by Nicole Fox
Chapter Twenty-Six
Kort
I'd lost a lot of blood already, I could tell – my reflexes were slower, my muscles felt like sandbags. I'd taken my belt off, used it as a tourniquet on my leg, then pulled off a strip of cloth from my shirt and bandaged my arm, but I was still losing too much blood from the wound on my side.
With Tyson's pistol in hand, I headed down the hall after them. Lydia's cries for help had ended, but I could still hear her speaking loudly to her daddy. I hoped she was somehow convincing him to turn over the detonator, or better yet, magically convincing him to lay down his weapons and let us kill him. That was crazy talk, though. I knew there was no way he was going to do that. This wasn't going to end without more blood being spilled.
I hobbled through the tunnels, stopping at each branching intersection to listen for voices. I followed them for a while, their voices clear as day as they yelled back and forth. Soon, though, they seemed to quiet, like they were having a conversation I could only distantly hear. Then, the voices stopped altogether.
They had to be close. These underground passages couldn't go on forever. Up ahead, there was a bend in the tunnel. My boots scuffed as I walked up to the wall, my whole body tense and aching as I put my back against the concrete wall. Ragged breath after ragged breath came from my body as I fought to keep myself calm. He had Lydia. He had the bomb detonator still. I held the gun down low in front of me, my sweaty palms wrapped tight around the grip. I took a deep breath, raised my pistol, turned the corner.
Joey Banks lunged at me as soon as I cut around the turn, his bloody knife cutting the air in front of my face. My eyes went wide as I jerked back, bringing the barrel of the gun up to deflect his slash and turn the edge away. The blade scraped down the barrel, cut across the back of my fingers. He cackled as the gun dropped from my hand and clattered on the concrete.
The bastard had been waiting for me. I gripped my hand tightly, blood welling up between my fingers, as pain flashed through my mind. I sprang back and away from him, trying to keep as much distance as possible between us. Banks waved the knife at me, keeping the tip pointed at my chest. In his other hand he still clutched the detonator. “You ain't gonna take my women folk, you piece of shit,” he slurred, that parody of a grin still on his face. “You ain't gonna get me, neither.”
I had to think fast. The pistol lay on the ground between us. If I went for it, I'd have to step within reach of his blade. He'd be able to get me with his knife, no problem. The only thing I could think about was the fact I didn't see Lydia. Had he done something with her? No, if he'd hurt her in the tunnel, I would have her screams, at least seen the blood on my way here. Had she somehow gotten away from him, then?
He made another lunge at me, the knife swiping low, across my belly. I jumped back and sucked in my bulk as much as I could, the tip of the blade barely slashing open me shirt as it dragged across. Too close – I was getting sloppy, and my wounds were taking their toll. The old man was fast, way faster than he should have been. No, playing a defensive game with him wasn't going to work. The longer this lasted, the more blood I lost. And fighting with Joey was just going to make it worse. I needed to go on the attack, something he wouldn't expect, and get the knife and detonator from him.
He lunged again, cackling as he stabbed at me. I stepped out of the way, the blade whizzing past my side, as I went for him again. He cut back with the blade, barely missing my neck by a razor margin, and tried to attack a third time. I fell back as he cut again and again. My reflexes were slowing from the blood loss, and I knew it.
Suddenly he stabbed for my chest. I dodged to the side, but had to bring up my arm to block it from skewering me outright, and cried out as I took another jagged cut. I shook my head, the world seeming to move in slow motion, my stomach churning and nauseous.
“Just a matter of time, son,” Joey Banks growled. “Before long, there's gonna be more blood outside than in, and you ain't gonna be no one's problem ever again.”
He was right. I might not be able to take him, but maybe I could protect Lydia, make sure she could get away. I shook my head again and, before I could change my mind, I rushed him. He fell back, surprised at my sudden attack. He tried to get at me with the knife, but I caught him by the wrist and kept the blade under my control, forcing him back against the wall as I grappled for the detonator.
He growled in my face, his breath full of the smell of cigar smoke and rot as we struggled against the side of concrete passage. I slammed his hand that held the detonator backing into the wall, knocking the device free from his grip. It fell to the ground, bouncing away from both of us. He ignored the dropped detonator, instead bracing his knife hand and bringing it down at me again as he kicked at my knees, trying to break my stance. The old man knew his stuff – if I had tried to go up against him man-on-man back when he was younger I wouldn’t have stood a chance. I blocked his kick as best I could, protecting myself at the expense of my balance.
He was on top of me in an instant, forcing me back onto the ground with him on top, forcing the knife down to my throat, his teeth bared like a wild animal as the tip of the blade inched closer and closer with every moment. My muscles quivered and shook as I struggled and strained against him, desperately trying to the tip of the knife from my throat. I wasn't going to hold out, and I knew it. The blade inched lower, slowly moving to me. He grinned, knowing it would be just a matter of time.
My muscles were so fatigued. I was losing, and in my mind I silently apologized to Milo – the thought of my best friend dying at the hands of this creep suddenly fired me up. “No!” I growled. “This is for Milo!”
“And this is for mom!” Lydia screamed from the darkness as a lead pipe came down out of nowhere, cracking him hard across the shoulders and the back of his neck. He shrank beneath the blow, roaring in pain and anger, but still the knife came at me. She hit him again and again, each time rearing back farther than before, the pipe slung back over her shoulder as she screamed with each swing.
With a final burst of strength, I threw him off me, flipping him over on his side. Lydia followed after him, pipe in hand, beating his head and arms. “Lydia, honey!” Joey screamed in agony. “Lydia! Stop helping them!”
“Fuck you!” she screamed, hitting him again as he curled up into a ball.
My vision faded out as I rolled over and tried to rise to my feet. I stayed on all fours, my breathing ragged as I struggled to stand. Lydia came to my side. “Kort, are you okay?”
I waved her off as I slowly rose to my feet, my whole body screaming in agony as I swayed back and forth, floaters forming in my vision. “Get the gun and the knife, the detonator. Get 'em away from him.”
She tossed the pipe aside and picked up the pistol, then went over to her daddy's discarded blade. She kicked the knife to me, then stuffed the detonator in her pocket before going and standing over him, gun in hand.
“Do it,” I rasped, blinking long and slow as I watched her beautiful form aiming the pistol at her own daddy's head. “You wanted to do it yourself, now's your chance.”
She nodded, her eyes murderous as she glared down at her cowering father from behind the big pistol. She put her finger to the trigger.
I held my breath. “Do it,” I whispered. “Do it for Milo, for your mother. Do it for all the lives he ruined.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lydia
“Please, honey, please, Lydia. Don't. Your mother will be real upset if you do.”
He looked so pathetic laying there. Beaten, whimpering, no longer a monster or a psychopath. Just a beaten, wounded old man, hiding in fear from his daughter. Crazy? Sure. But sick, too. His brain rotted by drugs, by paranoia, by age.
Memories of growing up, of him bouncing me on his knee, giving me my first taste of beer, and his laughing at my disgusted face when I tried a sip. Being fourteen teaching me to drive, even though mom didn't want me to learn for another year. His bad jokes over the years. Holding me as I cried after my
first boyfriend, Randy Simmons, broke up with me, telling me Randy didn't deserve me. Him kissing the scrapes on my knees after I fell off my bicycle, then putting me back up on the seat, because strong girls got up and kept going. The three of us – mom, me, and him – all taking the boat down to the coast, sailing the gulf.
He'd been a decent man once. Not necessarily a good one. Probably never that. But he'd been a good father for a long while, for whatever that was worth. I remembered that much, at least, from the time before the craziness rotted his brain and turned him against me and my mother. I growled. I tried to pull the trigger, tried to murder him. But it wasn't who I was. Even after all the hard years I'd been through, with all the swindles I'd had to pull off, all the men I'd outwitted, I'd never had to kill anyone.
I wasn't a murderer. I wasn't like him. I never would be.
“I can't,” I said, tears forming in my eyes, blurring my vision. The barrel of the gun wavered before I let it fall loose at my side. “I just can't.”
Kort stumbled up next to me, pulled me into his arms.
“We'll just leave him,” I said. “Leave him so the men can have their go at him, take his money, his drugs. They'll pick him apart now that Tyson is dead and can't control them. They'll see how weak he is.”
Kort nodded slowly as I pulled back from him. He turned to leave, to go back into the Warehouse. Beside us my father tried to get up, to crawl to us, but he stumbled and fell in a heap, wheezing. He rolled over to his back, his eyes just staring blankly at the ceiling.
“Wait,” I said, pulling at his shirt. “We can't go back up there!”
“Where should we go?” he asked, his face pale, a dazed look in his eyes.
“Down to the dock,” I said, pulling back the way the old man had been taking me originally. “His sail boat is down there. We can just slip away.”
He nodded. “Yeah. Let's go.”
I got up underneath his arm and he put as much weight on me as I could bear.
“Lydia, honey!” he called out from behind me. Kort and I stopped in our tracks.
“What?” I growled as I turned back to him. “What?” I realized then that he had something in his hand. I patted my pockets, checking to see if I still held the detonator.
“You know I was a boy scout, honey,” he said as he held up a second detonator, his thumb already on the trigger. “Always come prepared.”
Together, Kort and I watched, helpless, as he cackled and pressed the red button. A second later his wicked laughter was drowned by the sounds of explosions from deep within the compound.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Kort
The ground shook as the ANFO and C4 went up somewhere, probably on the far side of the compound. More quakes as more explosions went off, shaking me and Lydia both as dust fell from the ceiling.
“The boat!” Lydia screamed, grabbing my hand and dragging me off, down the tunnel.
I glanced back over my shoulder, my head woozy. I thought I was hallucinating – I saw a ghost, Milo standing over the madman Joey Banks' body, nodding to me in approval as Lydia and I made our way from those tunnels. My friend’s ghost followed after me as we left, whispering to me how happy he was that I was getting away from there in one piece. That he was happy I'd found a woman I could care for, and that I was getting out of this racket.
“Xander'll think you're dead,” Milo told me as we rounded another corner and light began to show at the end of the tunnel. “He'll never figure it out.”
“Come on,” Lydia screamed as more explosions rocked the tunnels. “Just a little farther, baby! We can get out right there!”
I stumbled over my feet, almost went down. Milo and Lydia dropped beside me, helped me struggle back up. “Thanks, Milo,” I grunted.
“Milo?” Lydia asked, then abruptly shook her head, clearly deciding it didn't really matter right then. “Kort, let's go!”
We hit the rear door at a shuffling run, the bright light piercing our eyes as more explosions went off behind us, rolling like the most insane thunder I'd ever heard. The ground shook again.
I glanced around at the little dock that poked out into the tributary, at the boat there. “Can you . . . can you sail this thing?”
“Of course,” she said. “He taught me how.”
She got me on board as she untied the boat from the dock and pushed it off. I collapsed onto the deck, my face staring up to the sky. Plumes of smoke rose hundreds of feet in the air, so high into the sky that no one would ever be able to ignore this place ever again. Milo's face came into view one last time, leaning in over my vision.
“Don't worry,” he said as more explosions went off in the compound we were quickly leaving behind, “you'll live. And, Kort?”
“Yeah Milo?” I asked the sky.
“Thank you. I can rest easy now.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You're welcome.”
“Kort?” Lydia asked. “Are you talking to me?”
“No. Just a friend.”
And then I closed my eyes.
Epilogue
Lydia
Six months sailing on a boat ought to drive anyone a little crazy. And yet, six months later sailing with Kort and I felt like I could live my whole life with her on the water. As I dropped anchor in the little cove for the evening, I knew I'd made the right decision. No more running, no more hiding. Just living and sailing. Kort and I still checked in on dry land every couple weeks, and we'd followed the news after the Warehouse went up in a ball of flames, but no one ever mentioned us, and no one from his outfit ever came looking for him.
I relaxed in the cockpit of the boat now, a romance novel spread on my lap while Kort rummaged around below deck. I didn't need the romances the way I used to, I'd had enough adventure to last me a lifetime. But they were still fun to read. My man came clomping over the deck on his bare feet and came into the cockpit, bottle of chilled champagne in one hand and two flutes in the other. He'd switched to just board shorts with no shirt, and his tan was rich and dark, making his smile somehow even brighter. Scars crisscrossed his body. A few old were old, but many were new – still purple, and reminders of what we’d escaped.
“Champagne for the lady/” he asked, a smile dancing on his lips as he began to pour a glass of bubbly for me.
“Well, don't mind if I do,” I said, putting my book aside and taking the offered flute.
“You know,” he said as he finished pouring his glass and set the bottle aside, “it's amazing how this boat seems to have everything we need.”
“Really?” I asked with a grin. “Because I can think of one unnecessary thing here, especially since I got my new load of novels.”
“Oh really?” he said, leaning back against the cockpit wall, his eyebrow raised. “What that might?”
“You,” I teased, rising from my seat and pressing my body into his, running my hands over his naked chest and abs. “You can still barely sail, and you eat more than twice your body weight.”
He laughed as he pulled me into his arms, his hands finding my lower back and beginning to massage my sore muscles. I lay my head against his chest, just listening to his even breathing and the thump-thump of his heartbeat.
He reached into his pocket and rummaged there for a moment. “One thing I did find down there, in a secret compartment,” I leaned back a little and looked up at him, then down at his hand, at the little box resting in his palm, “was something that might not be absolutely necessary.”
I looked back to his smiling face, then back to the box as I covered my hand with my mouth.
He opened it up, revealing a diamond ring. It was beautiful, a solitary stone on a band of gold, at least a carat.
“Would you?” he asked.
“Do you even need to ask?” I grinned up at him, threw my arms around his neck. “Yes! I'd love to!”
He pulled my lips to his, kissed me again, long and deep. As we kissed, he pulled first one hand behind my back, then the other. I wasn't sure what he was doing, but I
didn't struggle or fight his strong arms. He reached into his pocket, and there was the sound of metal rubbing on metal as he reached back behind me, his tongue now pushing into my mouth.
I felt the cuffs as they locked over my wrists, securing them together. I shivered a little at the memory of the first time I'd had these on, of those nights in the motel.
“Found one other thing down there, too,” he replied with a sly grin.
The cove grew darker as he stripped me of my clothes. The quarter moon rose as we made love. We weren't finished till well after it went back down.
THE END