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“Ten million?” He winced. “That’s a lot of money. And why is she making you out to be the bad guy in all of this?”
“My cover is blown. She wants to make damn sure the Coltons won’t want to rescue me. She even said something about making me be the first one to die.”
Heart racing, he cursed. “We’ve got to get you out of here.”
“My ankle is broken,” she said, her voice steady, which made him love her even more. “They won’t let me have any medical attention, so even if I could unlock this cell door and crawl my way up the stairs, I’d be moving so slow even a grandmother with a walker could catch me. I’m pretty sure escaping is out of the question.”
“Then what?” he asked. “What’s the plan?”
“I don’t have one,” she finally admitted. “Of course, I’d love it if the FBI magically realized I was in trouble, but honestly, by the time that happens, it will be too late. The Gathering for Rebirth is Friday.”
“How many days?” he asked.
“Two.”
“Two days?” Horrified, he tried to push past the mind fog from whatever drug they’d given him.
“Yes. And they’ve got something like seventy-five people signed up. My only hope is Leigh. She came down here to question me after Micheline. Leigh’s gullible and a bit naive. I pushed her to really think about what she was doing. Though she still denies that she’s involved in a cult, I’m hoping she’ll take a long look at what’s going on and figure it out.”
In another cell, someone started to laugh, a raspy, wheezing sound that quickly turned into a breath-choking cough.
“That’s Underhill,” Fiona explained. “The guy who was beating up the college student. Apparently, Micheline locked him up here and he got sick.”
“Really sick,” Underhill clarified, in between bouts of gasping for air. “I think I have pneumonia. In fact, I’ll probably be dead before she even gets a chance to force me to drink her poison.”
“I believe him,” Fiona said quietly. “He sounds pretty ill. And that poor woman in the back cell. I wouldn’t be surprised if she isn’t already gone.”
Jake felt in his pants pockets. No phone. Of course they’d taken it.
“There’s no cell service down here anyway,” Fiona said when he told her. “Believe me, I tried. If I could have called out, the FBI would already be storming the place.”
Still trying to clear the last of the cobwebs from his brain, he thought for a moment. “There’s got to be a way out of here,” he finally said, wondering why he seemed to be slurring his words. “We’ve simply got to come up with a plan.”
Fiona didn’t respond. He could guess what she must be thinking. They were both injured, and even if they could figure out a way to unlock their cells, they wouldn’t get very far.
While he knew Fiona well enough to know she’d put up a hell of a fight when they came for her, that broken ankle would hinder her abilities.
A wave of dizziness hit him, so strong he had to close his eyes and lower his head in case he passed out.
He must have briefly lost consciousness, because the next thing he heard was Fiona’s voice, once again calling his name. He tried opening his mouth to answer, but he couldn’t get his vocal cords to respond. Instead he found himself sliding back to the dark oblivion. He wanted to fight but didn’t seem to be able to summon up enough strength.
* * *
Despite Jake’s worrying lack of response to her requests for him to answer her, Fiona refused to give up hope. Most likely, whatever drugs they’d injected into Jake were causing his lapses from consciousness. She refused to consider the very real possibility that the severity of his head injury might be the cause. She knew head wounds were prone to bleeding a lot, so Jake’s definitely could have looked worse than it actually was.
They were in dire straits, but she had to believe they’d make it out. She wasn’t about to die, not now, especially not at the hand of a narcissistic psychopath like Micheline. Holden would try to reach her and when he couldn’t, realize something was wrong.
Time locked up in her cell passed slowly, but her best guesstimate would be that at least one day had passed since they’d brought back an unconscious Jake. He seemed lucid now, though he still slept a lot, which worried her. From what she’d been able to see, he’d received some sort of head injury, and with a lack of any real competent medical attention, that could go south fast.
At least her ankle had stopped swelling, though the pain remained at an eight out of ten. She could only hope moving around on the broken bone didn’t make it worse, but since she had little choice, she kept it off the floor as much as she could.
At least Micheline had put little toilets and sinks in the corner of each cell. Trying not to think of what might be on the floor, Fiona crawled back there only when strictly necessary. Mostly, she lay with her back to the wall, facing the front of her cell, so she could at least be ready whenever they came for her.
As if she’d summoned someone, the door finally opened. Luckily, it was Randall rather than Bart. As usual, he seemed awkward and uncomfortable, barely able to make even the smallest bit of eye contact.
“T-minus twenty-seven,” he announced to no one in particular.
Twenty-seven what? Hours?
