I pull at the handcuffs, loosening them before slipping them off. Carefully, I slide them onto the chair behind me, so Lance can’t hear them fall to the floor. I don’t want him to know I’m free. Not yet. Not until I’m armed and ready to attack.
“I smell likeonions?” Lance asks, sounding more than a little offended. He scowls at Hanna.“Onions?”
“Yes,” she retorts. “Stinky onions. And sweat. And—” Her face screws up in disgust. “Your skin tastes like dirt. It’s really gross.”
Reaching behind me for the same organizer Charlie just used, I feel around for something sharp. Scissors. A letter opener. A damn ballpoint pen, for that matter.
“Gross?” Lance sputters. “You’re calling megross?”
“Ry,” Charlie hisses. “Thedoor.”
Turning my attention away from Lance and Hanna for a second, I follow Charlie’s gaze to the door. At first, I don’t see anything. But a moment later, I notice the doorknob twisting. Only a little, not like it’s being opened, but as if someone’s trying to pick it.
Relief surges. But right on its heels comes alarm.
It could be my teammates, back early from their trip.
Or it could be Lance’s accomplice, here to help him finish the job.
“Gross?” Lance repeats. His voice pitches up. “You’re calling me gross? Andsmelly?”
My fingers curve around the handle of something hard and smooth. A beat later, I realize what it is.
A letter opener.
We never use it, preferring to rip the envelopes open when we get them. But we still keep one in here, just in case we ever need it.“You never know when you might need a handy weapon,”Zane explained as he added the letter opener to the collection of pens and pencils.“After all, you can never be too prepared.”
We laughed at him back then. But I’m not laughing now.
“You tried to kill me,” Hanna retorts. “And you’re worried about me calling you gross?”
“You bitch!” Lance snarls. He lunges at her again with both hands outstretched.
At the same time, I grab hold of the letter opener and push up from my chair.
“Forrester!” I bellow.
He freezes mid-lunge and spins to face me. Shock jerks his face. “What? How?”
Rage burns through my veins. “Don’t youdaretouch her again.”
Then I fling the letter opener at him, channeling the hours of practice I’ve done over the years. My injured arm screams from the movement, but I pay it no mind. All that matters is my aim landing true.
And a second later, it does.
The letter opener buries deep into his shoulder, dangerously close to his axillary artery. If I hit it, he’ll bleed out in minutes, and right now, I’d be fine with it.
The fucker hurt Georgia. He tried to kill Hanna. He scared my wife and son.
Oh, and the piece of shit shot me.
So, no, I don’t care if I kill him.
Lance stares at the metal stuck in his shoulder. Blood is already soaking his sleeve. He turns ghostly-pale. Then he howls, “My arm! You stabbed me!”
I’m already racing towards him, my attention focused on the gun still dangling from his hand. In his shock, he hasn’t thought to use it, but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.
On the floor, Hanna’s trying to wriggle away from him. But with her hands trapped beneath the chair, she’s stuck.
