Objective (Bloodlines #2)(70)

I am going to die. Clasped tightly in my hand is a grenade. A grenade with the pin missing. I push up from the wooden chair I’m seated in and sprint to the door and throw my shoulder into it. “Ezra!” I scream. “Ezra!” It’s no use though, I can hear the sound of his tires in the dirt spinning their way down the long drive. Swallowing hard, I turn and look around. Nothing. It’s just a wooden hunting cabin. The windows are boarded up. There is no furniture, no other rooms. Just one big wooden space with no way out. A small beam of light shoots through the missing knot in one of the boards. The dust in the air dances around haphazardly. I square my shoulders, determined to find something. Anything.

There are small holes in the floorboards here and there but as far as I can tell, it leads to packed dirt just inches below. With only one free hand, my physical strength is severely limited. I try tugging on the board at the window but all I wind up with is splinters in my fingers. If I press my eye just right to the few small holes in the wooden planks I can see the sun starting to set. It’s so hot in here. I’m slick with sweat and I don’t have water. The adrenaline is seeping out of my body, taking with it most of my will as well.

I screamed myself hoarse over the last few hours. Slumping down into the corner I run over my options again and again. I can let go. I can just let go and be done or I can fight my exhaustion and stay awake gripping the handle. I rub my splinter-ridden hand on my shirt to dry off the moisture. My right hand is cramping from clinging to the trigger and I wonder if I can switch hands. I don’t want to risk it. I wrap my left hand around my right and squeeze to try and release the pressure on my right hand for a bit.

One stupid hunk of metal might very well be my demise. I’m not sure how one trains for this- but I sure wish I had. I let my head list back to the wall and let my eyes rest for a moment. How long can someone go without sleep, I wonder. The absurdity of this situation isn’t lost on me. “Touché, Ezra!” I laugh out, crazed. “Touché.”

To keep myself awake I decide to sing every song I can remember all the words to, but I realize there is really only one song that I can remember without the music playing. I’m on my tenth round of Hey Pretty Girl when I swear I hear something. It’s pitch black in the cabin now and I can’t even see my hands holding the grenade. My hands are numb, making it hard to tell if I’m still holding it firmly or just barely hanging on. I press my ear to the wall and slow my breathing down. Everything is quiet. There is the faint sound of traffic, a highway maybe somewhere off in the distance but I can’t be sure. Maybe it’s just the wind. A beam of light flits across the planks through the cracks. I push up to a standing position and listen again. Gravel crunching. Lights pass again.

“I’m in here!” I scream as best I can. “Help!” My throat hurts so much from yelling earlier. It’s pissing me off.

“Magnolia!” Bentley’s gruff voice shouts.

“In here! I'm in here!” I cry out.

“Are you hurt? Can you back away from the door?” His voice sounds strained.

“I’m not hurt really. I’m moving,” I blubber with relief. A shot rings out, echoing through the air. Instinctively I duck and cower in the corner. The door blows open, wood splintering inward towards me. I wrap both hands around the grip of the grenade to keep it steady. Bentley rushes me, arms out, panic evident on his face. Before he reaches me I thrust my hands out in front of me. He stops mid-stride.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Shit!”

“My hands are numb, Bentley. I’m so tired.” My arms tremble just trying to hold the weight of the grenade.

“Princess, you’re going to be OK. Let me help you stand up,” he says in a soothing calm voice. His arms reach out to my shoulders and hoist me up. We walk slowly to the door and down three steps. We are in the middle of a large vacant field. A dirt and gravel road leads through the trees about a football field away from the wooden structure I’d been trapped in.

“Do you trust me?” he asks gently. My body trembles in reaction. No, yes, no, no I do not trust him. How could I at this point?

“Yes,” I mutter. Sweat drips down my neck and between my breasts. It’s hot and sticky. My hands are slick and I’m afraid the cramping in my hands is going to lead to my losing my grip.

“I’m going to take this from you. Do you understand?” he asks slowly.

“It won't work.” My voice breaks on the last word out of my mouth.

“It will. You have to trust me,” he pushes. His hands close around mine so that we’re both gripping the handle. I look up into his eyes and find nothing but calm and focus. “I’m going to count to three. On three you will slide your hands out, leaving me to hold the lever.” I shake my head no at him. It won't work and I’m not going to be responsible for his death. “Dammit, Mags, you have to trust me on this,” he says firmly.

“Fine. I trust you, but, Bentley...”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry. I did really have feelings for you, but Cane, he’s...”

“He’s alive. I get it.” He cuts me off before he leans down and lightly brushes his lips against mine. It feels familiar and safe and right. It’s comforting. “One. Two. Three.” I yank my hands from inside his and stumble backwards. “RUN!” he booms at me. I turn and sprint as fast as my bruised body will allow. The sky explodes. The sound is deafening and the ground shakes with such force that I’m knocked face down. Dirt and tree debris rain down all around me. I can’t hear anything. I can’t see Bentley through the dust cloud. I start crawling back towards where I saw him last. No. No. He has to be alright.