Exit Strategy. Shirlee McCoy

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ should have been back at work over a month ago, should have reported to her fifth grade classroom the third week of August. Had anyone noticed her absence? Had they gone looking for her? No one had come to the compound. She knew that for sure.

      Her eyes burned with tears. She wouldn’t let them fall. She hated crying almost as much as she hated quitting. She’d been a fighter her entire life, and she’d keep fighting, because there was nothing else to do. No other way out of the situation she’d gotten herself into.

      And, she had gotten herself into it.

      She could have refused her in-laws’ invitation to return to Amos Way. She could have ignored the doubts that had nagged at her since Joshua’s death.

      Could have. Should have. Would have.

      A hundred regrets, but she couldn’t do anything about them.

      Keys jingled. The lock on the door turned. The door opened, cold crisp air filling the darkness. She didn’t dare turn to look at the person entering. Didn’t dare move. Barely dared to breathe.

       Please just let him be getting the food.

       Please let him go away.

       Please...

      A light flashed on the floor near her head, glanced over the wall, landed on the nail still stained with her blood. He saw it. She knew that he did. Saw the trail of red that stained the dingy floor, the glossy drops that proved how she’d been spending her time.

      She clutched the ropes that she’d broken through, her heart slamming against her ribs, her stomach sick with dread. She could have turned, faced the man as he approached, but she still wanted to hope and believe that he didn’t know, that he hadn’t seen the broken ends of the rope, the trail of blood.

      The floor creaked, boots tapping against linoleum.

      Fabric rustled, and she felt him. Right there. Inches away. John? He’d been one of Joshua’s best friends. They’d grown up together. But friendship didn’t mean much in Amos Way. All that mattered was the group cause, the combined beliefs, the value of community and the blind faith in Elijah Clayton. Elijah had named her the enemy. He’d set her up, accused her of theft, beaten her, tossed her in the trailer and left her to rot. No one in Amos Way would question that. No one would come to her aid.

      She swallowed down bile, refusing to give in to panic.

      Someone touched her shoulder, and she flinched.

      “You’ve gotten yourself into a dangerous situation,” a man said. She didn’t know the voice. Not surprising. Most of the men on Elijah’s security team were outsiders, hired hands who got paid well to protect Amos Way.

      She didn’t respond. Didn’t know what she was expected to say.

      “So,” he continued, reaching for her hands, his fingers untangling the loose ends of the rope. “We’re going to play this my way. Then maybe we can both get out of here alive. Okay?”

      Surprised, she shifted, rolling onto her back, looking straight into a stranger’s face. Moonlight filtered in through the open door, splashing across dark jeans and dusty boots, white dress shirt, gun holster. He looked like every other security officer she’d seen in the compound, his dark hair cropped close, his face hard.

      “Who are you?” she asked, because he hadn’t ignored her like every other security officer had.

      “Someone who is here to help, but it’s going to take me a little time to get you out of here.” He pulled something from his gun belt, and her blood ran cold, his words flying away before they could register. Handcuffs. If he got those on her, she’d never escape. It was now or not at all. Fight and run or stay and die.

      She lunged up, slamming her body into his with so much force they both toppled over. Feet still tied, she had no choice but to crawl over him, scramble for the door, for that cold crisp fall night.

      He grabbed her ankle, dragged her back.

      He was too strong or she was too weak. Too many days without food. Too much time trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. She fought anyway, scratching and clawing and bucking against his weight. He pinned her easily, hard body pressing hers into the ground, his hands surprisingly gentle on her forearms.

      “Stop!” he commanded.

      She didn’t, because she could still feel the cold air, the chance of escape just a few feet away.

      He pressed his forearm to her throat without even enough pressure to make her flinch.

      “Stop,” he said again, his voice calm. “John is watching. You want him to come give me a hand?”

      She froze, her body shaking with fear and adrenaline.

      “Good. Now, how about we try this again?”

      He grabbed both her wrists, snapped the handcuff onto one. She bucked up, arm flailing as she tried to avoid the other cuff. He snapped it on easily, and she knew she was done. That any hope that she’d had of getting out of the compound alive was gone.

      He lifted her wrists, flashing his light on the deep cut that still seeped blood.

      “You’re a mess,” he murmured, letting her arms drop onto her stomach, reaching across her body and using pliers to yank the nail from the wall. “But there’s not a whole lot I can do about it yet.”

      The nail dropped onto the floor, and he reached over, his body covering hers for a split second, something dropping onto her knuckles, falling onto her stomach.

      Surprised, she grabbed it, felt the cool metal of a key.

      Her heart jumped, and she met his eyes.

      He didn’t give any indication that he knew what she held, just dropped the nail into his pocket and stood. “Essex sent me. He’s been worried. Now, stop trying so hard, Lark. You’re just making things harder on both of us.”

      He walked outside, closed the door, sealing her in with the putrid air, the pulsing darkness, the cold metal key pressing against her palm and just the tiniest glimmer of hope that she wasn’t as alone as she’d thought.

      * * *

      So much for an easy mission.

      Cyrus Mitchell pulled the bloody nail from his pocket and frowned. As far as he could tell, it was the only thing in the trailer that had a sharp edge on it. Lark must have been working at the ropes for hours, sawing through the hemp until she’d finally freed herself.

      She had to have noticed the security camera, had to have known that she was being watched twenty-four hours a day. Maybe she’d been desperate enough not to care. Or sick enough not to be thinking clearly. Whatever the case, she’d been determined, and she’d succeeded.

      He’d taken that away from her, and it didn’t feel good.

      The key was his way of apologizing. Essex’s name the information she needed to keep her hope alive. It wouldn’t get her out of the trailer, but maybe it would keep her from giving up.

      Hope, СКАЧАТЬ