The Fall(46)

“No, no, no.” I thrashed around as an uncontainable panic overtook me demanding I get my ass off this bed and to safety. “Nooooooooooo.”

It didn’t even sound like my own voice, the noise ripping apart like it had left my body and was floating above me.

My chest constricted, the expanding of my lungs such an effort that I wasn’t sure I could continue the in and out they needed. And even though my eyes were open, I couldn’t see a thing.

“He’s going to stroke out; you’ve given him too much.”

“He’s still breathing.”

“Holy shit, his eyes. He’s freaking me out.”

“Leave him. Get your things and leave.”

There was a noise.

Loud.

Like a train thundering down tracks at full speed, but I had no idea where the train was coming from. Desperately, I tried to move but I wasn’t sure if the effort I was expending was actually moving my f*cking body or I was dreaming it. I was powerless, my heartbeat loud in my ears as I struggled against my body and my mind to get up.

And then it happened.

Everything got quiet.

Still.

And I had a minute of clarity.

This was the fall.

There was a tipping point. A pivotal moment where your body stops pumping blood to where it should and your brain stops firing synapses. And you know you’re going to die.

And then you fall into the abyss of the end—the final breath, the final thought—all of it coming at you in a rush of darkness.

Freedom.

I’d imagined this moment a million times over, and in all those scenarios, it had never been this beautiful. My mouth opened, straining as I pushed out my last breath, and I welcomed the blackness.





I was never good at doing what I was told.

It was one of the reasons I fought with my father when I was growing up. That I wouldn’t sit, be quiet and look pretty like a good little girl.

He hated it.

And I hated being told what to do.

Which is why the minute Michael left the warehouse, I dug out the cell phone. For days I’d had no communication with the outside world and then suddenly, there it was. A connection, something that I could control. But the minute I had the phone in my hands I realized I had no one to call.

No one.

So instead I turned my attention to the computer that was still logged on. The evidence was still on the screen—unlike him to be sloppy—but I guess he’d been in a rush. Either me finding out about his past or my new expensive price tag was probably to blame.

No password was required as I clicked on the computer and I found out more than I’d dreamt possible. He’d been dealing with hackers, using them to procure his information. And then finally I realized what I needed to do.

For reasons unknown—and a huge win for me—he’d left a car behind. An old Chevy was parked out back, the keys still in the ignition. Then it was just a matter of getting his shady contacts to trace his cell and text me the location.

I knew it was dangerous.

That I could potentially be handing myself over on a silver platter, but I couldn’t sit still. And more importantly, I wouldn’t.

It had been hours since I’d last heard from him. And I knew he would be furious, but something in my gut was telling me I needed to move. And years on the force had taught me never to ignore my gut.

His phone was active, on and sitting in an old rundown motel surprisingly not far from the warehouse. The kind of place that had matted shag carpet on the floor and charged by the hour. There was no clue as to whether he would even be with his phone, or if this was an elaborate decoy, but I needed to find it just to be sure. It was just a matter of narrowing it down to the right room.

I knocked at each door pretending to be a jealous wife, room to room with my Smith and Wesson palmed tightly in my other hand just in case. For the most part I got shouts of “f*ck off” till I came to the final door. Corner room, floor level, with its dirty drapes tightly closed even though there was a light on. And when my fist banged at the wood, I received no answer.

The skin on my arms goose bumped as I jiggled the doorknob, hoping I could use my weight to leverage it open, but even with some shoulder action, it stayed firmly shut.

The only option was the window. It was open, just a fraction. Which was just enough for me to get my fingers into it and push it open.

It wasn’t easy, the paint around the window frame slowing the slide of the glass, but eventually it gave, allowing me to curve my hand inside and unlock the door.

What I saw when I finally got in would haunt me forever.

Michael was on the bed, tied by his arms and legs, his face angled away from the door. And I had no idea if I had been too late.

“Michael,” I whispered, my arms locked as I pointed my weapon into the corners, systematically clearing the room. “Michael.” No response.

He was gray, the color bleeding out of him as his eyes rolled back into his head, but he was breathing. Not that he would be for long unless I got him out of there fast and got him some kind of help.

With a utility knife I’d found in the supply closet, I cut the ropes that bound his arms and legs. It was while I was freeing his wrists that I noticed the puncture marks on the inside of his elbow.

“Michael, you need to wake up.” My arms wrapped around his torso as I tried to lift him from the mattress. It was like lifting dead weight, his body collapsing against me and pulling him down with me.