Chapter 7 #3
His laughter in her ear was obscene. Sickeningly delighted.
He pulled back and shoved her into the room.
Tripping on the train of her dress, her gaze flew to the floor as she stumbled.
The tops of her feet were marked by the decorative straps of her missing shoes.
Red and welted, the angry stripes jogged her memory.
You’re a tigress.
The sound of Ronan’s voice abruptly entered her mind and echoed with urgency, like a shout into a cave.
Her terror and panic coalesced, fluttering in her chest like a trapped bird.
Adrenaline surged, and her anger with it, in a chain reaction that scorched through fear and unleashed survival instinct.
Thrusting her arm out, Ireland ripped the phone from the tripod with such force that it clattered to the floor and skidded a few feet away.
“You clumsy fucking cunt!” the man roared.
Ireland clutched the phone in a death grip and pivoted, instantly ramming the butt under his chin.
His head flew back. He stumbled, and she surged, her arm lifted high.
She pounded the phone into his nose. The horrendous cracking of bone reverberated, fueling something primordial inside her. Blood spurted in her face. He screamed.
She dropped and spun in a low roundhouse kick, swiping his legs out from beneath him. He crashed heavily to the floor, his skull bouncing grotesquely off the tile with a dreadful squelching sound.
Any pain Ireland might have felt was distant; her thoughts fogged in a red haze.
Dropping onto him with her knees in his groin, Ireland’s arm lifted high and powered down again.
The corner of the phone shattered his orbital bone.
Howling at incredible volume, he thrashed beneath her, steely fingers pinching and pulling at her flesh, short nails ripping into her skin.
There was a siren in the room, a high-pitched shrieking, but she continued bashing the phone into his head at lightning speed and without mercy.
Hot blood splattered her and obliterated the mangled features of his face.
He began to gurgle blood, choking on it and broken teeth. She didn’t stop. Not even when his arms dropped listlessly to the floor. She kept hammering until the bright red blood stopped bubbling from his lips, until her blows had no strength and the room began to spin.
Gulping for air, Ireland stared down at the raw, unrecognizable mass of meat and bone. A distant part of her mind knew the sight was horrific, but she felt nothing beyond the savage beat of her own heart and the heaving of her lungs.
She realized then that the alarm she’d heard was her own enraged screaming as the primal sound trailed into hoarse, hiccoughing cries.
She wouldn’t be able to recall later how long she knelt over the body.
Was it minutes or hours? When she tried to stand, it took ages, her arms and legs shaking from exertion and the flood of adrenaline in her veins.
She crawled to the foot of the bed and tugged one of the handcuffs to the floor.
It slithered down to a thunderous heap on the tile.
She was sure he was too damaged to hurt her and most likely dead, but her fingers trembled too much to find a pulse, and she took no chances, snapping the restraints around his ankles.
Blood drained from his head in an ever-widening pool.
The phone lay on the floor, shattered and useless.
She dragged herself toward the door, slipping in the blood that seemed to drench her.
Her hands left bloody prints on the jamb as she pulled herself up, and her feet left a crimson trail as she hobbled down the long hallway.
Her arms and legs grew heavier by the moment, her dizziness increasing until she was leaning against the wall as she shuffled forward.
In a corner of her mind, she remembered his accomplice, the woman whose voice she’d heard.
At any point, she could return. The ominous thought was devastating and drove Ireland to keep going when the hallway ended and there was no longer anything to lean on.
She entered the living room. Her head swiveled, searching for danger. Searching for another phone. Another weapon. The condo seemed to be a model home, beautiful to look at but empty of anything she could use for defense.
There were no heavy decorative objects. No sculptures or vases.
No art with glass. Not a goddamned thing.
When she checked the kitchen drawers, she found only plastic sporks.
There was a stack of frozen meals in the freezer.
The refrigerator had a supply of bottled water and an empty box that once held canned beer.
Fumbling for a bottle, Ireland drank greedily, crushing the flimsy plastic and spilling much of the chilled liquid down her chest.
Enough.
RUN!
She started toward the front door. It took her too long to turn the many deadbolts. A wailing siren pierced the air the moment she turned the knob and pulled. The shock of the alarm almost stopped her heart. Then it raced.
Revived by her surprise, Ireland bolted toward the elevator, running, stumbling down a well-appointed hallway with only three other doors, two of which were stairwells.
She jabbed the elevator button repeatedly, desperately afraid that the other condo door would burst open and another fucking psycho would pursue her.
Soundproofed, the kidnapper had said. Or maybe they just had the whole floor.
The elevator doors opened, and she limped inside, using both painfully aching hands to push the button for the ground floor. When the door closed, the mirror-like metal panels revealed her reflection.
She was covered in blood, her dress and arms splattered with it, her eyes so dilated there was no hint of blue around the vast, empty black.
She lurched back from the horrific sight, leaning heavily on the handrail that encircled the interior.
The elevator hurtled downward with tremendous speed, the pressure in her ears reminding her of the pounding hammer of pain in her skull.
In the tight confines, the metallic smell of blood made her stomach roil.
The car’s descent slowed, then came to a gliding stop. Ireland took a deep breath as the doors opened, terrified at what else she might have to contend with.
A man and woman with a leashed Yorkshire terrier started to enter, then stopped.
“I’m sor—” the woman began, then she gasped. “Oh my god!”
Relief made Ireland sway on her feet.
“Call 911,” she tried to say, but her voice was gone; only a growl came out. Afraid the car would climb again to that hell upstairs, she started wobbling out. Her knee collapsed, throwing her off balance.
The reflective walls of the car spun around her like a carnival ride, and she tumbled into unconsciousness.