Chapter 40
June
The wobbly chair pokes into my back as I sit there, wrists bound behind my back, forced to watch one of the Cortesi men pacing the room. He’s the only one left, after everyone else has been called out to guard the premise around this building. I can tell that his nerves are on edge, as he’s glancing at the closed blinds every few seconds. Something is going on outside, but I can’t tell what. I can hear muffled voices and hurried steps as the men take their place, and just as my guard walks over to the window to peek through the closed blinds, another sound rips through the air—and I almost fall out of my chair.
A gunshot that rings a little too close for comfort. My pulse spikes before a thought races through my mind. Is Ryker coming for me?
I don't know what terrifies me more—the possibility that he’s here, or that he’s not.
Another gunshot sounds outside, and my guard jerks away from the window. He pries at the blinds, eyes darting back and forth, his face tense.
“What’s going on?” I ask, unable to mask the fear in my voice.
He doesn’t even look at me, his eyes still latched onto the closed blinds. There’s another shot, which springs him into action.
“Fuck!” he hisses, before bolting out the door, leaving it half-open behind him.
I stare at the empty doorway, my heart hammering in my chest.
This is my chance.
I twist my wrists, straining against the rope binding me to the chair, the rough material digging into my skin. Gritting my teeth, I pull harder, ignoring the burning pain until I feel my wrist give way, sliding partially through the knot. But the rope’s too tight. My left hand catches, and with one final wrench, a sharp, sickening crack shoots through the joint at the base of my thumb. I bite down on a scream as the pain flares through me, hot and blinding. Pressing my lips together, I yank my wrist free, a tear slipping down my cheek as my fingers go limp. I definitely broke something there, but at least my hands are free enough to untie me from the chair.
Breathless, I scramble to undo the rope around my other wrist, fumbling with my injured hand, before I somehow free my legs with my right hand. I stagger to my feet, still tethered by a length of rope hanging from my right wrist, but I’m free.
My pulse races as I stumble toward the open doorway, but I freeze at the sound of more gunfire, the shouts and chaos escalating outside. Every instinct screams at me to run, but terror roots me in place. I don’t know what’s waiting for me out there.
I slowly approach the door and dare to peek out into the hallway. The farmhouse is cold, dark, and crumbling from years of neglect, every corner casting shadows that make my pulse race. I step into the hallway, half expecting a guard to appear at any moment, but there’s no one there, only the faint smell of mildew hanging in the air. The gunfire outside sounds like it’s coming from a distance, muffled but relentless. Each shot sends a new chill down my spine. I hear frantic voices blending into the chaos in a way that makes my skin crawl.
But I also notice that the most of the turmoil seems to be concentrated on the premise at the front of the house. If I go out the back, I might actually stand a chance to slip out unnoticed.
I crouch low, moving swiftly through the narrow hallway, my senses on high alert for any sound. The house is cold, musty, and the air feels thick, like it hasn’t moved in years.
The rooms I pass look hastily thrown together, the interior just as chaotic as the voices outside. Most of the rooms seem to be make-shift offices—desks piled with papers, old maps with notes scrawled on them, equipment stacked in teetering piles. It’s like they tried to squeeze an entire operation into the decaying shell of this old farm.
I glance over my shoulder, feeling the echo of my heartbeat with every step, terrified that I’ll see someone closing in behind me. My mind races with options. What if one of them comes back into the house and finds me? Would they pull me into their filthy arms and use me as hostage, threatening to kill me before Ryker’s eyes, if he doesn’t comply? I shake my head. I don’t even know if it’s Ryker and his men out there, or the Reid brothers searching for revenge. I doubt they’d care enough about me to risk their lives to get me out of here. Or it might be someone else entirely. I’m sure a group like the Cortesi is not short of enemies.
The only sounds inside the farmhouse are my shallow breaths and the faint creak of old floorboards beneath my feet as I move further to the back. But every few steps, a fresh burst of gunfire causes me to pull my shoulders up to my ears, reminding me that time is running out.
Finally, I reach the kitchen. It’s old and doesn’t look like it has been used in a while, the shelves barely hanging onto the walls and no appliances other than a dusty coffeemaker on the countertop. Dust hangs in the air like mist, and the broken tiles beneath my feet creak with every step. I grab the back door handle, sighing with relief when it turns easily. Thank God, it’s unlocked.
A sudden boom echoes through the farmhouse, loud enough to make me stumble forward, my heart pounding. I turn and see smoke emerging from the room I’d just been in, where they left me tied to that chair. Good thing I got out in time, I think, swallowing hard as I pull the door open and step out into the night.
The cold air slaps against me, the faint scent of damp earth and rusted metal filling my lungs. Rusted plows, busted seeders, and other hulking, unused equipment sit abandoned around the yard. It looks like the Cortesi never cleaned up when they turned this place into one of their headquarters.
I check to the left and right, squinting into the dark, but I can’t see anyone. A gunshot pierces the silence on my right, and I instinctively bolt to the left, my steps as light as possible on the gravel path. Still, the sound of my steps cuts into the night way too loudly, no matter how careful I try to be.
But when I pick up speed, I can hear footsteps approaching, just as I’m about to go around the corner. Panic squeezes my throat, and I try to whirl around, preparing to flee back the other way, but it’s too late.
I slam into a solid chest, knocking the air from my lungs.
Fuck.