Chapter 8 #3
Cassidy doesn’t look away from him, and she doesn’t acknowledge me at all.
“You’re going to answer me,” she snarls threateningly, “correctly, this time.”
Her free hand drifts down his chest and places her palm, spreading her fingers on his sternum, directly over his heart.
“Feel that?” she asks.
His breath stutters, baffled by her question.
“I can,” she remarks. “Every time you think about lying, it beats faster, and when it does, I’m going to stab you.”
His composure caves, fear seeping through.
“Where. Is. She.”
The color drains from his face as he realizes the reality of the situation.
“Guest house,” he scrambles to answer, his words meshing together. “She’s in the guest house.”
Cassidy doesn’t react. She doesn’t remove her blade, or even blink.
She lets the charged moment settle over the room. She regards him from a slight angle, and his nerves begin to fray.
“I’m telling the truth.” He spouts out. “I swear!”
The blade presses deeper, and more beads of blood trail down his neck.
“And now I have to decide if I believe you.” She lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Which is where this gets unpleasant.”
His breathing grows ragged.
I close the distance and stop right off his right shoulder.
“What kind of door?” I ask, keeping my voice level.
“Metal.” The response comes a little too fast. “Reinforced, it locks from the outside, and there’s a keypad—”
“Code,” Cassidy interjects.
He pauses. There it is. That split second. That brief telling moment of weighing his options.
Cassidy tightens her hold on his hair and jerks his head back. The blade follows, held snug at his throat which makes his breath hitch.
“No thinking,” she tuts into his ear. “That part’s done.”
“I—”
She slams the hilt of the blade into his chest.
The strike knocks the air out of him in a broken sound as he sags.
She doesn’t let him fall and yanks him back up by his hair.
“Code,” she repeats, irritated.
He starts gasping, his eyes darting wildly as fear consumes him.
“2-8-1-4,” he croaks out.
Cassidy stares at him, assessing, and then her lips curve.
“See?” She applauds. “You can listen.”
He exhales like he’s just been granted a reprieve.
“Is she alone?” I inquire.
He rapidly bobs his head.
The blade presses in again, deeper. A warning.
“Don’t do that,” Cassidy sneers. “You’re not good at it.”
Cassidy studies him until he starts shaking, then she moves the blade back a bit.
“Ghost.”
I drag him upright by the arm. He cries out, pitching forward, and hops awkwardly doing his best to protect his wounded foot.
Cassidy falls into step beside me. By the second stride, she’s behind him again, the blade setting at his throat like it was made for that spot.
“Walk,” she instructs. He doesn’t need to be told twice and obeys immediately.
The sudden compliance sets every alarm ringing in my mind. Men like him don’t just cooperate. Something isn’t right.
I glance at Cassidy. She reads the concern on my face.
We don’t say a word. What the hell is inside that guest house?
We march him to the back of the house, his limp worsening as fresh blood leaks from his foot, marking his path with bloody footprints.
From over his shoulder, Cassidy cautions him, not needing to raise her voice. “Try anything, and I’ll make you regret surviving this part.”
He believes her. I can see the apprehension etched on his face as we head for the guest house. Whatever secret he’s protecting is something he desperately doesn't want us to find.
As we push through the back door, the night air greets us and the man trips on the step, I yank him upright before he falls on the ground.
“Keep moving,” Cassidy warns, the blade resting beneath his jaw. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
The yard stretches wide, tall hedges are all along the property line, providing more privacy. The guest house is at the rear of the property about sixty yards away, the lights are on, and the windows have one-way mirror glass.
What the hell?
We reach the door in seconds. Tremors rack his entire body, I can feel it through my grip on his arm. The keypad beside the door frame emits a pale glow. Cassidy stops him, slicing through the zip tie binding his wrists, and lets the severed plastic drop to the floor.
“Punch in the code.” A muscle ticks in her cheek.
His hands shake as he lifts them.
“Slow,” she adds.
He complies and punches in the code with exaggerated care, each beep sounding unnaturally loud in the night.
The lock clicks open, but we hold our position.
“Open it,” Cassidy orders.
He falters. The blade bites into his skin again, and he jerks at the sting. He fumbles for the handle, turns it, and the heavy metal door swings inward.
My gut knots as the air inside hits me, cool, filtered and sterile. Cassidy nudges him ahead and we fall in behind him.
Our boots squeaking against the floor, what the fuck? It’s sheet vinyl.
My eyes adjust to the clinical lighting. Metal and equipment come into view, then the pungent smell of antiseptic.
My heart accelerates.
Cassidy and I don’t take another step. Nothing could have prepared us for what waited inside.