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He recalls the tremor in her voice as she pleaded for her life, the unique pitch and quality of each cry as he tortured her. The exquisite music of life and death. For one fine moment he allows himself to admire the drama of the tableau. He allows himself to feel the heat of the flames caress his face like tongues of desire. He closes his eyes and listens to the sizzle and hiss, breathes deep the smell of roasting flesh. Elated, excited, aroused, he takes his erection out of his pants and strokes himself hard.

He brings himself nearly to climax, but is careful not to ejaculate. Save it for later, when he can celebrate fully.

Category: Series – Kovac & Liska

His goal is in sight. He has a plan, meticulously thought out, to be executed with perfection. The press here has already given him a name: the Cremator. It makes him smile. It makes him proud.

He lights another match and holds it just in front of him, studying the flame, loving the sinuous, sensuous undulation of it. He brings it closer to his face, opens his mouth, and eats it. The sight burned its impression into the depths of her memory, into the backs of her eyeballs so that she could see it when she blinked against the tears. The body twisting in slow agony against its horrible fate.

Orange flame a backdrop for the nightmare image. She ran, her lungs burning, her legs burning, her eyes burning, her throat burning. In one abstract corner of her mind, she was the corpse. Maybe this was what death was like. Maybe it was her body roasting, and this consciousness was her soul trying to escape the fires of hell. She had been told repeatedly that was where she would end up. In the near distance she could hear a siren and see the weird flash of blue and red lights against the night. She ran for the street, sobbing, stumbling.


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Her right knee hit the frozen ground, but she forced her feet to keep moving. The cruiser still rocked at the curb. The door was open. The cop was on the boulevard, gun drawn and pointed straight at her. Her legs buckled beneath the weight of her body and the weight of her fear and the weight of her heart that was pounding like some huge swollen thing in her chest.

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Sam Kovac and Nikki Liska: Ashes to Ashes 1 by Tami Hoag (2000, Paperback, Reprint)

The cop was beside her in an instant, holstering his weapon and dropping to his knees to help. Must be a rookie, she thought dimly. She knew fourteen-year-old kids with better street instincts. She could have gotten his weapon. If she'd had a knife, she could have raised herself up and stabbed him. He pulled her up into a sitting position with a hand on either shoulder.

Sirens wailed in the distance. I saw him! First day back from what had technically been a vacation—a guilt-forced trip to visit her parents in hell's amusement park Las Vegas —she was late for work, had a headache, wanted to strangle a certain sex crimes sergeant for spooking one of her clients—a screw-up she would pay for with the prosecuting attorney.

David Bowie / Ashes to Ashes

All that and the fashionably chunky heel on a brand new pair of suede pumps was coming loose, thanks to the stairs in the Fourth Avenue parking ramp. No one else seemed to notice him prowling the edge of the spacious atrium of the Hennepin County Government Center like a nervous cat. Kate made the guy for late thirties, no more than a couple of inches past her own five-nine, medium-to-slender build. With a sense of ceremony, he pours the accelerant. Anointing the dead.

Ashes to Ashes (Kovac / Liska, book 1) by Tami Hoag

Symbolism of evil. His True Self embraces the concept of evil as power. Fuel for the internal fire. The sounds are ordered and specific, magnified by his excitement. The scrape of the match against the friction strip, the pop as it bursts with flame, the whoosh of the fire as it comes alive and consumes. As the fire burns, his memory replays the earlier sounds of pain and fear.

Order of Kovac/Liska Books

He recalls the tremor in her voice as she pleaded for her life, the unique pitch and quality of each cry as he tortured her. The exquisite music of life and death. For one fine moment he allows himself to admire the drama of the tableau. He allows himself to feel the heat of the flames caress his face like tongues of desire. He closes his eyes and listens to the sizzle and hiss, breathes deep the smell of roasting flesh.

Elated, excited, aroused, he takes his erection out of his pants and strokes himself hard. He brings himself nearly to climax, but is careful not to ejaculate. Save it for later, when he can celebrate fully. His goal is in sight. He has a plan, meticulously thought out, to be executed with perfection. The press here has already given him a name: the Cremator. It makes him smile.

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It makes him proud. He lights another match and holds it just in front of him, studying the flame, loving the sinuous, sensuous undulation of it. He brings it closer to his face, opens his mouth, and eats it. The sight burned its impression into the depths of her memory, into the backs of her eyeballs so that she could see it when she blinked against the tears.

The body twisting in slow agony against its horrible fate. Orange flame a backdrop for the nightmare image. She ran, her lungs burning, her legs burning, her eyes burning, her throat burning. In one abstract corner of her mind, she was the corpse. Maybe this was what death was like. Maybe it was her body roasting, and this consciousness was her soul trying to escape the fires of hell.

She had been told repeatedly that was where she would end up. In the near distance she could hear a siren and see the weird flash of blue and red lights against the night. She ran for the street, sobbing, stumbling.


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Her right knee hit the frozen ground, but she forced her feet to keep moving. The cruiser still rocked at the curb. The door was open. The cop was on the boulevard, gun drawn and pointed straight at her.

Hardback Editions

Her legs buckled beneath the weight of her body and the weight of her fear and the weight of her heart that was pounding like some huge swollen thing in her chest. The cop was beside her in an instant, holstering his weapon and dropping to his knees to help. Must be a rookie, she thought dimly. She knew fourteen-year-old kids with better street instincts.

She could have gotten his weapon.