Hot Winter Nights (Heartbreaker Bay #6)(75)

Molly came to in a dimly lit space with a gasp.

Lucas had been shot.

Trying not to panic, she went to sit up and realized that her hands were bound behind her. At least her feet were unhindered, she thought as she blinked her vision clear. She was still in the storage room. Lucas lay only a few feet away, so terrifyingly still that her heart stopped. Flex-cuffs bound his hands too, and blood pooled beneath both his left leg and his head.

Scrambling to her knees as fast as she could—which wasn’t very fast without use of her hands—she scooted over to him. He had a nasty-looking gash at his temple. “Please be okay,” she whispered, fighting back an impending meltdown of epic proportions, because it was quite clear that he wasn’t okay, wasn’t even in the vicinity of okay, and in fact might not even be breathing. “Oh God, Lucas, don’t be dead.” She bent over him and saw that his chest was rising and falling with shallow but steady breaths.

A soft sob of relief escaped her, but she managed to bite back the one right on its heels. Get it together, and fast, she ordered herself and nudged Lucas with her shoulder.

He didn’t move.

She nudged harder.

Still no response.

“You’ve got to wake up,” she begged him. “I need you. I love you and I need you and I didn’t really know either of those things until right this minute, so if you could . . .” She broke off, suddenly realizing that there was a third person in the room.

Santa.

He lay on his back, his hands unrestrained at his side and a large bullet hole between his eyes. A shocked expression remained etched on his face.

She understood the sentiment. Cute, feisty, sweet, warm, little Janet, aka Mrs. Santa Claus, had taken all of them down.

From down the hall came the sound of applause. She could figure out what that meant. The evening was possibly coming to an end, which meant someone would be showing up with the last of the evening’s till.

And to finish what they’d started.

This would most likely include getting rid any evidence, of which she and Lucas most definitely were. Bending over him, she tried to rouse him again. “Please wake up,” she murmured, pressing her cheek to his chilly one.

He groaned softly, but didn’t come to. He’d lost a lot of blood and needed medical attention, but with her hands behind her back, she couldn’t help him. Instead, she gently dropped her forehead to his shoulder and allowed herself one last sob. “Just don’t die, okay?”

More applause, louder this time.

Struggling to her feet, she twisted to try the door.

Locked or jammed somehow.

There was a window. Unfortunately, it was high up on the wall. Long and shallow, it was meant for letting light in and some ventilation, not for escaping out of. She used her hip to shove one of the tables beneath the window, but the table was heavy and it took her a ridiculous amount of time to get it around Lucas without hurting him further. It also meant getting way too close to Santa, and when his leg jerked, she nearly had heart failure thinking he was still alive—until she realized the table had bumped into him.

When the table finally was up against the wall, she hit another snag. No hands to climb onto it. Turning her back, she attempted to hitch her butt up, but she couldn’t quite reach. Facing it again, she tried lifting her leg, but her numb thigh kept her from getting high enough. She tried the other leg and . . . her bad leg collapsed under her full weight and she fell onto the floor.

Hard.

Shaking her head to clear it, aching from the impact, she rolled over to get her legs under and came nose to nose with Bad Santa, now Dead Santa. With a startled squeak, she backed away and swallowed hard, getting over her aches and pains pretty quick because hey, at least she was still alive.

And so help her God, Lucas had better stay that way too.

She staggered upright and with sheer grit, managed to get onto the table. Getting to her feet from there was trickier because her leg was protesting loudly. Ignoring that, she slowly straightened and eyed the window. It was locked. She’d need her hands to get it open.

“Dammit.” She dropped to her butt and slid off the table, frantically running her gaze around the room for something sharp. The old, rickety metal shelving unit lining the wall had promise. The corner of it had rivets along the seam, basically just rusty, jagged edges of metal meeting metal.

Tetanus seemed preferable to being shot to death by Mrs. Claus, so she backed up to it and pressed the flex-cuffs against the metal, moving her arms up and down, trying to saw through the plastic. Moving too fast, she slipped and cried out as she sliced her hand open.

Taking a deep breath, she repositioned her hands and went at it again. It took what felt like hours, but was probably only a few minutes before her hands suddenly sprung apart.

Blood dripped down her fingers from a deep cut in her palm. Ignoring this, she ran back to Lucas. Still breathing, and . . . still not responsive. She needed help. She tried to find her cell phone, but it was gone. She looked at Santa. Blowing out a deep breath, she patted him down, looking for his phone. “You were an asshole,” she whispered when she found it in a pocket. “But I’m still sorry.”

She used the emergency feature on the phone to call 9–1–1. She asked for the cavalry and then wanted to call Joe. Unfortunately, Santa had a passcode, but she had the option of using a thumbprint. Gingerly, she picked up Santa’s hand and pressed his thumb to the home key. “Sorry about that too,” she murmured and called Joe.