THE PAIN OF OTHERS by Blake Crouch

though she was riding in a luxury SUV, the shocks did little to ease the violent jarring from whatever primitive road they traveled.
    Her wrists and ankles were comfortably but securely bound with nylon restraints. Her mouth wasn’t gagged. From her vantage point, she could only see the back of the driver’s head and occasionally the side of his face by the cherry glow of his cigarette. He was smooth-shaven, his hair was dark, and he smelled of a subtle, spicy cologne.
    It occurred to her that he didn’t know she was awake, but the thought wasn’t two seconds old when she caught his eyes in the rearview mirror. They registered her consciousness, turned back to the road.
    They drove on. An endless stream of rodents darted across the road ahead and a thought kept needling her—at some point, he was going to stop the car and do whatever he was driving her out in the desert to do.
    “Have you urinated on my seat?” She thought she detected the faintest accent.
    “No.”
    “You tell me if you have to urinate. I’ll stop the car.”
    “Okay. Where are you—”
    “No talking. Unless you have to urinate.”
    “I just—”
    “You want your mouth taped? You have a cold. That would make breathing difficult.”
    Devlin was the only thing she’d ever prayed for and that was years ago, but as she watched the passing sagebrush and cactus through the deeply tinted windows, she pleaded with God again.
    Now the Escalade was slowing. It came to a stop. He turned off the engine and stepped outside and shut the door. Her door opened. He stood watching her. He was very handsome, with flawless, brown skin (save for an indentation in the bridge of his nose), liquid blue eyes, and black hair greased back from his face. His pretty teeth seemed to gleam in the night. Rachael’s chest heaved against the strap of webbing.
    He said, “Calm down, Rachael.” Her name sounded like a foreign word on his lips. He took out a syringe from his black leather jacket and uncapped the needle.
    “What is that?” she asked.
    “You have nice veins.” He ducked into the Escalade and turned her arm over. When the needle entered, she gasped.
    “Please listen. If this is some kind of ransom thing—”
    “No, no. You’ve already been purchased. In fact, right now, there isn’t a safer place in the world for you to be than in my possession.”
    A gang of coyotes erupted in demonic howls somewhere out in that empty dark and Rachael thought they sounded like a woman burning alive, and she began to scream until the drug took her.

This first bonus excerpt is from the eBook Serial Uncut by Blake Crouch, Jack Kilborn , and J.A. Konrath , also available in the Kindle Store for $2.99…
     
    PART ONE
    Tampa, 1978
     
    “Didn’t anyone ever tell you about the dangers of hitchhiking?” the driver said. “You never know who’s going to pick you up.”
    Donaldson wiped sweat from his brow and eyed the driver through the half-open passenger side window of the Lincoln Continental. The driver was average-looking, roughly Donaldson’s age, dressed in a dark suit that matched the car’s paint job.
    “I’m roasting out here, man,” Donaldson said. And it wasn’t far from the truth. He’d been walking down this desolate highway for damn near three hours in the abusive, summer sun. “My car died. If you want to rob or kill me, that’s fine, as long as you have air conditioning.”
    Donaldson forced a bright smile, hoping he looked both pathetic and non-threatening. It must have worked, because the man hit a switch on his armrest, and the door unlocked.
    Must be nice being rich, Donaldson mused at the fancy automatic locks. Then he opened the door and heaved his bulk onto the leather seat.
    “Thanks,” he said.
    The car was cooler than outside, but not by much. Donaldson wondered if the man’s air worked. He placed his hand against the vent, felt a trickle of cold leaking out.
    “Happy to help a fellow traveler. I’m Mr.