No Fortunate Son (Pike Logan, #7)(39)

She hoisted herself back up and closed the window, then flushed the toilet, hating herself. Hating her cowardice.

The bearded guard opened the door and said, “Come on. Back down to the cellar.”

She entered the hallway and heard the man Seamus on a phone, shouting.

—“He went where?”

—“Who did he see?”

—“What? You’re shitting me.”

—“Yes, it matters. That’s my damn grandfather.”

—“Take him out. I don’t know how he’s gotten that far, but it’s too close.”

—“Don’t give me that shit. I don’t work for you. I’m helping your operation. You want the diversion, you need to get rid of him. If I have to do it, I’m pulling my men to execute. You got that?”

She heard him hang up as they reached the door to the basement. To someone she couldn’t see, Seamus said, “Pack them up. We’re getting out of here.”

The other man said, “You sure? We don’t have enough drugs for two movements. This was supposed to be base.”

The bearded man opened the door, the darkness splitting open before her, and she heard, “Pack them up. I’ll get more drugs.”

She was led down and forced to sit. She waited until the light disappeared, then hissed, “Nick?”

She could tell he recognized the urgency in her voice by the tone of his response, vibrating in concern. “Yes?” She heard him shuffle toward her. He said, “Yeah, I’m here. What’s up? What’s wrong?”

“They’re moving us. We’re going somewhere else.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Someone did something that’s made them afraid.”

Unconsciously, she brought her bound hands up and rubbed her necklace, a talisman.

Travis said, “This is good. If we’re bringing pressure on them, our negotiations only get stronger.”

She ignored him, talking in the dark to Nick. “If we leave here, I lose the chance at escape. We don’t know where we’re going. This might be it.”

Travis hissed, “No, damn it. No way. Let this play out.”

She said, “Nick? What should I do?”

Nick was silent. Travis said, “I can’t let you do this. You’re putting our lives in jeopardy.”

She repeated, “Nick?”

He said, “Kylie, I can’t ask that of you. I . . . I just can’t.”

The door above opened, spilling light in the room. Kylie recognized the problem. Saw the wall separating Nick from a decision. She said, “Is it because you feel responsible for me?”

She heard no response and said, “Nick. Please. Tell me what to do.”

Nick said, “Kylie, maybe if—”

The man on the landing shouted, “Shut the f*ck up.”

The boots clomped down the stairs, the window of decision shrinking with each step. She sat back and made her choice.

The bearded man ordered them to rise, stating they were leaving. Hands still bound, they marched to the stairs. They reached the top and Kylie said, “Please, can I use the bathroom one more time?”

“What the f*ck? You just did.”

“Yes, but I have a small bladder. If we’re leaving, I’d like to go again. I don’t want to pee myself in a trunk. Please?”

He grunted, and said, “You two stay right here. No movement. I can see you from the bathroom door.”

She caught Nick’s eyes and saw fear. She nodded slightly and followed the bearded man.

Inside, she closed the door and put down the seat of the toilet loud enough for him to hear. She made cloth-on-cloth noise, as if she was lowering her pants, then stood still, listening. Hearing only the shuffling of feet.

She glanced at the window and swallowed. She took a deep breath and climbed onto the toilet. She cranked open the window as fast as she could. When it squeaked, she stopped, adrenaline racing through her.

She looked back at the door, but it remained closed. She continued, working the lever much slower, as she had before, getting it as wide as possible. She paused one more time, hearing footsteps outside the door, as if the man was moving away, back down the corridor.

Nick. He was making a diversion. She was sure of it.

She crammed her body into the window, her bound hands outside and clawing for a grip in the gravel. Her breasts caught, preventing further movement. In desperation, she jammed her elbow against the windowsill and pulled, feeling her back getting ground as if a cheese grater was running over it. In a brief moment of panic, she realized she was stuck. Absolute fear took over, her response like that of a person caught in a tangle of rope underwater.

She thrashed about, desperately trying to get her upper body through the small aperture. She rolled right, then left, clawing the dirt and pulling. She felt the blood on her back, the pain shooting through her. She came close to crying out, but clamped her jaw shut and continued pulling.

She popped through.

She dragged her legs out, stood up, and began running down the alley, looking for a way out. The house was on the right, a concrete wall topped with razor wire on her left, another house rising behind it. She rounded a corner and saw a street to her front. Freedom. She sprinted as fast as she could, trying to reach a car or a neighbor.

She raised her bound hands, preparing to shout and flag down any vehicle that appeared. Seamus stepped around the corner, the sight sending fear bolting through her. He was so close she couldn’t avoid a collision and tried to duck underneath him. He snagged her collar and she felt her necklace snap from her forward momentum, the gold circle flying out of her peripheral vision. She twisted under his arm, trying to break his hold, and he punched her straight in the face.