The tip of the fork stabbed the yellow, fluffy eggs. She looked it over for a second longer, then took a bite.
“What do you think?” Spencer asked, cutting up his pancakes. He stabbed the sectioned off food dripping with maple syrup, and shoved it into his mouth.
Sarah chewed the eggs and lowered the fork to the plate. “They’re good.”
Spencer smiled, and scooped up a mound of the cooked eggs. “I’m happy to hear that. Does it need any salt or pepper? If you want some, I can get it from the counter.”
Sarah set the fork down and waved her hand. She swallowed the food. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll grab it.”
“I don’t mind doing it for you.” Spencer pushed his chair back. “Stay sitting down and enjoy your food.”
Sarah sprung from her seat before he could rise. “You go ahead and eat. You worked on fixing this amazing breakfast. I need to stretch my legs anyway. Might help me wake up.”
Spencer nodded. “While you’re up, can you grab me a paper towel?”
“Sure.” Sarah limped around the table to the counter.
“Thanks.” Spencer continued eating, mixing his eggs in with the syrup from the pancakes. He wolfed down the concoction, then sipped on his coffee.
Sarah stood at the counter near the knives. She stared at the silver handled blades.
The legs of Spencer’s chair scrapped along the floor, ripping her attention away from the sharp blades.
A roll of paper towels hung from under the cabinet. She tore off a section for the both of them, grabbed the salt and pepper, and went back to the table.
Spencer grabbed the paper towel, and swallowed his food. “Thanks. I appreciate it. I’m making a bit of a mess here.”
“You’re welcome,” Sarah said, placing the shakers and paper towel on the table.
“Man. When you’re hungry, anything will hit the spot,” Spencer said with his mouth full of food.
“Did you get enough?”
Spencer gulped the food down, took another drink of coffee, then leaned back in his chair. He patted his stomach and groaned. “More than enough. Those powder eggs turned out great. That wood burning stove I have can sure cook a meal.”
“The eggs are good. I haven’t had powdered eggs before, but you did a good job fixing them.” Sarah took her seat. “I do appreciate the meal.”
“I’m glad you like it. Perhaps one day soon, you can fix me a meal.” Spencer wiped his mouth with the paper towel. “I’d be willing to bet that you’re cooking is beyond amazing.”
Sarah added some salt and pepper to the eggs, grabbed the fork, and continued eating. “I wouldn’t say amazing, but I do all right. Nobody has died from eating my food, so I guess that’s a good sign.”
Spencer chuckled at the lighthearted remark, and shook his head. “Beautiful and a great sense of humor. I love that.”
The added condiments made the eggs bearable. They lacked flavor and tasted like cardboard, but it was food–something she hadn’t had much of the past few days. Plus, she didn’t want to insult her captor—not while they had a good rapport going on.
Sarah finished off the eggs, and made short work of the flapjacks. She polished off the tepid coffee, and sat the mug down.
Spencer washed the dishes in the sink, and stacked them in the beige strainer positioned near the edge of the sink. He hummed to himself–tapping his foot and rinsing each piece before stowing it in the strainer.
Sarah eyed the knives, imagining plunging one of the blades into his body and fleeing from the cabin.
“Did you get enough to eat? Would you care for any more coffee?” Spencer asked, turning away from the sink while drying his hands off on the towel.
“I’m good for now.” Sarah waved her hand.
Spencer stopped, and stared at the front of the cabin. His warm smile and friendly demeanor evaporated, and he tossed the towel to the table top.
Sarah turned in her seat, and looked to the windows on the far side of the cabin, wondering what caught his attention. “Did you hear or see something?”
“I’m not sure.” Spencer kept his head trained toward the front door and large windows. A loud jingle sounded close to the kitchen, almost like a bell or something similar. Spencer held his hand up. “Wait right there and be quiet. I’ll be right back.”
“What was that bell sound?”
“It’s part of the trip wires I have around the cabin to alert me if anyone is out there.” Spencer walked into the living room.
Sarah got up from the table, and limped toward the wall separating the two spaces. “Could it be an animal that set it off?”
Spencer skirted the couch with his neck craned and gaze focused on the windows. “It’s possible, but I’d rather be safe than sorry. No one knows about this place, but I want to be certain. Just keep quiet and stay out of sight. I’ll be right back.” He ran to the side of the window near the door, and peered through the curtains. His head turned, scanning the outside for whatever triggered his wire.
Sarah glanced at the knives, then back to Spencer.
He stepped away from the window and reached for the shotgun mounted over the entrance to the cabin.
Spencer gripped the forend and cycled a shell into the chamber. He faced the front door, grabbed the doorknob, and turned.
Sarah hid behind the wall, watching for any movement beyond the curtain-covered windows. Her heart raced and mind roamed, pondering what danger lurked outside that tripped his wire. Had Kinnerk or Bryce’s men come to exact their pound of flesh from Spencer and do who knew what to her, or had Valintino’s goons tracked them down and surrounded the cabin?
Spencer cracked open the door, and peered out to the front porch, the barrel of the shotgun trained at the ground. He shouldered the weapon, slipped around the edge of the door, and shut it behind him.
The Creeper stalked passed the front window, and headed down the porch toward the stolen car. He turned, sweeping the front of the cabin before vanishing past the far side of the window.
Sarah limped away from the wall. The jingle of the bell rang out again. She skirted past the table, and pulled one of the smaller knives from the butcher’s block. The blade would be easy to conceal, but could also do a fair amount of damage.
The back door of the cabin in the corner of the kitchen caught her eye. Sarah lurched toward the door; the knife handle clutched tight in her hand. She grabbed the doorknob and turned, but it wouldn’t move. It felt locked or stuck.
“Damn it. Come on,” Sarah said, panting.
The lace covering the four-square pieces of glass molded inside the window offered a glimpse to the back portion of the property and the dense woods that surrounded the cabin. She glanced at the front door while twisting and tugging on the knob.
Sarah released the doorknob and hit the door with her balled fist. A sigh of frustration escaped her mouth. She turned about face.
The coolness of the floor probing the soles of her feet made her chin dip. Both eyes focused on the socks. Even if she was able to escape, she needed her shoes to be able to move fast through the woods and a bit more time to heal enough to survive, though, if given the chance she’d just have to risk it.
The knife stayed at her side. She moved away from the door, and made her way through the kitchen toward the living room.
The jingle of the bell sounded a second or two before going silent. Only the quick raps of her footfalls over the creaking planks of wood filled the cabin.
Sarah made her way down the hall to the back bedroom. She panted hard. The rapid beating of her heart wouldn’t let up.
The tip of her toes hit the elevated threshold leading into the bedroom. A sharp pain shot throughout her foot. She fell forward and hit the floor with a dense thud.
The knife popped out of her hand. It clattered over the planks of wood and out of Sarah’s reach. The throbbing of her toes made both eyes water and her face scrunch.
Sarah pushed off the floor to her knees, then stood up. She skimm
ed over the room, searching for her shoes that Spencer had taken off.
The knife sat halfway under the base of the nightstand. The darkness under the aged piece of furniture concealed a portion of the weapon. She turned and looked to the foot of the bed and spotted her shoes on the floor near the dresser.
A single gunshot sounded from outside the cabin.
Sarah flinched and gasped, unsure if the Creeper had met his end. She limped past the edge of the bed, bent down, and grabbed the shoes. Her hands trembled.
The beating of her heart against her chest wouldn’t stop. The unknown threat lurking outside made it hard to concentrate and work fast.
Sarah managed to slip on both shoes, then turned and headed for the nightstand. She bent down and retrieved the knife from the floor, then raced to the hallway. The discomfort in her side from the gunshot wound radiated pain, but it paled in comparison to staying idle inside the cabin.
She lurched through the doorway into the hall, and made her way to the living room. Her footfalls increased, legs moving as fast as they could. The tip of the blade scraped off the wall.
Sarah moved past the blind corner of the wall, and looked to the front door and windows. She lumbered through the living room, shuffling her feet, and moving at a fast clip.
The pain in her side made her teeth gnash. A heavy pant seeped from her mouth as she pushed on and skirted past the recliner. She peered through the curtains to the outside while heading for the door.
Her shoulder nudged the door. Sarah took a deep breath and tried to calm her nerves. She grabbed the doorknob and twisted.
The door opened.
Sarah moved to the side and pulled toward her. She peered out to the front porch, then to the trees and bushes.
Spencer was nowhere in sight. She spotted no movement, and didn’t hear any footfalls or rustling within the dense vegetation. She hung tight for a second, then stepped out onto the porch.
The aged planks of wood creaked. She closed the door behind her and worked her way toward the opposite end of the cabin. The palm of her hand gripped the handle of the blade tighter as she closed in on the corner.
Sarah kept close to the wall of the cabin, peering over her shoulder, and scanning the trees and thicket for any movement. She craned her neck, trying to see around the side of the dwelling.
With her back pressed to the wall, Sarah crept the rest of the way and toed the edge of the rough surface of the wooden logs.
The tip of the knife pointed ahead of her. She held it up and leaned forward, carefully looking around the bend. The strong scent of cologne or aftershave tainted the air.
A snapping branch from nearby sounded.
Sarah jerked toward the sound, searching for the source of the noise.
A hand grabbed Sarah’s wrist and wrenched her from the porch–sending her to the grass, face first. She hit hard. The sharpened blade missed slicing her other arm open by less than an inch.
The shuffling of the grass to her three o’clock filled her ears. The tromping of footfalls closed in. She turned her head toward the noise, and spotted black slacks and dress shoes a few paces away. It wasn’t Spencer.
Sarah rolled to her side and slashed at the man’s ankles.
He stopped and jumped back. The blade missed his lower legs by a scant inch.
Sarah flopped onto her stomach, then got to her knees.
The well-dressed man grabbed the collar of Sarah’s shirt and jerked her from the ground. The front of the fabric pulled against her throat, choking her.
The soreness of Sarah’s leg wavered as her weight hit it and gave, sending her back to the ground.
The taut grip of the attacker’s hand tugged harder on her clothing. The pressure around her throat increased.
Sarah turned away from him, and slashed upward with the knife at his midsection. The blade grazed the white dress shirt and tie he wore.
A second gunshot crackled in the early morning sky. The abrupt sound made her gasp while trying to breathe through the clothing constricting around her throat.
The man grabbed her arm wielding the knife, and knocked it from Sarah’s grasp.
The blade vanished among the grass.
Sarah dipped her chin, and scanned the vegetation for the weapon.
The man spun Sarah toward him. The scowl on his well-groomed face grew more menacing. His eyes narrowed at her.
She swung her balled fist up at the side of his head. He leaned back, then raised his arm. The back of his hand smashed into Sarah’s face.
The blow dazed her. Pain swelled in her jaw and spread throughout her skull. Stars fluttered around her.
Sarah crumbled in the man’s taut grip. Her body dangled from his hands.
A clicking noise from a radio loomed from the suit, followed by an accent she couldn’t place. It sounded European, but she wasn’t sure from where.
“I’ve got the woman. She’s been contained,” he said, keeping a firm hold on her shirt.
The radio clicked. “Copy that. We’ve secured the other target as well. Heading your way now.”
The suit lugged Sarah down the porch. The tips of her shoes dragged over the planks of wood. She reached up, and grabbed the sleeve of the man’s coat and pulled in a feeble attempt to get free of his clutches.
He approached the front door of the cabin.
Sarah caught sight of three blurred figures walking across the driveway toward the far end of the porch. The man in the middle staggered between the other two standing on either side.
The door to the cabin swung inward.
The suit tugged on Sarah’s shirt, hauling her body inside the dwelling and away from the freedom she was so close to having.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
RUSSELL
Blood dripped from the pointed steel ends of the meat tenderizer and splashed to the floor.
Russell sat in the corner of Tim’s office, between the wall and four-shelf bookcase, with his legs bent and arms resting on the tops of his knees. His fingers adjusted over the handle of the mallet. The wetness of Man-bun’s blood speckled his worn and tired face.
With a long, emotionless gaze, he stared at the dead hitman who slouched over in the seat in front of Tim’s desk. Light from outside shone through the blinds, illuminating the full brunt of Russell’s fury.
Man-bun’s head dangled lifelessly. His once neat hair reached for the ground, concealing a blow to the face. Streaks of crimson fluid stained the planks around his shoes and chair.
A knock sounded at the closed door.
Russell remained still and silent.
The door cracked open.
Clyde peered through the narrow slit and over to Russell.
Max forced his head between Clyde’s legs and through the opening. His nose twitched, sniffing the air as he groaned.
“You good in here?” Clyde asked in a worried tone. “The screaming stopped, and you hadn’t come out yet, so I wanted to make sure you were good.”
The hammer dropped from Russell’s hand, and hit the floor between his legs. The thud echoed through the office.
“Yeah. I’m good, I guess,” Russell answered in a defeated voice. “Are we good to leave now?”
Clyde pushed the door inward, and Max trotted inside.
“I think we’re–oh God.” Clyde noticed Man-bun’s battered and bloody body still secured to the chair with the duct tape. His hand raised and palmed his mouth. Both eyes soaked in the grim scene, causing him to turn and look away. He took a moment, gathered himself, then continued, “The rioters have moved on as far as I can tell, but we should move while we can.”
Russell nodded, then looked at his bloody hands. He had gotten caught up in the swarm of hate and pain that sought to relieve itself on the man who killed his daughter. In the heat of the moment, he wanted nothing more than to make the hitman pay, but at what cost? Did he gather enough information from him before ending Man-bun’s life, or worse yet, had he crossed a dangerous line of becoming the same just like th
e man who took his daughter and wife from him?
Max sniffed around the legs of Man-bun. His nose trailed the length of his pants to the blood on the floor.
Russell snapped his fingers. “Come here, Max. Get away from him.”
The German shepherd lifted his head and peered at Russell. He trotted to Russell’s side without further instruction.
“What do you want to do with him?” Clyde asked, tilting his head at the hitman.
Russell rubbed under Max’s jaw, grabbed his flashlight from the floor next to him, then stood up. He glanced at Man-bun and headed for the door. “We’ll leave him right there for now. I’ll come back and take care of him once I figure out what I’m going to do.”
Clyde lowered his head, and moved out of Russell’s way. “All right. Your call.”
“Max. Come.” Russell passed through the door while patting the side of his leg.
The canine trotted after him with Clyde shutting the door to the office behind them.
Russell lurked about the bar, scanning the top for his Ruger. He looked over the expanse of the dwelling with his hands on the sides of his hips. “Have you seen my piece?”
Clyde lifted the front of his coat, and pulled the pistol from his waistband. “Yeah. I was holding onto it for you.”
“Thanks.” Russell took the Ruger from Clyde, ejected the magazine, then slapped it back into place. He cycled a round and faced the door. “Do we have enough fuel to make it to the pizzeria Man-bun told us about?”
“How far is it?” Clyde asked, raising his shoulders. “We rolled into the city without much gas left. I’d imagine we’re sucking the bottom of the tank.”
“Depends on how many detours we have to take,” Russell answered, looking over the murk of the dwelling. “If we can take the shortest route, won’t be long. Maybe ten to fifteen minutes at most.”
“I don’t know off hand. Not until we get down to the truck,” Clyde replied. “Worst case, we’ll have to syphon off some more gas, walk, or find another ride. I’m not keen on leaving my truck to the vandals and rioters running unchecked through the streets, though.”
Survive The Fall | Book 5 | Fight Back Page 19