The Unwilling(120)

A terrible thought struck like a jolt of electricity. Cops on the street would not trigger the alarm. Reece scanned the screens.

Camera 1? Nothing.

Camera 2?

A flicker of movement drew his attention to camera 9, a slash of something dark, there for an instant and then gone.

Reece pulled at his hair.

Nothing!

No, wait …

Camera 12 caught another hint of movement. Someone was on the grounds. Cops? Something else? It didn’t matter.

“Time to go.”

Reece twisted through the secret corridors, and sprinted from the north wing, his thoughts touching again on the boys. Could X be responsible for this? He’d given his word: no contract on Reece’s head. And X would never call the cops, not if his own life depended on it.

“Think!”

He’d planned for this. He had time.

But what if X was responsible?

Reece burst into the main house, snatching up cash and a gun, running numbers in his head. His escape route was through the side door, then across the rear grounds and through the small gate at the back. He owned the property on the other side, a second house with a second garage, bought years ago for contingencies like this. He’d timed it out before. He could clear the gate in sixty seconds. Another forty, and he could be in a car and on the road. What about the boys? Kill them? Take them? Kill the little one and take the other? He ran those numbers, too. Ten seconds to get out of the house. Five more to reach the basement door.

He made the decision on instinct. X was not involved. He’d been specific. It had to be Byrd. Or Reece had made a mistake with Tyra, or with Lonnie Ward, some bread crumb of a clue that brought the cops, at last, to his door. Smart move was to go, and do it fast.

But he did hate Jason French.

Handsome Jason.

Favorite Jason.

In the dark outside, the thought only grew. He couldn’t get to Jason, and even if he could, he couldn’t beat him. He’d seen what the bastard could do; those qualities X admired so much. A dark desire built as Reece hugged the shrub line, moving quickly, no sign of cops or intruder. He wanted to make Jason hurt, and for Jason to know it was he who’d taken, and he who’d destroyed. It would be easy, too. The boys were caged; the basement door was right there. How long could it take?

Pop, pop.

Two seconds, and gone.





46


When the last bolt dropped, Gibby bent the mesh as quietly as he could. It took time; it was harder than it looked. “You first.”

He pulled the mesh as high as he could off the floor, and Chance slipped through like a greased ferret.

“Here, take this.”

Chance took the pressure, and Gibby forced himself into the gap. He was larger, but made it through with only a few cuts and scrapes. Dusting himself off, he said, “I’ll never look at a dog pound the same way.”

“Whatever, man, I’m calling you Houdini from now on.”

“Not yet. That door’s locked from the outside.”

Chance checked to make sure. It was solid steel, and seriously locked. “So what do we do?”

“A lot of dangerous stuff in here. I guess we find something sharp, and kill the bastard.”

Chance waited for the punch line.

It never came.

“You check over there.” Gibby picked up a scalpel, gripped it like a knife, and then put it down when he found a larger one. “Anything?”

Chance opened a few cabinets. “I found bleach.”

“Check that big chest.”

“It’s a freezer.”

“Check it, anyway.”

The freezer door went up. “Um, Gibby.”

“Yeah?”

“No. Seriously.”

Chance’s face should have been warning enough. It wasn’t. Gibby crossed the room, and stared down. “Oh, Jesus.”

“That’s somebody’s leg.”

Gibby closed his eyes, but the image wouldn’t go. Plastic, frost, those things that were beneath …

“Oh shit,” Chance said. “I think that one is somebody’s head.”

“Close it, please.”

Chance did that, too.

Behind them, a key grated in the lock.

For a moment, time stopped, then Gibby charged the door. It opened, and framed the small man—same gun in his hand—and there was a moment of pure comic genius: his face when he saw what was about to happen. Because Gibby was big and fast, and not about to slow down. He tucked his shoulder, and hit chest-high, one hundred and ninety pounds of pissed-off, shit-scared, eighteen-year-old with a very strong desire to live. He drove the little man back through the door, and they went down in a tangle, Gibby on top, and trying hard to stab a man somewhere it actually mattered. He had little luck, and no time at all. The gun went off, maybe into the dirt. Gibby rolled right, and the world exploded again, powder grit and fire as the gun lit off ten inches from his face.

Still alive, though.

Chance must have been close behind, because the next three shots went into the basement, then the little bastard was up and running. Gibby tried to stop him, but couldn’t. He was half-deaf, half-blind.

“Chance?” He stumbled back into the basement. “Chance? You alive?”

“Yeah, believe it or not.” Chance straightened as he stood, ten feet from the door and big as life. “That dude cannot shoot for shit.”