Her little sister. Dead now, ten years gone.
And the man responsible could be coming back for her at any moment.
Maybe ten minutes.
Maybe twenty.
An hour?
But he was coming back, and she had to be ready.
Ten years of research, six years of training, and three years of getting ready for this moment, Carmen. I won’t let you down. I swear I won’t let you down.
Her right hand slipped out of the handcuff with a soft and sickening plop and she crumpled to the floor, where she lay on her back and tried to control her ragged breathing. Both her hands were bleeding, and terrible pain pulsed through every finger and every inch of torn and bleeding skin.
She didn’t want to move any part of her body, not even when she felt the wetness pooling under her.
Blood. Hers.
It was sticky. She had no idea blood would be that sticky…
No, no, no!
She sat up on the floor gasping, feeling as if the filthy walls had collapsed in on her, making the simple act of breathing a monumental task. It took a few moments before she could calm herself down and confirm she wasn’t dead, and that the light shining in her face wasn’t the entry to the afterlife.
The pain brought her back to the moment, and Allie glanced down at her bloodied hands and stared at them for the longest time.
The exposed skin at the edges of both hands were red and raw, and the thick layer of blood that covered them were still wet so she couldn’t have been unconscious for that long, though she wouldn’t have known that by the generous amount of plasma pooling under her. Both her pants and shirt were sticky with blood, and there was a smell in the room that wasn’t there when her eyes were last open.
She slowly stood up, careful not to use her hands as crutches. The sight of ruined skin (was that bone underneath?) made her want to gag all over again, and it was only through a lot of effort that she managed to hold everything in. Her stomach was too light, and she realized, almost as an afterthought, that she hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday’s lunch.
Her hands…had she permanently damaged them? All of this was going to be for nothing if she couldn’t use them again, especially when he came back—
She froze.
That noise!
It was barely audible, but clearly the same low rumbling she had heard earlier when Beckard left in the Crown Vic.
Beckard. He was back!
How long had she been unconscious? Ten minutes? Thirty? An hour?
She needed a weapon. Any weapon.
She glanced back at the handcuffs hanging off the metal spike. The long, sharp metal would have made a fine weapon (she imagined shoving it through Beckard’s skull), but that would mean prying it loose from the wall. She couldn’t have done that even with good hands, and right now…
Blood. Hers. Dripping from the handcuffs.
She almost threw up at the sight, but managed to get a hold of herself at the very last moment because—
The vibrations along the bunker’s concrete walls had stopped, which meant Beckard had parked the car and turned off the engine.
Find a weapon! Any weapon!
The cot was no good. Bashing Beckard’s head in with a fluffy (albeit nasty and stained) mattress wasn’t going to work. No, she needed something solid, firm, and maybe—
It was right in front of her the entire time and was the only reason she wasn’t standing in darkness at the moment: one of the portable LED lamps hanging off the wall from a hook.
She grabbed it, wincing at the contact of the lamp’s plastic handle against her still-bleeding fingers. Every inch of her hands hurt, as if she was constantly being shocked with electricity. She grimaced her way through them and thought about Carmen instead.
Her little sister. Everyone who had ever met Carmen loved her. You couldn’t help yourself. She was kind and giving and beautiful. So beautiful. Even in a hundred years, Allie would never come close to matching her little sister’s—
The harsh grinding of the door opening behind her snapped her back again.
She raced up the steps, dripping blood the entire way but refusing to acknowledge it. What was one or a dozen more drips when her clothes were still damp from lying down earlier? She imagined she must look like the girl in the movie Carrie, at the prom, covered in pig’s blood.
She reached the top landing when the door was halfway open. Beckard was slightly bent over and had his shoulder pressed against the door, so his back was partially turned to her as she hurried up the steps and slid, gasping for breath (and praying he didn’t hear), behind the moving thick slab of wood.
He was holding two large bulging plastic bags in his good hand, while a third smaller bag dangled from his heavily bandaged one. He stood in the open door for a moment to catch his breath, which came out shallow and labored, and for a split second she took pleasure in knowing he was probably in nearly as much pain as she was at the moment.
She tightened her grip around the lamp’s handle, grimacing at the searing pain that caused, as he straightened up and stepped through the door, exposing his left side to her. Unfortunately that meant his holstered Glock was on the other side, and she wanted that gun. The knife was facing her and within easier reach, but she wanted that gun. She needed that gun.
With no choice, she swung the lamp and caught him in the back of the head.
He might have let out a guttural grunt just before he stumbled forward, the LED lightbulbs popping and showering the landing with sparks. As his body moved away from her, she dropped the lamp and followed and reached for the handle of the gun in the holster—
No! her mind screamed as Beckard tripped on the top step and went tumbling down one, two — ten steps to the bottom of the landing.
Desperation and regret quickly gave way to optimism at the sight of him crumpled down there like a pretzel.
Maybe that did it. Maybe he broke his neck. Did I hear a crack?
Maybe…
She took the first step down after him when he opened his eyes and looked back up at her from the concrete floor below, his body wedged at the turn. He was on his back and the bags he had been carrying had gone flying. Food, drinks, and some cheap off-the-rack T-shirts and a cap were scattered around him.
Then he was reaching for the Glock—
She turned and fled and heard the bang! as Beckard fired behind her.
A big chunk of the concrete wall above the door exploded and showered her as she ran through the falling debris.
Another bang! but this one didn’t do anything, because she was already outside and running through the glowing dawn. The woods seemed to have come alive and birds were chirping wildly from the trees. She swore there were animals running around the underbrush and bushes to the left and right of her.
The police car was close by, and she made a beeline for it. There were two bullet holes in the windshield that hadn’t been there earlier. What did that mean? Had Harper caught up to Beckard while he was out there? Was the state police sergeant on his way here now? Maybe she should hunker down and wait for him. Maybe—
The shotgun!
It leaned between the two front seats, but even as she lunged for the door, she knew it wouldn’t open. She jerked on the handle anyway — ignoring the screaming pain from the contact of her raw and bleeding fingers against the cold metal — just to be sure.
The door wouldn’t budge.
She thought about breaking the window.
How? With her hands? What hands?