondering why her entire world – and, so it seemed, that of everyone around her – turned upon the axle of violent death.

“Has there been anyone else since?” He hesitated, then gave a tiny shake of his head. “Nobody?” she asked, sadly, and she saw that this admission had cost him.

“No,” he said.

“I'm sorry,” said Jill. She'd meant to speak from the heart, had been nothing but serious, but she was puzzled to see Strahm's eyes crinkle with sudden amusement. He bit back a laugh and took her hand in his, kissing it artlessly.

“This is ridiculous,” he said. “We have got to stop apologising to each other.”

“Are you okay?” she said, despite the fact that his odd humour was infectious and she struggled to contain her own in response.

“I'm fine,” he insisted, his hand gliding up her arm, stroking her shoulder, tracing a soft, ticklish path down her ribs and over the swell of her hip. She responded in kind, fingers curling into the soft hair at the back of his neck, and then hooked her leg over his waist, drawing him closer. Strahm exhaled, shifting position, sliding between her thighs and moving above her. For a second his mouth was in the hollow of her neck and brushing across the mark left by the cruel bite that Hoffman had dealt her, and she flickered uncertainly; but then he pushed himself up and gazed down at her.

“You're so beautiful,” he said, softly, with an endearingly crooked smile, then ducked his head again. Jill felt his teeth tug at the fabric of her shirt and then, somehow, her top button was undone. Another tug, and the second popped open.

“Wow,” she said, laughing. Strahm looked up again, his eyes twinkling. “Oh, that? Just my old party trick,” he said, modestly.

“Looks like I missed some pretty wild parties.”

“Hey,” he said, ducking to attend to yet another button, his warm breath fanning her bare skin as he did so, “I wasn't always a cop...” His breathing slowed, muffled for a moment in the depths of her cleavage. Now he licked and kissed his way down her body as her muscles tensed and fluttered beneath each slow, lingering contact. Jill lay back, turning her head to one side, eyes closing. Her lips parted a little and she whispered his name, her breath catching.

Strahm paused in his attentions as he unzipped her skirt, sliding it down over her hips, then splayed his fingers over the fine satin of her underwear and stroked the heat of her soft pubic mound. Jill gasped and held still, heart leaping up against her ribs, but he turned his head aside instead, running the tip of his tongue up her tender thigh before nipping ever so lightly at the silken flesh there. This exquisite tease caused her to loose a frustrated moan, and Strahm glanced up at her from the valley between her quivering thighs, grinning. Finally he relented, hooking his fingers beneath the lacy band of her panties and drawing them down.

Jill drew in a heaving breath, her eyes rolling back in her head, as Strahm slid his tongue into her pussy, the sudden heat sending delicious flickers of electricity to her extremities. She growled low in the back of her throat and raised her hips from the bed. He murmured something indefinable and lapped at her clit again and again, probing and circling it with a firm and relentless rhythm that soon had her bucking and writhing helplessly, filling the room with hoarse, ragged cries of pleasure.

Now she felt his hands beneath her buttocks, kneading and squeezing the smooth skin and lifting her from the bed quite effortlessly, bringing her aching cunt closer to his mouth. She gave in gladly, parting her thighs even wider to afford him as much access as he needed. As she did so, he looked up at her, watching her expression, and the fierce concentration in his eyes left her shuddering. She sensed the very edge of a climax and pushed toward it.

“That's...oh...” she managed to stutter just before every muscle in her body went into lockdown, her hands clutching at the sheets, her skin speckled with seed pearls of vibrant sweat and her juices flowing like water. Strahm thrust his tongue into her over and over again as she thrashed, her orgasm obliterating every last rational sensation. Dimly, Jill felt his hands on the soft span of her belly, not restraining but assisting her, and then with one last convulsive quake she was done, and sagging into a gasping, twitching pile of exhausted joy.

The bed creaked as Strahm stripped off the rest of his clothes and then lay down beside her, taking her in his arms and rocking her for a moment. Jill squirmed a little closer and felt his hardness pressed against her thigh. She offered him a silent, questioning look but he shook his head gently and kissed her damp forehead.

“Another time,” he said. “I'm okay. You should get some sleep.” He reached across and drew the sheets over them both. Jill, already half asleep, traced drowsy fingers across his chest in a careless spiral pattern.

“You'll stay?” she whispered.

“Of course.”

As Jill's breathing settled into a deeper, more contented rhythm, Strahm's cell phone pinged softly on the night stand. Moving slowly, loath to disturb her, he stretched out his free arm and fetched it, flipping it open one handed. As he read the new message, however, the peaceful smile slipped away from his face.

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Even with the condensers switched off, the freezer room was still achingly cold.

Hoffman reached into his pocket and withdrew a pair of fleece-lined leather gloves, drawing them on with an idle tug, his eyes tracking over the steel framework in front of him. Six spray nozzles on each side were connected to rubber-sheathed copper pipes that led directly to the main water supply. Two lengths of chain depended from the top bar, a padlock hanging from an open hasp on the lowest link. It was to this padlock that Hoffman turned his attention, reaching up to retrieve the key, which he dropped into his pocket for the time being.

The coolant pipes on the far wall were currently empty, but he nevertheless gave them an investigative tap with the point of the key to make sure that the system wasn't charged. Apparently satisfied that it was safe to proceed, he leaned in closer, sliding his arm between the pipes to test the depth of the alcove. He stretched and closed his gloved fingers around the chain at the back, but just as he did so, his cheek made contact with the surface of the nearest pipe. Whilst not freezing, it was cold enough for all that, and he swore, jerked back reflexively, and rubbed at the sting with the back his hand. He debated trying again, but the test had served its purpose; standing a couple of inches taller than the subject, Hoffman knew that his own reach would likely be just a little longer. The distance was right.

A distant clatter from further down the corridor outside startled him, but only momentarily. Without the sedatives, Eric Matthews was now prone to raising hell at odd moments whether or not he thought there was anyone there to hear him. By the sound of things, he'd just flung his food tray at the door and was now screaming something about...bugs? This was followed by a rain of generalised invective, at which point Hoffman lost interest, scowled, and returned his attention to the chains on the trap. He'd already had to subdue Matthews once earlier when he'd opened the door to check on him – he flexed his swollen knuckles with some degree of regret – and had no intention of returning to the cell in the near future without a very good reason. It had come as something of a shock to find out just how much fight there was in an emaciated, weakened man with only one good leg.

He didn't hear the door open a fraction wider; the modest sound behind him was drowned out by the continuing yells from the cell. Soft footsteps were in turn masked by the clink of the chains as he adjusted their length.

Hoffman remained entirely unaware of the intruder until the point of a knife pricked the skin at the back of his neck.