Chapter 43
Minutes until brain death—if they were lucky.
Izzy pressed her back against the log wall, fighting to keep her eyes open. Every inhale introduced more poison gas, every exhale took more of her strength. Beside her, Cory's face had gone red, his movements sluggish as he checked the door one more time.
Barred. Of course Janet had barred it. Izzy gritted her teeth against the sludge moving through her brain.
Ninety seconds. Maybe less.
Tom hadn't moved in the last minute, slumped against the far wall like a broken doll, face beet red. Still breathing—she could see his chest rise and fall—but barely there.
"Can't... get out," Cory slurred, sliding down beside her.
Think, Reyes. You've gotten out of worse.
But her thoughts scattered before she could grasp them. They were going to die here, in this stupid cabin, while Janet played grieving widow and Chantal—
No.
She patted down her vest, searching for anything useful. Her fingers found the cylindrical shape clipped to the molle webbing.
"Flash-bang," she croaked.
Cory's eyes sharpened. Even dying, he tracked her logic immediately. But his gaze went to the barred door, the boarded windows. No exit.
"Inside," she managed, each word a monumental effort. "Make her... think we're..."
Dead. Make Janet think they were dead.
Understanding flickered across his face. He fumbled for his own vest, movements uncoordinated but determined. Two flash-bangs between them. If the first one didn’t work, they’d launch the second. “You first,” she ordered.
Cory nodded in slow motion.
Izzy forced her body to move, crawling to position Tom away from where the door would open. Cory swayed over to help. Inch by inch, they dragged the unresponsive man to the farthest corner of the tiny room. Breathing hard now, Cory stumbled to one side of the door, she took the other.
Quick hand signals. You pull pin. I cover ears. Then we drop.
Play dead. Let Janet come check. One chance.
The flash-bang felt impossibly heavy in her hand. Izzy watched Cory struggle with the pin, her own hands pressed against her ears. She squeezed her eyes shut just as he released the spoon.
Even through closed lids and covered ears, the detonation was overwhelming. Light that burned through everything, sound that became physical force. Then—
A high-pitched whine that consumed everything. Her ears rang like church bells, drowning out the world. She let herself collapse where she'd planned, face down but angled to see the door through barely cracked eyelids.
Don't breathe. Don't move.
Her lungs screamed for air, but she forced herself to take only the tiniest sips. Beside the door, Cory had crumpled convincingly, one arm flung out. Even Tom's unconscious form had been jostled by the blast.
Movement outside. Shadows shifting in the crack under the door. Izzy's vision swam—from the poisoning or the flash-bang, she couldn't tell. But she saw the door handle move. Saw it jiggle as someone tested it.
The bar. Janet would have to lift the bar.
Snow fell through the widening crack as the door opened inch by inch. A rifle barrel appeared first, sweeping the room. Then Janet, silhouetted against the snowy night. Her mouth was moving—calling out?—but Izzy heard nothing through the ringing in her ears.
Janet stepped inside, rifle trained on Cory's still form. Another step. Checking for movement, for breathing. She moved past Izzy without a glance, focused on Tom.
Now.
Izzy tried to roll for her stun gun, but her body barely responded. Across the room, Cory lunged for the rifle barrel—or tried to. His grab was weak, uncoordinated. Janet spun, rifle swinging toward him.
No.
Then—movement behind Janet.
Tom Morrison rose like something from a nightmare. The champagne bottle clutched in both hands, raised high. His face was a masterpiece of grief—forty years of love warring with the betrayal, the necessity of what he had to do.
Izzy saw his mouth form the words: "I'm sorry."
The bottle came down.
She felt the impact more than heard it—the vibration through the floorboards as Janet crumpled. The rifle clattered away. Tom stood swaying over his wife's still form, the broken bottle neck still clutched in his hand, champagne mixing with blood at his feet.
Fresh air poured through the open door. Izzy gasped it in. Beside her, Cory was doing the same, great heaving breaths as their systems fought to purge the poison.
Tom dropped to his knees beside Janet, his mouth moving in what might have been prayers or apologies or declarations of love. Tears streamed down his face as he cradled her head, checking for a pulse with shaking fingers.
Izzy's hands found the zip-ties on her vest. She crawled to Janet, securing her hands even as Tom wept. The woman was unconscious but breathing, blood matting her gray hair.
They were all alive.
She met Cory's eyes across the small space. Blood trickled from a cut on his forehead, and his skin was still bright red, his mouth slack, but his gaze was steady, grateful. They'd made it. Somehow, impossibly, they'd made it.
Her ears still rang, the world still silent except for a strange, consuming whine. Through the open door, she could see lights in the distance. Help coming.
She let herself collapse onto the rough pine floor, gulping in clean air, and thought of Chantal. Her baby would have her mother for Christmas after all.
Gracias, Dios. Thank you.
The prayer came as naturally as breathing. Maybe more so, after tonight.