by LENA DIAZ,
The bedroom was much the same as the rest. Bars on the lone small window. An empty closet. No bed, just a mattress lying on the floor. It looked new, thankfully. Not the one that had been here two years ago.
He paused in the tiny hallway outside the bedroom. As run-down as the place was, maybe they could push through a wall like Teagan had teased about earlier. He doubted it, but he sent her off to look for weaknesses in the walls while he returned to the kitchen corner of the main room. With her distracted, he leaned down to study the two-burner gas stove.
It had caught his attention earlier as he’d considered what he could do given the lit pilot light and the fact that the gas line ran through the wall to a propane tank on the outside. Filling the cabin with gas and causing an explosion would likely burn the dry-rotted cabin like kindling. And the fire could be seen for miles around. It would get first responders out here for sure. But being blown apart in the explosion or burning alive were both wholly unappealing.
“What are you looking at?” she asked.
“Nothing helpful. I’m going to check the bedroom again. Did you find any weaknesses in the walls?”
She followed him as he limped into the bedroom.
“No. But I’m no expert at building construction. And it’s still so dark in here that I might have missed something. Unless you want more baseboards.”
He straightened from his study of the wood beneath the window where he’d been hoping moisture might have rotted out the frame. “Baseboards. That’s what you handed me to use as a hammer. Where did you find it?”
She pointed toward the closet. “In there. The board was broken already so I was able to kick out that piece I gave you.” She rubbed her hands up and down her arms. “He’ll be back soon, won’t he?”
The wobble in her voice had him longing to hold her, to try to comfort her. Instead, he dropped to his knees to study the baseboards, grimacing at the jolt of pain that sizzled through his hip.
“You didn’t finish telling me how you got away.” He felt along the bottom of the closet as she talked behind him, telling him how her captor had missed the vein the last time when he’d tried to drug her.
“He was going on one of his supply trips,” she said. “The injection made me groggy but didn’t knock me out like usual. I pretended to be unconscious. After he left I shoved the blindfold up and used my teeth to loosen my bindings and got myself untied. The old front door was mostly rotten so I kicked it until it split away from the frame. Then I took off. Nothing amazing. I just ran until I couldn’t. Then I walked. Then I crawled. A hiker found me several days later. Not that any of that matters. Our situation is different. We’re good and stuck here.”
He tugged on the board he’d been testing, pulling as hard as he could. It broke in half with a loud crack.
She jumped beside him. “What was that?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “The walls might be solid. But the floor isn’t. Those baseboards came out easily for you because the whole floor in this section has been eaten up with termites.” He waved toward a foot-long, four-inch-wide hole he’d made in the floor. “That’s dirt down there. The crawl space under the cabin. This is how we’re going to get out.”
She was shaking her head before he finished. “No, Bryson. That’s not the sound I heard. There was something else, out front.”
He lurched to his feet, then limped as fast as he could into the main room. She ran after him and they both stumbled to a halt when they saw the headlights bouncing crazily across the trees. A vehicle was coming up the gravel road toward the shack.
They were out of time.
Chapter Seventeen
Teagan watched the lights bouncing across the trees. The road faced those trees but ran perpendicular to the front of the shack. They wouldn’t be able to see the truck until it made the last turn and pulled up. But there was no reason for anyone else to come down this road. The killer was back. And when he came inside and saw they were out of their handcuffs, he’d cuff them again. Then he’d make a circuit of the shack and find the small hole that Bryson had started. He’d decide Bryson was too big a liability to keep around. He’d kill him for sure.
And then he’d come for her.
“Kill me, Bryson.” She grabbed his arm. “Please. I can’t do this again. Choke me. Hit me over the head. Something. It will be a mercy killing. Please.”
He shook her hand off his arm. “This isn’t over. You hear me? Don’t you dare give up.” He pointed to the couch. “We have to block the door. As small as this room is, we should be able to jam one end against the wall and the other against the door. He won’t be able to get inside.”
She looked from the lights outside to the couch and back again. “We’d just be delaying the inevitable. What’s the point? I have a better idea. I’ll make him so angry he has to shoot me. Then at least I won’t have to bear his touch again.”
He yanked her around to face him as the sound of gravel crunching beneath tires echoed outside. “All we have to do is break three or four more boards in that closet and we’re out of here. But we have to buy some time. Help me get this couch into place.” He grabbed her arm and tugged her away from the door as the headlights turned toward the shack.
“Grab that other end,” he yelled. “We’ll have to slide it past the hallway to turn it. Hurry.”
She ran to the other end and together they slid the couch across the floor.
“It’s clear,” he said. “Now, turn it, turn it. This end toward the door.”
They slid the couch sideways, one end facing the door, the other the hallway.
“He’s here! He’s here,” she yelled. The truck had parked in front of the cabin.
“Slide it back. We have to wedge it between the wall and the door. Hurry!”
She pushed her end but couldn’t get it against the wall. “It’s too long. It won’t fit. He’ll be able to push the door and the couch will slide down the hall.”
The engine cut off outside. A loud creak sounded. The truck door opening?
She started to shake. “Oh, God. He’s here.”
Bryson leaped over the back of the couch, stumbling and nearly falling before catching himself. Then he limped to her end. He bent down and somehow lifted the couch in spite of his bad hip, his face turning red as he shoved the couch up in the air. Then he dropped it against the wall just past the hallway opening. It fell down, but stuck with another foot to go. She didn’t see how it would hold. When the killer pushed the door, if he pushed hard enough, the couch would slide up the wall and he’d still be able to get inside.
Bryson must have thought the same thing because he climbed onto the end of the couch that was against the wall and hopped up and down, one-legged, favoring his hip. He jumped again, and again. The couch springs squeaked in protest. Then it dropped down into place, wedged tight.
Keys rattled outside. “Hey, what are you doing in there?”
Bryson grabbed her arm and tugged her toward the hallway. “Go, go, go.”
“Open the door!” The gunman pounded against it, his voice thick with rage.
Once they were inside the bedroom, Bryson released her and limped into the closet. Jamming his bad hip against the wall to keep his balance, he slammed his right heel down on the boards beside the hole, over and over. Wood crunched beneath his boot, dropping below. But the hole wasn’t large enough for them to get through. Not even close.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
Teagan jerked around as bullets burst through the wall from the front of the shack and plowed through the opposite wall, throwing splinters up in front of her face.
“Down, get down!” Bryson tackled her to the mattress on the floor behind her.
More shots exploded through the wall, right where she’d been standing. She buried her head against his neck as he covered her with his body.
The front door rattled, fol
lowed by furious cursing and shouting. Then, nothing. Silence fell over the shack like a heavy blanket, except for the sound of their breathing and the blood rushing in her ears.
“What’s he doing now,” she whispered. “Where is he?”
He lifted off her and held a finger against his lips, telling her to be quiet.
She nodded to let him know she understood.
A thump sounded outside. Bryson grabbed her, stumbling and limping as he pulled her into the corner away from the window. Moments later, a flashlight shone through the glass. They both scrunched up against the wall, watching the light as it moved around the room. Then it stopped, shining directly on the hole in the closet floor. The light flicked off.
“Oh, no,” she whispered.
He swore softly. Then he pressed his fingers to his lips again, and edged to the window to peer out.
A thump sounded from somewhere beneath them.
She covered her mouth to keep from screaming.
He grabbed her, pushing her in front of him toward the door, motioning for her to be as quiet as possible. He was obviously struggling to keep up, his unbalanced gait evidence of just how badly his hip must be hurting. But they made it to the hall, then hurried into the main room.
He limped to the door and tugged the handle. It moved just enough to prove it wasn’t locked. But there was no way to open it with the couch against it. He motioned for her to put her hand on the knob, then bent down next to her ear. “When I lift the couch, run like hell. Get out of here. Run to the woods and don’t stop for anything.”
“What about you? You can’t run.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“Bryson, I can’t leave you—”
The sound of wood splintering in the other room was followed by a guttural yell. “You’re dead, you hear me? I’m going to kill both of you!”
Shots rang out. Glass shattered. He must have shot out the window.
“He’ll be through that floor soon. I need you to run. I need to know you’re safe. Then I’ll run a different way and hide. Our best chance is to split up. Promise me you’ll run and won’t look back. Promise!”
More wood splintered in the other room.
“Promise me.” He lightly shook her.
“Okay, okay. Promise.”
Bracing his left side against the door, he grabbed the bottom of the couch and pulled and tugged, wrestling to get it to move after being wedged in so tight.
A shot rang out.
She ducked, then looked at Bryson, who’d frozen in place. “Are you okay?”
His mouth tight, he nodded. “Get ready. Remember what I said. Run as fast as you can. Don’t stop for anything.”
She nodded and tightened her hand on the doorknob.
He heaved again. The couch finally jerked free and seemed to practically fly upward and over on its side, out of the way. As soon as it cleared the door, she tugged it open and ran. She ran as if the hounds of hell were on her heels, because that’s exactly what it felt like. She didn’t stop until she reached the far end of the clearing. Even though she’d promised not to stop, she did. She had to make sure he was okay. Ducking behind a pine tree, she peered around it at the shack. The front door was hanging open and the headlights didn’t reveal anyone inside. He’d made it. He’d gotten out.
She turned and ran.
* * *
AS SOON AS Teagan took off running, Bryson dropped to his knees, grimacing as he scooted himself back against the wall, tucked between the door and the stove. He hadn’t lied to her, not at first anyway. He’d thought he could run, or at least limp really fast. With a head start, he would have had a chance. But then things had changed. He slid his hand inside his suit jacket. It came away sticky and wet. That last bullet had hit its mark. He wiped the blood on his pant leg and closed his eyes.
Another shout of rage sounded from the bedroom. The man sure had an anger problem. Bryson wondered what he did for a living, because it would be really hard to hide that type of a temper in a nine-to-five office job. Something or someone would be bound to set him off. Whatever he did, it would be a solo kind of job. He’d have the freedom to set his own hours so he wouldn’t be missed for weeks at a time when he was on a sociopathic spree. He’d have made an interesting profile.
A series of loud thumps and cursing echoed from the back room. The gunman was finally breaking through the floor.
Bryson coughed and blood sprayed out of his mouth. Not a good sign. Darkness was closing in on the edges of his vision again. He shook his head to stay awake. He still had one more thing that he had to do. Step one had been to get out of the handcuffs. Step two was to get Teagan out of the shack to safety. Step three was still to come. He had to ensure that first responders came out here to help her so she wouldn’t die in those woods. And at this point, there was only one way he knew to do that.
He slid his hand behind the stove beside him, then yanked hard on the gas line. Like most things in this shack, it was old and brittle and much easier to pull loose than he’d expected. Finally something was going his way.
“I’m coming for you now!” the killer yelled from the other room. Shoes stomped on the hardwood floor and a hulking dark shape appeared in the hallway. Dawn was finally breaking on the little glade in the woods. And the first rays of sunlight shone through the door, glinting on the pistol in the other man’s hand.
He narrowed his eyes at Bryson, his face red with anger and exertion. He looked left and right, not that he needed to in such a small space. One glance could clearly show that they were alone.
“Where is she?” He lifted his gun, aiming it at Bryson. “Tell me right now or I’ll shoot.”
Bryson smiled and held up the gas line, which was hissing and spewing out foul-smelling propane. “She’s gone. Go ahead and shoot me. The flare from the muzzle will take us both out. And Teagan will never have to be afraid of you ever again, you scum-sucking, piece of human excrement. You’re not even fit to lick the bottom of her shoes, pervert.”
The other man’s gun started shaking. His face was so bright red it looked like he would have a stroke at any moment.
As gas continued to fill the room, Bryson piled on more insults, trying to prod the killer’s temper so he’d shoot. He wanted him to shoot. Because Teagan would be safe. She could finally live the life she deserved, without fear. And the explosion would bring the help she’d need to make it back to civilization.
“You stupid cop.”
“Is that the worst you can think to say? Really?” Bryson clucked his tongue. “You’re dumber than I gave you credit.”
He roared with rage, then strode across the room toward Bryson and shoved the gun against his temple. But when he glanced at the gas line, he swore. He tossed a few more curses Bryson’s way, then yanked open the door and headed outside.
Bryson swore a few choice curses himself. He hadn’t defeated the devil after all. But he’d get the help Teagan needed. Of that he was sure. As soon as the gunman was far enough from the cabin to feel safe, he’d shoot that propane tank. He was too mad not to. The explosion would be spectacular. Half the firefighters and cops in the county would be here in minutes.
“Bryson, what are you doing?”
His eyes flew open. Teagan was running toward him from the hallway. “What the hell? The place is full of gas and he’s going to—”
“Shoot the propane tank, I’m guessing? Was that your stupid plan?” She put her hands beneath his shoulders and hauled upward. “Help me. Hurry.”
He swore a blue streak and drew on reserves of strength he never knew he had to push to his feet.
“Go, go, go,” she yelled, repeating his earlier words to her.
They hobbled into the bedroom and she hopped down into the hole. He winced as he tried to lower himself, then gave up and went headfirst. She was reaching back to help him, but he shoved h
er toward the patch of sunlight just a few feet away. She hurried forward and he half-scrambled, half-crawled after her.
Out front, the truck engine started up. Tires crunched and the engine roared as he drove away from the cabin.
They cleared the structure, him leaning heavily on her once again as they stumbled toward the tree line. Just past the first stand of trees, palmettos viciously scraped their flesh.
“Down,” he yelled. “Over here!” He yanked her behind a fallen tree log and rolled on top of her.
A shot sounded. The shack exploded, turning the clearing into a fiery inferno.
Chapter Eighteen
Teagan restlessly paced the hospital conference room. From the exasperated looks on the faces of most of the men sitting at the table, she knew they were getting tired of her jumping out of her chair. But she was too nervous, too freaking scared about what was going on with Bryson that she couldn’t sit still for more than a few minutes.
“Ms. Ray,” one of the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office detectives called out to her.
Which one was he? Burns, Rodriquez, Bunting? The names of the other two sitting at the long table had been forgotten right after they’d introduced themselves. How many detectives did it take to question one lone abduction victim? How many did it take to change a stupid light bulb?
“Ms. Ray,” he called out again.
Burns. That was his name.
He motioned toward the other side of the table. “Will you please sit and answer some more questions?”
Five against one. JSO on one side, her on the other. Not that they were enemies, exactly. But their lack of interest, or ability, to solve her abduction and torture two years ago didn’t make her much of a fan now. The only reason she was talking to them was because Bryson was in surgery after being life-flighted from Live Oak to the trauma unit at UF Health Shands Hospital here in Jacksonville.
It had nearly killed her watching the helicopter disappear in the sky with him on board. And she’d hated being stuck with a Florida Highway Patrolman as her assigned bodyguard, wasting time making her get checked out at a local Live Oak emergency room. When the doctors there confirmed what she’d said all along—that she was fine—the patrolman had finally taken off down Interstate 10 to drive her to Jacksonville. They’d arrived two hours ago, and she still didn’t have an update on Bryson’s condition other than that he was in surgery.