Page 112 of Playing With Love

More doors slammed.

My finger put pressure on the trigger. The need to shoot was near overwhelming. But if Tucker was still alive I needed to get him out.

Fire.

Tires screeched.

I had to get to Tucker.

As soon as I saw the taillights on the main road I gave up my cover, ran full speed to the coffee shop, and yanked on the door.

Locked.

I looked around for something to break the window.

Nothing.

Think, Liza, think!

I ran back to the hedgerow, grabbed the two biggest rocks I could find, and ran back. I threw the first one as hard as I could. It ricocheted off, barely making a crack.

Slow is fast. Fast is slow.

I blew out a breath. Focused and threw the second rock. A spiderweb of cracks appeared. Another deep inhale; with that I braced for the pain and used all of my body weight to slam my shoulder into the glass door. I heard it crack more. I tried again, this time essentially throwing myself at the stupid door. Pain radiated through the right side of my body, my shoulder taking the brunt of the impact, until the glass gave way and I fell through, landing hard on my hip.

I scrambled to get up, glass poking through my jeans, my palms, my forearms—anywhere it touched it cut.

The smell of smoke was getting stronger. No flames, just the haze of smoke that got thicker as I entered the kitchen. The left side of the room had two industrial ranges. All the burners were on, towels, rolls of toilet paper, and cartons of napkins were piled on top. I quickly turned off all the burners, which took time since they were hot as fuck and flames were already licking the ceiling.

“I got this!” I heard Allyson yell from behind me.

Then I heard pots and pans banging together, clattering as they hit the tile floor.

She shouldn’t be in here.

“Ally—”

“I saw them leave so I called nine-one-one. You need to find Tucker before this gets worse.”

She was right.

I turned to the basement door. Smoke rolled out from under it.

The sight of the smoke almost brought me to my knees.

In hindsight, I should’ve grabbed a wet towel to cover my face. Or I should’ve pulled my shirt up over my mouth. But I was so hellbent on getting to Tucker I didn’t do either, which meant by the time I made it down the stairs I was choking on the putrid smell of burning plastic.

Saliva pooled when I saw Tucker’s body tied to a chair. His back was to me, head bent forward at an awkward angle, hands tied behind his back.

The source of the fire was easy to find. Four 3D printers were all burning. Next to them were five-gallon buckets stacked against the wall, the flames getting dangerously close to igniting whatever was in the buckets. There were pressure cookers, beakers, hoses, and mason jars.

Their meth lab.

Not at the compound, at the coffee shop.

“I can’t put it all out!” Allyson yelled from the top of the steps.

“I need a knife!” I yelled back as I attempted to pull the chair and Tucker away from the flames.