Page 9
My mind is made up. Whatever happens, happens. It’s a shame. She seems like a decent person, if lacking restraint.
And she’s going to die because you couldn’t be bothered to get out of bed and at least try to help her.
Fuck it. Fuck all this. Any chance of sleep has left the building by now, and all I have ahead of me is a night full of staring at the ceiling and remembering the weight of a stranger’s head on my shoulder.
I can’t believe I’m getting dressed, in black jeans and a T-shirt. I can’t believe I’m allowing myself to walk into an obvious trap, all for someone whose name I never learned.
Yet that’s exactly what I do before getting in the car, cursing under my breath for suddenly caring about someone who isn’t paying my bills. The night is still and starry, and at least the roads are fairly empty at this time. Tapping on the location pin brings up my phone’s map app, which I allow to direct me on my way.
The entire time, I curse myself for being an idiot. It’s too late now. There’s no turning back. If I couldn’t live with abandoning her before, I’d never forgive myself for turning back once I’ve already driven several miles in her direction.
The house is in the middle of nowhere. I sort of pick up on that fact once civilization falls away, leaving me on pitch-black roads where, on occasion, the eyes of various nighttime critters glow at me from either side. Probably asking themselves what kind of moron comes out here at this time of night.
“Your destination is on the right.” At that announcement, I cut my headlights, spotting a small building with a tin roof that gleams under a half-moon. So that’s where she is, or was. She might not be there anymore, for all I know. If they even brought her to the spot where they want to ambush me. Reaching into the glove box, I withdraw my Glock and check to make sure it’s loaded before tucking it into my waistband.
On second thought, I’ll hold it. Can’t be too careful.
And it’s that concern over caution that makes me walk slowly, scanning the area around me. It’s not until I close in on the house—dark, quiet—that I notice the trip wire strung across the front door. Slowly, I follow it, more out of curiosity than anything. What am I working against here? The wire is attached to what looks like a crudely made explosive device.
Amateur. I disconnect the wire and remove the blasting cap before continuing on around the house, where another such device has been left by the back door. Is he here, or has he left? Obviously, he expects me to blow my ass to pieces. He wouldn’t want to be in the house when that happened. But there’s more of a chance that she is—so he could dispose of us both at once and save the hassle.
Since the doors are locked, my only option is kicking them in or entering through a window. After some deliberation, I choose a window, since the chances are higher there could be another trap waiting for me on the other side of a door.
After breaking the glass with the butt of my gun and disabling the lock, I shove the window open and hoist myself through silently, my ears peeled for any sounds. Rolling onto the hard, cold floor, I hold my breath. No one comes out to investigate the shattering sound of the broken glass. There are no shouts or muffled screams either—something tells me she’s a screamer. Some people you just get a feeling about. I hope to hell she’s still alive as I search the house, Glock at the ready, taking careful steps as I travel deeper into darkness.
A series of closed doors greets me. The first leads into an empty bathroom.
Forcing the next door open reveals a bedroom.
And a certain blonde who gasps dramatically not once, but twice. First, there’s my sudden presence. Then there’s the recognition that follows. “You!” she whispers.
And it was inevitable, wasn’t it?
“You came . . . You’re rescuing me, aren’t you?”
Fuck my life. It’s a shame he didn’t gag her after zip-tying her wrists. “Where is he?” I whisper as I approach the bed, waiting for him to spring from a closet.
“How the hell would I know? He’s not exactly great company.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
“Do you see a clock around here? I literally have no idea. I’ve been lying here on this bed, and my hands are numb, and I’m completely screwed. And I don’t even know why!”
If he’s slightly intelligent, he left her here rather than put himself through the torture of listening to her nonstop chattering. “All right, all right. Be quiet so I can think. Can you handle that?” I peer down the hallway, scanning the darkness for any sign of him. Where did he go? Where is he waiting? He has to be around here somewhere.
Unless . . .
The explosion blows the window inward and knocks me off my feet, sending me sprawling across the bed and across the legs of the girl who is now screaming bloody murder. “Oh my God! What was that?”
“What do you think it was?” This was the trap. He left so he wouldn’t be caught in the explosion. He rigged it somewhere outside, close enough that the curtains on the window now catch fire.
She shrieks, eyes wide as saucers and filling with tears. “We have to get out of here!”
No shit, Sherlock. The room is halfway to being engulfed by the time I throw her over my shoulder. Already, thick smoke is making me cough, and I run out into the hall for self-preservation’s sake, if nothing else.
Flames shoot out from inside the next room, and when I turn to retrace my steps, even the plastic shower curtain in the bathroom is melting. Whatever he set up, he was thorough. The house is already nearly engulfed, and the heat is mind-blowing, flames making it difficult to find an exit.
“We have to get out of here!” She’s nothing if not consistent with these pearls of wisdom. My only option is leaving through the back door—the kitchen is still only partly engulfed, though that’s changing fast as flames lick the wood floor, the table, the cabinets. I can only hope he wasn’t lurking outside, determined to rearm the C-4. Would he take that risk?
