Take Your Time (Boston Love #4)(86)

“Lot of security, for a damn wedding.”

“Tell me about it. Bumped into at least three security details patrolling the site on my way to grab her. Got around two. The third wasn’t so easy to sidestep.”

“Did he see you?” Cueball asks nervously.

“Relax. He’s not seeing much of anything, by this point.” He laughs. “My stiletto blade in his side guaranteed that.”

My heart clenches. One of the Knox Investigations guys is hurt, badly. Maybe dead.

Please, don’t let it be Luca. Please.

“Why do they have so much security? These people rich or something?”

“For her sake, better hope so. If her brother doesn’t come up with any cash to settle his loan, she’s gonna need someone else willing to pay the boss on her behalf. Otherwise…”

“Maybe we should leave her. Try the parent angle again. Or his ex-girlfriend. From what I can tell, Sinclair isn’t even close to this girl.”

“She’s his sister.”

“So? I hate my sister,” Cueball murmurs.

“Don’t tell me you’re backing out, Grafton. Boss won’t be happy to hear you left me high and dry to handle this alone.”

“I’m not! But I’ve been watching these guys all day — they’re highly trained. Personal security, surveillance, you name it. If they catch us, we’re fucked.”

Eggplant scoffs. “They’re not gonna catch us.”

We reach the end of the hallway and they drop me in a heap on the floor. It takes effort to let myself fall like deadweight, without bringing my hands up to shield my face. I land with a jarring thud, my forehead banging against the concrete, half my face coming to rest in a brackish puddle. I can feel their eyes on me as I lie there like a stone, barely breathing as I struggle to keep my face clear of all emotion.

“Stupid bitch is still out cold.”

“How hard did you hit her?”

“Hard enough.”

Cueball is relegated to guard duty while Eggplant slips out to retrieve their getaway car. I don’t dare open my eyes again, even a sliver.

“Watch her!” Eggplant barks at his partner before shoving a door wide, its metal hinges screeching. I hear a low electrical buzz as a lift gate clangs open. If I had to wager a guess, I’d say we’re at some kind of truck-loading zone or a back door used for supply drop-off.

My mind whirls as I consider the few facts I know for sure.

They said we were in the basement. Probably down below the main exhibit floor, then. Maybe even below sea level. It would explain the moisture in the air.

Eggplant mentioned his stiletto blade, but nothing about a gun. The fact that they can’t shoot me raises my odds of survival incrementally.

I hear Cueball pacing back and forth, muttering to himself. I count his steps as he makes laps. Ten toward the door, ten back to me. Ten to the door, ten back to me. Like clockwork.

It might be my only chance.

When I hear him start another circuit toward the door, I crack open my eyes and see him walking to the metal gate. Heart in my throat, I roll soundlessly from my side onto my knees, bunching the soaked hem of my dress in one hand as I lift into a crouch on my four inch heels.

I wait until he’s almost at the gate before I scramble upright and start running the opposite direction, back down the narrow hallway. It’s dark and I have no idea where I’m going, but I figure bolting in the opposite direction of the scary bad guys is as good a choice as any.

He hears me running as soon as my heels click against the concrete. So much for my head start.

“Hey! Stop! Get back here, bitch!”

As if, bucko.

I pass the pile of rusted scuba tanks and buckets. Pausing for a moment, I turn and shove the heavy cylinders with both hands — they fall with a massive clatter, like fifty-pound dominoes, rolling across the floor to create a momentary roadblock. I grin as I spin and start sprinting again, grabbing my dress hem to keep from tripping.

I hear him cursing as the tanks roll toward him but don’t risk turning around to watch him struggle. At the end of the hallway, I finally spot what I’ve been looking for — a metal exit door topped with a sign that says STAIRWELL. I slam into it full force, grasping for the handle. No matter how I twist, it doesn’t budge — either locked or simply stuck shut.

Shit.

A scream of frustration rattles in my throat. I can hear Cueball coming — he sounds enraged from my stunt with the scuba tanks. I whirl around, seeking an alternate route. There’s another door to the left, slightly ajar. I squeeze through the gap in a blind panic, hoping I’ll find a window, another set of stairs, anything that might help me get out of here.

Instead, I’m confronted with a maze of storage rooms, one leading straight into the next. I soon discover an underground labyrinth of aquatic equipment, each space stacked to the ceiling with discarded instruments, empty tanks, replacement parts. There’s no end in sight.

I cut a path through room after room, eyes straining to adjust to the dark, trying to move as silently as possible. I hear the screech of the metal door behind me as Cueball follows me into the maze. His steps are methodical as he moves, checking each room to see if I’ve stopped to hide behind a shelf, inside an old tank, beneath a pile of rubbery wetsuits.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he calls in a singsong voice, chuckling. “Don’t you want to help your brother, Delilah?”