by Amy Vansant
“Don’t dally,” called Seamus, comforting a now sobbing Jackie at the back of the pack.
“Just taking a quick peek. I’m right behind you.”
She climbed the ladder and opened the hatch. As soon as her eyes adjusted to the light, she knew Declan hadn’t been exaggerating. They wouldn’t last two minutes in the swampland surrounding this exit.
She was about to descend when gunfire erupted to her left.
Pirro’s men had breached the disco’s door.
It wouldn’t be long before armed men came running down the tunnel. Even if Stephanie could negotiate her release, she probably didn’t have the pull to change all the thugs’ plans. They were still in danger.
To her right, she heard the group yelp with fear and break into a panicked trot.
A final few pops of gunfire echoed from the direction of the disco.
Had they not spared Stephanie?
Without knowing what lay ahead of them, the others would be sitting ducks once Pirro and his men made progress down the tunnel. The ladies weren’t speedy joggers.
I have to do something. Think.
Charlotte’s gaze rose to the hatch.
It’s a longshot...
Scurrying up the ladder, Charlotte hauled herself into the swamp. The mud squished around her flip flops, claiming them as its own the moment she tried to walk.
Balancing the hatch open she decided the easiest direction in which to travel. It seemed more wet to the west. The east had more trees.
West it is.
She mucked her way through the worst of the mud, taking a multitude of steps, back and forth along her own trail, until it appeared a large group had made their way in that direction. She broke every branch and smooshed every reed she could find. She retrieved and tossed her flip flops in that direction.
Returning to the hatch a final time, she stuck her head inside. Voices. She could hear men coming.
There wasn’t any time to lose.
She worked her way east to the trees, covering her tracks with her toes and hands as she went, like a baker smoothing the icing on a cake. The mud seemed eager to help her, swallowing every footprint with the smallest provocation.
Reaching a large, lonely cypress, she ran to its opposite side and put her back against it, panting.
“It’s like a swamp,” said a voice a moment later.
Charlotte caught her breath and then almost immediately had to continue panting quietly through her nose. Her lungs burned.
I really have to work on my stamina.
She peered around the tree and spotted a head sticking from the ground. Pirro’s men had arrived.
There was another voice, muffled. She couldn’t make out what the other person said, but the man above ground replied, “Yeah, I can see the way they went but it’s nasty out here, Pirro.”
Looking miserable, the man climbed from the hole. Two others joined him, including the one with the strange red hair Charlotte had watched shoot his friend.
She could hear her own heartbeat, banging in her ears. She couldn’t believe the men couldn’t hear it.
She peeked again as the men headed west through the muck. One of them rattled off something in Spanish but she only recognized the curse words. They gave her a general idea of the speaker’s frame of mind.
They were pissed.
Charlotte pressed her spine against the tree. Something mosquito-y bit her shoulder and she slapped at it without thinking.
“Ow!”
Oh no.
She froze, wondering how loud she’d been.
The mucking noise of the men’s shoes being swallowed by the mud stopped.
Squatting, she peered around the tree, hoping if they were looking in her direction, they wouldn’t be looking that low.
Six eyes trained on her from the far side of the marsh.
“There!” yelled one, pointing.
Whoops.
The men hollered and launched into a flurry of action, arms flailing, knees rising, hampered by the depth of the mud, sloppily running towards her.
Everything in Charlotte’s body told her to bolt away from them.
Her mind said, ‘no.’
Her mind said, ‘Get in the hole.’
Stupid mind.
It isn’t easy listening to a brain when the rest of the body is screaming for an opposing idea. And it isn’t easy getting a body to do something it doesn’t want to do. But a moment later, Charlotte found herself sprinting toward the men.
They were so stunned they stopped for a moment.
Then they realized she had no weapon.
She was just closer to the open hatch than they were.
Releasing another string of profanities in at least two different languages, they began slopping forward again.
The lead man wrestled to pull a pistol from the waistline of his baggy jeans.
Guns. I forgot about the guns. How did I forget about the guns?
Charlotte faltered. There was nowhere to hide from bullets.
The lead man tripped and fell forward to his knees, sinking his gun deep into the mud as the men behind him fell over him, scrambling to get around their fallen comrade. They hadn’t yet pulled their guns, but now they grabbed for them.
Charlotte silently thanked the lead man’s wet jeans for dragging him into the mud and planting his gun where it couldn’t hurt her.
She dove for the hatch as the first usable gun fired. Sliding like a baseball player through the mud and reeds, she grabbed the edge of the hatch to stop her momentum and swung her legs into the hole. Her instincts told her to skip the ladder and drop to the floor but she knew she had to lock the hatch. As she fell, she grabbed a ladder rung and hung, suspended in mid-air for a moment.
Her wet fingers began to slide off the rung.
Flailing, she found another rung with her feet and grabbed the hatch with her free hand. The men were three feet from her now.
She slammed it shut.
Please, Please let me find the lock.
She’d forgotten closing the hatch would plunge her into total darkness. Panic rose in her chest as her fingers searched for the bolt that would seal the clip.
She’d had to release the bolt to open the hatch on the way out and knew it was hanging from a chain. It banged against her fingers, taunting her. Someone slammed against the hatch. In a moment they would jerk it open, wrenching it from her hands...and probably shoot her in the head.
Another tap on her fingertip by the bolt and then—
Got it.
Her digits encircled the bolt and she slammed it into place. She didn’t know how she found the slot so fast. She imagined the feeling was akin to Luke Skywalker watching his bomb shoot through the Death Star’s thermal exhaust port.
The hatch rattled as someone yanked it. Out in the swamp, the cursing began in earnest.
Charlotte felt her way down the ladder, slipping when a gunshot exploded above her, followed by what sounded like the ringing of a bell. She fell to the ground and covered her head, curled in the fetal position.
Someone screamed. More cursing.
The bullet hadn’t penetrated. If she had to guess, it had ricocheted and hit someone.
A beam of light struck her body, and she jerked, covering her head again, sure the hatch had opened.
They must have found a way to shoot the lock. Stupid idea—
“Charlotte!”
She peered from beneath her arms. Declan ran towards her, flashlight in hand. He knelt beside her.
Dirty and half-covered in shadows, he had never been so gorgeous.
“Are you okay? What happened? Seamus said you were right behind him and then you weren’t.”
Charlotte uncurled and sat up, her hand still on her beating heart. “I’m fine. We should get out from beneath the hatch though, just in case.”
More muffled screaming echoed from above. Someone screamed Freedom! at the top of their lungs. Declan stared up at the rattling hatch.
�
��Who is that and why does he sound like the end of Braveheart?”
“It’s Pirro and his men. They breeched Jackie’s. I heard gunfire and knew they were coming. So I made it look like we went up there.”
“And they followed you?”
She nodded. “I led them one way and hid the other. When they followed what they thought were my tracks I ran back to the hatch and closed it.”
Declan’s mouth gaped. “That was insane. You could have been killed.”
“We would’ve all been killed if they came down the tunnel.”
Declan scooped her up in his arms and pressed her against his chest.
“Charlotte. They have guns. You can’t do things like that.”
“Sorry,” she mumbled, her lips pressed against his neck. He smelled good. Maybe anything smelled good after the methane stench of the swamp.
When he released her she found her eyes had watered either from relief or adrenalin. She sniffed and took a deep, calming breath. “Where are the others?”
“There was a door at the other end that led into a little diner in the middle of nowhere. We opened it and found ourselves staring at empty orange crates.”
“A friendly diner?”
“Seems to be. I guess Louis hadn’t made a move on them yet. They let us call the police.”
Above, the rattling had stopped.
“They quit trying to get in,” said Charlotte.
Declan helped her to her feet. “That means they’re probably on their way back to Jackie’s or the diner, if they know about it.
Charlotte gasped. “Stephanie. Did you call an ambulance?”
He nodded. “I’m sure there are police on their way there as well.”
“Stephanie’s still there.”
“I’m sure she’s long gone. She’ll have talked her way out—”
Charlotte shook her head. “I don’t think so. I heard gunfire.”
Declan frowned. “You follow the tunnel to the diner. The cops will be there any second. I’ll go check on Stephanie.”
Charlotte grabbed a ladder rung to pull herself to her feet. “No way. I’m coming. Let’s go.”
Declan opened his mouth to argue.
“I’m coming,” she repeated, before he could speak.
Declan pointed to the ceiling. “It won’t take those men long to get back to the disco.”
“Yes it will. It’s all swamp up there. It will take them forever to slog back, assuming they’re not eaten by an alligator or a python. We can run. The cops will be at Jackie’s by the time those men get close.”
“What if they left men back at the club?”
Charlotte considered this. “I’ll let you and your gun go in first.”
Declan sighed. “Fine. But stay behind me.”
“Because you’re a big bad soldier?”
“Because I know I’ll never talk you out of going.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Declan poked his head through the wall into Jackie’s bar. Clinging precariously on the ladder behind him, Charlotte strained to get a view of her own.
Declan glanced back at her. “Do you really need to be right behind me? I feel like I’m carrying you up the ladder on my back.”
“Like a fireman.”
“A fireman who carries people into the fire?”
Charlotte knew he had a point so she changed the subject. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Me neither. Un-Velcro yourself from my legs and hang back a second.”
He pulled himself up and climbed through the hole in the wall.
One Mississippi...
Charlotte followed.
Declan crept around the bar, staying low, his gun raised. Now inside, Charlotte could hear a strange, rhythmic wheezing noise.
“What is that?” she whispered.
Declan turned and raised his finger to his lips.
They crept a few more paces forward. The front door of the Disco had been obliterated by something. Presumably, the small pickup truck parked on the threshold. The driver-side door hung open and a man lay on the ground beneath it, unmoving.
As they rounded the bar, a grunting erupted to their right. Declan whipped his gun in the direction of the noise. It was the man who’d first attacked them, still tied to the bar. He must have awakened during all the commotion and now strained against his bindings. He turned, spotting them.
“Let me go!” he roared.
A movement close to the center of the dance floor caught Charlotte’s eye.
Stephanie.
She lay on her back, arm reaching toward them.
Declan glanced once more at the man tied to the bar and ran to Stephanie. Charlotte followed, giving the angry man wide berth as he kicked at her.
Stephanie breathed in short, shallow breaths.
“’Bout time,” she whispered.
A growing red stain marred the front of her shirt. Declan tore it open to find the wound.
Stephanie winced as the fabric ripped. “Burberry.”
“It was stained anyway, there was no way that was going to come out,” said Charlotte, unsure why she felt compelled to make Stephanie feel better about her expensive shirt. Probably, she reasoned, because it would be more difficult to make her feel good about the hole in her chest. It bubbled when Stephanie breathed, little blood spheres growing and popping.
That can’t be good.
Declan frowned. “Her lung collapsed. I need tape. Where did I leave that first aid kit we used to cover your shoulder?
Charlotte squinted, thinking. “Should still be in the kitchen?”
“Okay. Hold your hand over that hole—”
“—we don’t want air getting into the chest cavity,” said Declan and Charlotte in unison.
They looked at each other.
“How do you know that?” asked Charlotte.
“I was trained to treat field wounds like this. How do you know that?”
“I saw it on television.”
“Adorable,” wheezed Stephanie. Her eyes locked with Declan’s and rocked back and forth as if she was using them to point. They both followed her direction and spotted a gun on the ground a few feet away.
Declan nodded. “I’ll be right back with bandages.” He stood, snatching the gun from the ground on his way to search for medical supplies.
Charlotte watched him go. She had so many questions. Did he pick up the gun because Stephanie used it to kill the man in the truck? She wasn’t sure covering for Stephanie was the right move, but the crazy blonde had stayed behind to cover them as they made their escape—
“Hole.”
Charlotte snapped from her thoughts and found Stephanie staring at her.
“Sorry.” She covered the bubbling hole with Stephanie’s shirt and pressed lightly down on it. Stephanie moaned, her eyes screwed tightly shut.
“That’s a really pretty bra,” said Charlotte, wondering how to make small talk when plugging a woman’s lung hole like a little Dutch boy with his finger in the dyke. “Thanks for staying back here. You really didn’t have to.”
“Now...you tell me,” said Stephanie between gasps for air. She kept her eyes closed. Outside, Charlotte heard sirens. Stephanie heard them as well, eyes popping wide.
Charlotte glanced through the destroyed front door. “That’s the ambulance. We called one. Well, Declan did. I was tricking Pirro and his men into getting lost in the swamp. But, yeah. Ambulance. We forgot to tell you there was one coming.”
Stephanie glared at her.
Charlotte smiled, counting the seconds until the EMTs arrived. Less for Stephanie’s discomfort and more for hers.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Dallas held up the playing cards for Ryan to consider using his one good eye. Dallas had long ago tired of beating the older man. Instead, he’d shifted to beating his own boredom by playing five card draw poker with his prisoner.
For comfort, the reedy henchman had agreed to bind Ryan’s hands to the chair arms instead of zip-tying t
hem behind his back. The solution left Ryan still unable to hold his cards, so Dallas splayed the cards like a fan, backs to himself, following each deal.
Ryan considered his hand. “I’ll keep the second, fourth and fifth. Left to right.”
“Your left or my left?”
“Same as last time. My left to right.”
Dallas took a moment to do the calculations, lips moving like a child learning to read. For the life of him, Ryan couldn’t imagine what directional computations the boy employed deciding right from left.
Dallas plucked the cards from Ryan’s hand and pulled two new ones. The boy couldn’t stop grinning. He was the worst poker player Ryan had ever seen.
“Gotta good hand, so you—”
Outside the room, the squawk of a walkie-talkie broke the silence.
Ryan and Dallas froze, staring at each other.
“What was that?” whispered Dallas.
Ryan shrugged. “This is your place.”
The radio quacked again. “43. 10-14 at Elm and Constitution.”
Dallas’s bulging eyes looked like fried eggs with dull brown yolks floating in the center.
“43. 10-6,” replied a man’s voice.
Dallas gasped. “It’s a cop.”
Ryan nodded, straining his neck to catch a better view of their little room. In the corner stood what he guessed was a closet.
“Untie me. We can hide in that closet.”
Dallas grimaced. “Won’t they look in the closet?”
“I’m not sure, but they’ll definitely look in the room.”
Dallas jumped to his feet and thrust his hand in his pocket. Flipping out a switchblade, he cut the cords around Ryan’s left wrist with one deft movement.
Ryan was impressed. What the boy lacked in brains, he made up for in agility.
“Hide the card game. Try to make it look like no one is here.”
Dallas looked at the splatter on the ground with dismay. “What about the blood?”
“Do your best.” Ryan grabbed the bloody towel Dallas had used to clean his face when they shifted from fists to cards and headed for the closet. Opening the door, he found the space empty but for some clothes on hangers.
“43. Uh...10-22. It’s her husband wearing some kind of pirate costume...”