Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 133511 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 534(@250wpm)___ 445(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133511 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 534(@250wpm)___ 445(@300wpm)
She went quiet.
I stood warily, looking for the gun she’d dropped—it’d skittered across the floor, stopping next to the stove. Grabbing it, I threw it out the shattered window, into the mud. Then I stumbled over to Painter, pulling the gag out of his mouth.
“Are you okay?” I gasped, running my eyes over his knife wound. Didn’t look serious, thank God.
“Yeah, it’s just one cut,” he said. “That was amazing, Mel.”
“I’ve got to get you free—do you know where the handcuff keys are?”
“Tie her up first,” he said. “For all we know she’s got another gun. Then check on Duck.”
Duck was deader than a doornail—I knew that without checking. The old man was toast the minute his artery blew, I thought with professional detachment. I’d freak out later, but right now I had work to do.
“Duck’s gone,” I declared flatly. “He bled out—nobody survives that. What should I tie her with?”
“There’s probably some rope under the sink,” he said. “Duck keeps shit like that down there.”
Crossing the kitchen, I had to wade through Duck’s blood to reach the sink. As I passed, I knelt down for an instant, checking his pulse out of habit even though I knew it was pointless.
Nothing.
Not a surprise. Taking a deep breath, I pushed away the emotion, pretending he was just another patient in the ER. We lost them every day—if I shut down every time it happened I’d never make it through a shift.
Under the sink was a tarp, some rope, a big box of black garbage bags, duct tape, and a hacksaw. I blinked. Don’t think about it right now. Don’t think at all. Just take the rope and tie her up. I grabbed what I needed, moving back toward Talia’s still body. I tied her hands first and then her legs before checking for a pulse.
It was there—faint, but definitely present.
Ripping open her shirt, I examined the bullet wound on her shoulder, then looked around for something to apply pressure. A towel, a cushion. Anything.
“She can survive this,” I said tightly. “But we’ll have to get her to a hospital fast. It’ll be hard to get the ambulance back here, but—”
“No,” Painter said. I stilled, turning to him. Blood still ran down his face, and his eyes were cold—like some monster out of a horror movie. “Look at what she did to Duck.”
Following his gaze, I stared at the old man lying dead on the floor.
“Think about it—killing him wasn’t enough for her,” he continued. “First she fucked him, used him to lure me out here. You saw them—they planned to torture me, and they already admitted doing it to Gage. If we call an ambulance, we’ll have to explain all this, and I don’t know how it’ll end.”
I looked back down at Talia, watching as more blood oozed out. If I didn’t do something very soon, she was going to die.
Could I sit back and watch?
Duck had given his life to save us. She’d wanted to shoot Painter—she’d been bored by his suffering. Closing my eyes, I tried to think. Tried to figure out what I should do . . .
“If she survives, she’ll come after us again,” Painter said softly. “What about Izzy?”
No, he was wrong. She wouldn’t hurt an innocent little girl, would she?
She might.
I stood slowly, backing away.
“Do you know where the handcuff keys are?” I asked, swallowing. “I should get you loose.”
“Probably in Marsh’s pocket,” he said, wincing. “You’ll have to hunt for them.”
Stepping over to the big man’s body, I reached down and dug my hand into his jeans. He smelled like iron and meat, with a whiff of shit. God, how many times had I smelled that in the ER?
Too many.
I found a set of keys, pulling them out. “These little ones, here?”
“Looks right,” Painter grunted. I crawled over to him, and a minute later his hands were out of the cuffs. Looking around, I found Marsh’s knife and handed it to him. He sliced through the ropes holding his feet, and then he was free.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered, standing slowly. “Come here.”
I fell into his arms—covered in blood and mud—as my burst of adrenaline started to fade. What a mess. What a huge, disgusting mess, and I had no idea what we were supposed to do about it. Painter rubbed up and down my back, soothing me.
“You did good. It’s okay,” he whispered. “We’ll figure it out. I need to call the club.”
“I already did,” I told him. “I mean, I texted them. London and Reese.”
“They’ll send someone,” he said. “Let’s go outside and wait. It’s going to be okay, I promise.”
Moving slowly, we walked back through the house and out onto the porch. Less than five minutes later, a Jeep Wrangler turned off the main road and started down the long driveway toward us.