Chapter 10
Alana stood in the dark, praying her eyes would adjust to the limited lighting.
However, the lighting wasn’t just limited; it was nonexistent.
Once she came to that conclusion, she felt her way around her prison, seeing with her hands everything in the room besides herself, and hoping the cell didn’t contain any other living creatures.
The possibility of finding spiders, rats and mice made her shiver.
But if the cell contained rats or mice, it might have a gap or hole, something she could widen and dig out enough to fit through.
She refused to give up hope of escaping.
The cell contained a pail and nothing else.
But the floor was made of dirt like the rest of the wine cellar.
She supposed the pail was for relieving herself.
But she refused to believe she’d be in the cell long enough to need it.
If anything, she’d use the pail to dig into the dirt floor.
Maybe she could tunnel beneath the wall back into the wine cellar.
Since no one knew where Delgado had taken her, she was on her own. She couldn’t sit around and wait for anyone to rescue her. She had to do something to get herself out of her current situation.
Using the bucket, she dug into the hard-packed earth and scraped away a thin layer of dirt. She felt the ground, despair threatening to overwhelm her. She’d barely made a dent in the earthen floor.
Now wasn’t the time to give up. Alana stiffened her resolve and dug in.
A little at a time, she expanded the impression until it was as deep as her fist. Her hands hurt, and her arms and back began to ache.
But, she couldn’t stop now. The longer she took, the closer the hour drew to Chase’s meeting with Delgado at La Casa Loca.
She had to find a way out and get to Chase before he walked into certain death with Delgado and his armed-to-the-teeth cartel thugs.
She didn’t know how long she’d been trapped in the cell.
With no light from the sun to gauge the time of day, she could only guess at the number of hours that had passed.
It felt like forever, but she supposed it was getting to be late afternoon.
Evening would be upon them soon, and so far, no one had come down to check on her, nor had they offered her water or food.
Why should they? And if anyone did come down, what would she do?
The potential scenarios made her shiver in the cool dampness of the cellar prison.
She’d never been this frightened in her life. Nor had she been this determined. If she could keep her focus on escape, she wouldn’t succumb to complete despair.
Footsteps sounded outside the door of her cell, and the sound of metal scraping across metal alerted Alana that someone was opening the door.
She dropped to the dirt floor and played dead, her hand on the bucket, her body tense as she readied to spring into action.
The dull yellow light from the wine cellar spilled into her cell.
“Senora?” a male voice said.
Alana lay on the ground and moaned softly, but loud enough for the man standing outside her door to hear.
A plastic bottle of water landed on the ground beside her, but the man didn’t enter.
When the door started to close, Alana ramped up the sick act and moaned louder. If he didn’t fall for it, she might lose her only chance to get out of the cell.
The door stopped closing, leaving a wedge of light crossing over her face. The wedge broadened as the door opened wider.
“Senora?” the man called out, the sound closer this time.
He stepped into the cell and nudged her foot with the toe of his shoe. “?Estás bien?”
From beneath her lashes, Alana studied the man. Dressed all in black, his arms covered in tattoos, the man carried a rifle and smelled of sweat.
She moaned again and pulled her legs in, balling her body into the fetal position.
The man squatted beside her and touched the barrel of his rifle to her temple. “Bang,” he said softly.
Anger surged through Alana at the man’s sadistic taunt. Her hand closed around the rim of the pail, and she brought it up hard and fast, aiming for the man’s face.
The pail caught him on the nose, and the crunch of cartilage echoed off the walls.
His hand flew to his face. Blood spewed from his nose, and he swung the rifle away from Alana’s head.
This was her chance, her only opportunity. Alana had to move. With her legs cocked already, she kicked out both feet, catching the man in the knees. He fell backward, landing hard on his ass.
Alana scrambled to her feet and dove for the door.
The man roared behind her and lunged after her.
She made it through first and slammed the door, but the man’s hands were in the way.
He screamed and withdrew his hands, giving Alana a second shot at closing the cell door. This time, she succeeded, dropping the bar into place and locking the man inside.
She didn’t have much time. Once he figured out he was locked in, he’d probably start shooting the rifle at the door.
The bullets would splinter the wood. If he had enough ammunition, he’d break through and get out.
Not to mention, the sound of the gunfire might filter through the building and draw the attention of Delgado’s goons.
Alana raced through the racks of wine to the stairs leading up into the kitchen. Once at the top, she paused long enough to ease open the door and peer out. Two men stood in the kitchen, each armed with a rifle. One drank from a water bottle.
The other said something in Spanish that made the water bottle guy laugh.
A sound from the other end of the kitchen made them look up.
A man in a white smock entered and spoke sharply to the two men with guns.
The men snorted and talked back to the man in the white smock, but they left the kitchen soon after.
Alana assumed the man in the white smock was the cook. He pulled pots from a rack beside the gas stove about the same time as the guard in the cellar started firing his rifle. Though the sound was muffled by the walls of the basement, Alana held her breath.
If the cook heard the muffled sound of gunfire, he might alert the men he’d just chased out of his kitchen. Alana had to get out of there before they discovered she’d escaped her cell.
The cook filled a pot with water and set it on the stove. He switched on the overhead vent, the sound filling the kitchen with enough noise that Alana hoped it would mask the sound of the gunfire below.
Then the cook turned toward her hideout and crossed the kitchen.
Alana shrank back against the wall at the top of the stairs and waited for the cook to push the basement door fully open.
When a few seconds passed, and that didn’t happen, she peered out.
Another door stood open beside the cellar door.
The kitchen stood empty. The cook was in a closet or pantry beside the cellar door, and the path was clear from where she stood at the top of the cellar steps to the exit door that led from the kitchen to the outside.
Alana dragged in a deep breath and made a break for it. She ran lightly through the kitchen, her focus on the door to the outside. Her heart pounded, her pulse pushing blood and adrenaline through her system. She was only a few steps away from freedom.
As she reached for the doorknob, a shout sounded behind her. Alana froze and turned back to the man on the other side of the kitchen.
The cook had come out of the pantry, carrying a canister and a couple of bottles of spices. He frowned fiercely and spoke to her in rapid Spanish.
She shook her head. “No comprendo.” Alana eased backward toward the door, pressing a finger to her lips. “Por favor,” she said, having exhausted her memory of the Spanish she’d taken in school. “Por favor.”
The muffled sound of gunfire sounded again from the basement.
The cook’s gaze shifted to the basement door, his eyes narrowing.
When the sound of wood splintering and a shout rose from below, the cook looked to her, his eyes widening.
He gave her a chin lift and whispered, “Darse prisa.” With his hands full, all he could do was jerk his head toward the outside door.
Alana nearly cried with her relief. “Gracias, mi amigo.”
“Go. Desapareces.”
Footsteps sounded on the staircase from the cellar.
Alana turned and ran out the door into the shadowed dusk.
The band of four former military members gathered at Carson’s small house on the beach. Inside, in a secret room hidden in one of the stucco walls, Chase, Gina and Trevor discovered an arsenal of weaponry.
Chase had chosen to carry an AR-15 rifle with a scope. For backup, he tucked a 9mm P226 into a shoulder holster he wore beneath a light black jacket.
Thankfully, Carson had a stash of black clothing they used to camouflage themselves in the night. The former SEAL even offered camo sticks for them to use to blacken their faces.
“Are you sure you can handle that weapon?” Carson asked Gina.
She nodded, hefting the AR-15 in her hands. “I’ve got this.”
He handed her a magazine and a box of bullets. “What was your MOS in the Army?”
She glanced away. “Doesn’t matter. They train everyone in basic combat skills. I qualified as an expert marksman. That’s all you need to know.” She filled the magazine with rounds and slammed it into the weapon. “I’m ready to go.”
“You think Mr. Neal will stay put in the hotel room until we get back to him?” Trevor asked.
Gina shrugged. “We can only hope.”
Carson grunted. “I read him the riot act about getting in the way of anything we’re doing to rescue Alana. He understands we’re up against some pretty bad dudes.”
“Does he also understand that you three are highly trained Navy SEALs?” Gina asked.
“I explained it to him. He wanted to come with us, but I told him he needed to stay at the hotel in case Alana was freed and made her way back. She’d be frightened and would need someone she knew and loved to be there for her.”
Gina nodded. “That ought to do it.”