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Forty-One
Sarah held a huddled position next to the freezer’s door, as far from the shelves of frozen goods at the back where the temperature was perceptibly colder. Her breaths puffed in thick clouds around her, and the icy air made each of those breaths sting, each inhalation a testament to her new goal of staying alive as long as possible.
If only she hadn’t left her phone in its hiding place under the bar’s counter. Stupid woman.
Then again, she’d never tested the reception inside the freezer, so maybe the thick metal walls would block her from calling for help. Though, at least having a phone could have told her how long she’d been locked in here, or maybe she might have found some game on the device. Something to distract from the pain of wearing little more than a white work shirt and black jeans. She was cold, so very cold. And the psychotic man who’d shoved her in here likely waited just outside. So really, she was doomed no matter what she did.
How long could a person survive sub-zero temperatures like this? Was she here because of Dean? Had his past come looking for him and claimed her too? Maybe the guy outside intended to use her as a bargaining chip to get him. Or maybe they’d just slowly torture her to torture him…
She slammed her eyes shut at that thought and tapped her forehead against her bent knees. Chances were, the guy who’d shoved her in here, just like her, didn’t know how long she’d stay alive in this freezer. He just trusted luck that when he finally did open this door, she wouldn’t fall out in the form of a human popsicle.
An icy cracking sound came from one of the food products on a shelf, once again reminding her of where she was and the harsh conditions that would likely claim her. A tear trickled down her cheek. She’d planned to upgrade the freezer. To get one with an internal safety release so that getting trapped inside would be impossible. But things like that weren’t a huge priority among all the other costs of running the bar. She’d simply never gotten around to it.
Did a different freezer even matter, though? If she didn’t die from hyperthermia, the freak outside would have gotten her some other way.
She used her sleeve to wipe her tears. Extra moisture was the last thing she needed in these icy conditions, and why she didn’t jump on the spot to keep warm. Growing up in Minnesota, she’d learned a few things about handling the cold, like that people could die simply from perspiration speeding up the freezing process…
Freezing process?
Oh hell. This was really happening.
A panicked sob wrenched up her throat, just as a new and terrifying thought struck her.
What if the man outside had nothing to do with Dean?
What if this was just a run-of-the-mill robbery?
One where the guy who’d put her in here had already left?
She turned around, her knees digging into the unforgiving concrete, as she slammed her fists against the hard metal door. The dull thunk confirmed its immovable hold and for what felt like the hundredth time, she cried out.
First came anger, that someone could be so callous with her life. Next came hopelessness, a drowning emotion that left her sagging against the door, her forehead tipped to the glacial steel as more tears came. Within this echoey and bleak chamber came the realization that she really did have nothing left to do now but wait to die.
Dean pushed against Maynard’s back door, only slightly relieved that, unlike the front, this one moved. If one of Luciano’s cronies waited inside, a new one at that—there was no knowing how the next few minutes would play out, and he needed a silent entry.
Gun in hand and positioned to use, he nudged the door a fraction wider, the hinges creaking and forcing him to hold still. A first glance inside revealed a man pacing the kitchen, his back turned and his black leather jacket marking him as not someone from around Harlow.
The man began to turn, and Dean’s heart beat pounded loud in his ears. Maybe the guy had heard the hinges creak because he lifted his hand, his fingers curled around the grip of a gun. Dean didn’t think. Didn’t need to. He aimed and shot.
The air filled with an explosion, followed by a crimson mist.
“Ahh. Fuck!” The crony clutched at his upper arm and swung around fully.
His dark stare hit Dean, his face scrunched in angry pain. “What the hell did you do that for?”
Dean lowered his weapon, his muscles suddenly weak. “Ramos?”
Adrian Ramos pulled his palm away from his arm, his hand covered in blood. “Thank fuck you’re a shit shot, Holloway.”
Dean strolled in and peered around the room. “Anyone else here?”
Ramos shook his head, striding toward a roll of paper towel on a bench. Meanwhile, Dean clapped his friend on the back, his form of an unspoken apology.
As bad as he felt about shooting the guy, Ramos would survive, and the wound was nothing more than a deep graze. They both knew the shot could have ended a whole lot worse, one major positive in the whole shit-show that had followed Dean to Harlow. “You’re Luciano’s newbie?”
Ramos pressed a ball of paper towel to his shoulder and nodded. “How else do you think I got that warning to you? Getting hired was the best way to keep track on his vendetta against you, and I figured, with you gone, the low-life scumbag would jump at extra help. Hell, I even lied about being a private detective and a cold-blooded killer to get the gig, and it’s just blind fucking luck I could wrangle my way into this job. So, I’d say I deserve more than a freakin’ bullet in the shoulder for my trouble, don’t you?”
“I’d offer to shout you a beer sometime, but I think, at the moment, I’m about as unwelcome in this bar as you are.” Dean pulled his attention from Ramos and onto the freezer. “Is she really in there?”
