Page 148 of Missile Strike

About an inch. Good enough.

Leaning against the furniture, she planted her feet and pushed upward.

Too fast.

She stumbled, throwing herself against the wall of wood to keep from face-planting on the concrete. For a second, she just breathed, willing the slow, steady inhales through her nose to calm her runaway pulse. Then she straightened. Leaned forward just enough to clear her arms from the back of the chair.

Hands into fists, knuckles together. Bend at the knees.

She raised her arms as high as her shoulders would permit, then slammed her hands against her lower back.

The tear lengthened.

She did it again.

Then again.

On her fourth attempt, her hands shot past her hips.

She hit the floor. The chair—still attached to her legs—came with her. Pain exploded through her knees and wrists.

When the waves ebbed enough for her to focus on something else, she tore off the tape covering her mouth. The air made it all the way to the bottom of her lungs, leaving her lightheaded.

Once her vision cleared, she reached back, tearing at the remaining tape with desperate hands until she freed her legs.

How much time had passed? Talia would be back soon.

Her gaze raked her prison. Stacked boxes, furniture, lamps, traditional paintings with gilded frames. The rug looked Persian. None of this was Talia’s taste.

Pins and needles attacked her calves and feet when she tried to stand. She bit her lip to stifle her groans.

Freedom. Just beyond a stack of boxes.

Weapon or escape? Other than a pair of heavy brass lamps, she found nothing within easy reach.

Escape.

The corrugated metal door screeched as she forced it up. The sound echoed down the empty corridor.

Isabella cringed. Too loud.

Harsh white overhead lights flicked on. High ceilings. White corridor. Concrete floor.

Her gaze swept, taking in the corridor’s length, the gaps where another hall intersected the lone line of yellow doors.

Which one would get her out of here?

An elevator chimed somewhere in the distance.

Her knees locked at the sound.

Talia.

She’d returned.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Less than an hour after landing in Charlotte, Danny sped along the interstate toward Bella’s townhome as dawn shot tendrils of blazing orange over the horizon. He hadn’t slept on the overnight flight from Phoenix. How could he? All he could think about was Bella. What she was going through.