I held my breath, peaked around the brick wall, and looked over at the left window. When I saw that he had his hands cupped against the glass to shield out the streetlight, a paralyzing sting of terror shot through me.
It appeared that he was looking straight at me. Had he seen the laser beams? The light from the stairwell? He must have. Could he see me now? It certainly appeared that he could, so I dipped back against the brick wall again and hunched down as low as I could.
His friend isn’t with him yet. If he’d found the silencer, it would be him in the window, not the devil man. And I’ve heard no one leave the building.
Yet.
I kept still. My mind raced. I weighed my options. They overwhelmed me.
What would Tank do?
I looked down at the phone.
He’s already told me, I thought. Shoot the fucking car.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
As quietly as possible, I crept toward the window. I’d closed it earlier, which on one level was good—no one would hear me move back toward it. But in another sense, shutting the window had put my life at risk—I had to open it, and that would catch the devil man’s attention because the window was so rusted shut, it squealed when it was opened.
And then what?
If he hears you, you shoot him. Tank is right—he likely has a gun. He’ll see you and he’ll shoot you. You’ll need to shoot him first, and then you’ll need to take out one of the cars before anyone has a chance to react to the sound of the gunshot. You’ll need to be fast.
I doubt if I can be fast enough.
I doubt it, too.
I put the phone to my ear and, once again, kept my voice just above a whisper as I talked to Tank. “I’m going to try to shoot the man on the sidewalk, and then one of the cars,” I said. “But I might not make it. I have to open the window, which he’ll hear. I know he’ll hear it. The window is old. It’s going to make the same horrible sound it made the first time I opened it.”
“Shoot him first,” Tank said. “When he goes down, shoot the Camry, then drop to the floor. It should explode on contact. If it doesn’t, that means you missed the gas tank, and you’ll need to try again—quickly.”
“Don’t you have a lock on my position yet?”
“We’re trying, Lisa. I promise you that we’re trying. But it hasn’t happened yet, so right now I need you listen to me. Is he the only one on the street?”
“I think so.”
“You’re not sure?”
“There’s been so much movement upstairs, so no, I’m not sure.”
“Here’s what I need you to do. I need you to open the window quickly with one hand, have your gun ready with your other hand, and use your laser to shoot whomever you see outside. Do it fast. Then, aim the laser at the Camry, shoot toward the rear of the car, and immediately crouch down. If it doesn’t blow, shoot it again. If you can actually see the door to the gas tank, all the better. Shoot it. Rinse and repeat. At the very least, you’ll set off at least one car alarm, if not more, which might bring in calls to the police.”
“Might?”
“Right now, car alarms are going off all over this city. They’re not a priority unless someone calls 911 to make them a priority.”
“That’s not exactly heartening.”
“Then blow up the car. Kill that fucker on the street. I know you can do it, but enough talking about it. You need to focus and get it done.”
“All right. I’m putting down the phone.”
“I love you,” he said.
I couldn’t let my own emotions get the best of me, so I just repeated the words, almost as if I was standing outside of myself. “I love you, too. More than you’ll ever know. Remember that. OK? OK. I’m putting down the phone now.”
And I did. I dropped it on the dirt floor. For a moment, I looked at the phone as if I was looking at Tank himself, which, at once, made me sick, but also furious.
That might have been our last conversation. Who are these people to do this to me? Why the hell am I here right now? Because of my books? Seriously? Who gave them the right to do any of this to me?
With a fresh rush of anger threading through me, I pushed the window open, saw the man standing near the other window, and watched him turn to me with a swiftness that surprised me given his age. He raised his gun as my laser jolted out and connected with his chest.
He fired first, but he was a lousy shot so he missed.
“Is your God helping you now?” I shouted at him.
Before he could answer, I shot him in the heart. He went down like a tenpin, and then I turned to the Camry, which looked maroon to me in the iridescent light. For whatever reason, I couldn’t see the gas-tank door that I’d seen earlier, but that didn’t stop me. I pressed lightly on the trigger, aimed where I thought that door might be, fired a shot, and sank to the floor, expecting the car to explode.
It didn’t.
Worse, it didn’t even sound an alarm. Apparently, the car was too old for its owners to have even considered one. I got up on the chair again as footsteps above me rushed to the front door and opened it. The man on the sidewalk wasn’t moving. He was lying flat on his back, his gun beside him. The younger man who had been wearing the night goggles was the first to tentatively appear into sight, but when he saw that his leader was dead, he retreated back up the stairs. I heard the door slam shut, a rush of footsteps crisscrossing above me, and then a scream from one of the women.
You killed the devil man.
I did.
You killed their leader.
I did.
Don’t sound so pleased with yourself. I hope you know that they’re going to make you die for what you’ve done.
Let them come and try.
It was at that moment that the door at the top of the staircase opened, and light flooded the entire basement.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The sudden light blinded me. I winced into it and tried to adjust to it. And despite how disoriented I was, I knew that I couldn’t stop pushing forward. Somehow, I got back onto the chair without tripping it over, stood as quietly as I could, and faced the window.
“You’re going to die now,” a man’s voice said.
“You think so? Maybe it’ll be you who dies.”
“There are more of us than there are of you.”
“And three gunshots were just fired in this neighborhood. There’s a dead man lying on the sidewalk. You weren’t even smart enough to drag his body out of sight or to pick up his goddamned gun. I can guarantee you that somebody already has looked out their window, seen his corpse and the gun, and that they’ve called the police. Your time is running out. You and I both know that the cops are on their way. If I were you, I’d get the hell out of here while I could.”
“That’s not God’s plan.”
“Was it God’s plan for me to kill your leader?”
“It must have been.”
That caused me to pause, but only for an instant. I couldn’t let him throw me off my game. “Then you’ve got one shitty God you pray to, motherfucker.”
“I’ll personally kill you for saying that.”
“Try it, babe. My gun is pointed at the stairs and just waiting for you to appear. You see, your problem is that you don’t know where I am on this side of the room. I could be anywhere over here. But as for you? You only have one way down those stairs. When your legs first appear, I’ll shoot them. You’ll fall. Then, I’ll kill you when you’re at the bottom of the stairs. And I’ll do the same to the others—first with my gun, and then, I’ll grab your gun and use it. I’m the one who has the advantage here, not you and yours.”
“You’ve got a big mouth for such a tiny little bitch. We’re going to eat you.”
For whatever reason—likely because I was riding the cold rails of my control—that made me laugh. “Well, come on then. Come down the stairs. What’s holding you back? This tiny little bitch is ready to kill all of you. I’ve got three clips your dead friend gifted to me
. Soon, I’ll also have your gun. So, let’s do this shit. Or don’t you have the balls to do it?”
He snorted at that, and I had to wonder if he knew how many clips I had. I decided it didn’t matter. Let him think I have those clips. And before he could answer me, I turned to the window, and pointed my gun at the Camry again. But then I reconsidered when I noted another car. A newer car. One just behind the Camry. One that gleamed white in the manufactured light.
If only because it was newer, it might be fitted with an alarm system. And if it was, at the very least, I could set it off so the entire neighborhood would hear it, question it, and likely act upon what was happening in their community—if they hadn’t already.
A footfall fell upon the staircase.
“That’s right,” I said. “Come on. Keep coming down the stairs. I’ve so got you right now, it hurts.”
Before he could say a word, I aimed at the rear of the car, which was just in front of the house, right across from the left window. I lightly pressed the trigger to unleash the laser. When it cut across from me and slashed into the night, I aimed it at the car’s trunk in hopes that I might also hit the gas-tank cover—if it was even there—and cause the car to explode. At this distance, I knew it was a slim chance. Still, I fired the shot, and did as I was told—I dropped to the floor just as Tank had instructed me to do.
And what happened next I never would have expected.
The explosion that ensued shook the house so violently that dirt and debris from the ceiling fell on top of me. I heard something large and heavy slam against the side of the house, and my ears began to ring. I was stunned that I’d actually struck the gas tank and was about to stand up when the lights in the basement suddenly went dark and footsteps rushed down the stairs.
Seriously? He’s coming for me now?
I aimed my gun in his direction and was about to shoot when everything changed for the worst.
Time slowed.
Life absorbed another reality, and then, a second, massive explosion fired back at me that caught me off guard and caused me to scream. The force was so great, the window above me shattered into thousands of shards of glass and, through the windows, two rolling balls of fire blew into the room and swirled upward. The dry ceiling must have decided it liked the taste of the flames because it welcomed them in and soon was engulfed in fire.
In the wake of the sudden burst of boiling heat, the skin on my face tightened and burned. Dazed, I placed my hand against the bandage attached to the side of my head, looked up at the ceiling, and, as glass fell around me, realized that another car must have blown apart. Would others follow? I didn’t know, but it was possible.
What I did know is that with the ceiling on fire, I needed to get out of there before it was too late.
I’d landed heavily on my side, yet somehow my gun remained in my hand. It flickered orange and reflected the light wavering above me. I looked up and saw that the old insulation packed between the ceiling’s wooden beams was set aflame and—worse—that it was starting to spread.
As the fire stretched its greedy fingers above me and reached its fiery hands across the room, smoke started to press down upon me, giving me a chill.
It’s the smoke that will kill you—not the fire. The fire will only turn you into ash.
I heard the man who had been taunting me earlier rush up the stairs. A door opened and then slammed shut. I heard an orchestra of excited, unhinged voices unravel above me as if they were facing Armageddon. People screamed in outrage. Others argued, though I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Then, in a weird stretch of silence, I heard what had to be the front door opening and then crashing shut. I listened for more voices. More movement above me.
But there was neither.
They’d made a run for it. I could feel it in my gut. They were going to get away with this! My infuriation at that idea fueled me to get out of there while I could. There was so much smoke filling the basement, it wouldn’t be long before it suffocated me. With at least two cars burning—and with the potential that more could explode—I had to flee, or I’d die from smoke inhalation.
I lifted my shirt over my nose and mouth and started to crawl toward the staircase. But then I remembered the cell phone, which was behind me, below the basement window, where the fire was raining down onto the floor.
I looked at the phone sitting there and knew that I had no choice—it was my only connection to Tank. I got up, and ran over to it. As I picked it up, I felt a drop of fire fall onto my shoulder, burning me. The pain was searing. I tamped it out before it could set fire to my shirt. And when I was in the clear, I hunched down and rushed toward the staircase at the same time that I lifted up the phone to my ear.
“Can you hear me?” I said to Tank.
Over the fire’s roar, all I could hear was a crackling noise on the other end.
“Are you there?”
If he said anything to me, it was too late for me to hear him, because, at that moment, dozens of car alarms started to bellow their fury into the polluted night air.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Are you there?” I screamed into the phone. “Tank—answer me!”
But he wasn’t there. There was no service.
Either the phone’s battery was dead or all of the car alarms were messing with the signal so that I couldn’t make a connection. I shoved the phone into my coat pocket and took to the stairs, only to find that the sonofabitch had locked the door before he fled the house with the others.
In disbelief, I shook the handle—twisted it and turned it. And then I rammed my shoulder against the door, as if that would do any good. I was so small that I’d break my shoulder if I tried any harder.
My perfect size zero, I heard Blackwell say in my head.
At that point, I wished I was her perfect size twenty.
I looked below me, and saw that the fire was growing swiftly and smoke was filling the space. My mind raced. How could I open the door? What could I use to try to pry it open? I remembered seeing a tire iron hanging above the workbench to the left of the right window. That would do the job, but was I strong enough to force the door open with it? The door was old and the hinges likely had weakened over the years, so maybe I could, especially with the adrenaline coursing through my body.
I hurried down the stairs, covered my mouth and nose with my shirt, and ducked beneath the fire and smoke. Still, it burned when I breathed, which meant I didn’t have long. How quickly the fire was spreading shocked me. The ceiling was in full flame. The walls already had caught flame. This building was so old, it was like a tinderbox.
And it’s going up.
The fire was approaching the base of the staircase. Once it got there, smoke would funnel up the stairs, and I’d be screwed. I’d be dead. And so I rushed toward the workbench, grabbed the tire iron hanging on the wall above it, and sprinted back up the stairs, the fire licking at my heels and devouring everything in sight.
Time was against me, but I had to fight against it. I valued my life. I wanted to live out the rest of my years with Tank. I wanted to marry him. I wanted to have his children. I wanted to grow old with him, and be with him again. Just fucking see him again! Was that even possible? With the roar of the fire all around me, I had to wonder if it was too late for me….
Focus.
I did.
I shoved the butt of the iron between the lock and the catch, and pushed with all my might. When the door groaned, a well of hope swelled within me. I slammed my shoulder against the end of the iron to apply even more pressure. And then there was a distinct snapping sound. Stunned, I removed the tire iron and tried to open the door.
But it wouldn’t open. It was still locked.
Smoke was starting to come up the stairs in gray veils of death. Now, the fire was just beneath me, setting the ancient insulation tucked within the ceiling to ash and causing the wooden supports to catch flame.
For a moment, I felt that this was it. This is how I was going to
die. Right here on these stairs, literally just steps away from another chance. Again, I covered my shirt over my nose and mouth as smoke stabbed at my eyes. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream out in rage. I wanted to punch something—anything. I had my whole life ahead of me, and I was being cheated of it and out of Tank, the only man I’d ever truly loved. All because the door refused to give. I’d never see him again. Or Jennifer. The people who had brought me here had sent me to my grave—and they’d run from all of it. I’d die and they’d live. And it was then that I questioned God. How fair was this? How was this even possible?
Ask dead Esther. Better yet, stop feeling sorry for yourself. Get it together. Use your gun. Shoot the fucking lock.
If I do, the bullet could cause a spray of shrapnel that could harm me.
Then step the hell back. Are you an idiot? Move down the stairs. You’ve got a laser on that gun. Point it at the lock and shoot it.
With no other choice, I threw the tire iron behind me, my shirt falling from my face in the process,. I sucked in a lung full of smoke, started to cough, and immediately recovered my mouth and nose again with my shirt. My eyes were burning as if someone had tossed acid in them. Behind me, everything was ablaze. The fire had begun its ascent up the stairs, closing in quickly on the fresh oxygen it craved. It was just at my back and practically roasting me when I held out the gun in front of me, pressed the trigger, and watched the laser appear. Then, when I was certain I had the lock in my sights, I fired.
Wood splintered.
Behind me, the fire roared.
I moved up the stairs, tried the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge. I’d missed. I fucking missed! I stepped back toward the fire, and felt it burn against my skin, knowing that, at any moment, my clothes would catch fire.
So, I aimed again, I shot again, and I hurried up the stairs again. And this time?
This time the door opened and I moved into a new kind of hell.
Unleash Me: Vol. 3 Page 8