Page 44 of Break Out the Girl

“Fingers crossed,” I say, standing up. “Let’s move.”

We burst out of the shed, leaving the ticking time bomb behind us, and sprint toward the cliff path.

Descending the sharp, jagged shale and slick, moss-covered boulders is brutal. The fog is fully back, making the drops invisible.

I lead the way, guiding Rory down the steepest ledges. London holds the rear, his hooves clicking nimbly over the rocks. But I realize Basil is barefoot, his feet getting cut to shreds. I offer to carry him but he tells me to ‘fuck off, perv’.

But halfway down the rock face, his foot catches on a loose wedge of slate.

“Whoa—!” He lets out a cry as he tumbles backward, rolling hard over the jagged rocks before slamming into a thick clump of gorse bushes. The iron radiator pipe clatters out of his hand, bouncing down into the surf below.

“Basil!” Aurora gasps, trying to scramble down toward him, but I catch her arm.

“I’ve got him. Keep moving to the shelf.”

I drop down the ledge, landing heavily beside the kid.

Basil is sitting in the dirt, his face pale underneath the mud and grime. His hands are clutching his left ankle, which is already swelling. He’s cussing up a storm—vicious, foul words that should never come out of a kid’s mouth—but his eyes are brimming with hot, angry tears.

Yeah, I know that look.

He’s furious that he’s crying, and slams his fist into the dirt in pure frustration.

My heart hurts for him. He looks so small right now; a child who has been through too much.

“Get away from me,” Basil chokes out, his voice cracking as he tries to wipe his face with a filthy sleeve. “I can walk. Don't touch me.”

I don’t argue with him, just reach down, slide my arms under his knees and shoulders, and hoist his scrawny frame effortlessly against my chest. He stiffens, his fingers instantly gripping my flannel shirt. “I’m fine,” he growls, at the same time as shivers wrack his malnourished body.

“Shut up, Basil,” I mutter softly, keeping my stride steady as I carry him down the final stretch of the rocks. “You don’t have to play the hard-ass with me.”

He scowls but doesn’t reply.

Better.

The Sadie-Mae is bobbing in the surf, her lines taut against the anchor as the tide has come in during the last couple of hours. Basil’s slight body goes rigid.

“A boat?” he croaks.

“How else did you think we’d be leaving here, kid?”

“I don’t like boats,” he mumbles. “They… they take you to the bad places. They don't bring you back.” His breathing quickens as we get closer to the dark water.

Fuck. There is no time for a freak out.

I’m not sure what to do but then London’s voice cuts in. “Listen to me, little captain!” He slides down the final rock, landing in the foam next to us. “The Sadie-Mae doesn’t do bad trips, not like that blotting paper I ate once. We’re setting sail for freedom, young Fuckwad, so perk up. If you’re a good boy, I’ll let you steer the rudder. Only the very best people can do that.”

London's chaotic charm seems to snap the kid right out of the spiral. Basil blinks. “Weirdo,” he mutters, but the terror leaves his eyes.

I hand him up to London, who hauls him aboard, tucking him safely next to Aurora. François is already at the bow, heaving up the anchor line with heavy, fluid pulls.

THOOM.

An explosion rattles the teeth in my jaw, echoing from the top of the cliffs.

We all look up. Billowing plumes of black smoke pour into the sky, followed instantly by the high-pitched, echoing scream of the estate's emergency sirens. In the distance, I pick up faint, chaotic shouting of guards.

“Anchor’s free!” François calls out over the roar of the surf.