16. Dana
“GET OUT!” I jump at Michael’s order, barely holding on to the gun. My hands are clammy around the butt end of it. I don’t even know what you call the butt end of it. I’ve never fired one in my life.
I have a gun of my own in the freezer. I bought it and stored it there after I bought the place. I didn’t even load it.
Michael is telling me to leave, and I don’t waste any time turning toward the door. Everything in me wants to stay and help him, but I haven’t listened to him yet, and look where it’s gotten us.
The door is unlocked, and I hit it at full speed—except it only opens an inch. My forehead collides with the door as I drop the gun at my feet, the sounds of crashing still coming from the other room.
Putting all my weight behind the door, I push hard, and it budges open another inch. The alley looks deserted, and I look down to what could be blocking my escape. A pile of clothing blocks the bottom quarter of the door.
Wedging my eye into the small crack, I see it’s not just clothes. It’s dead weight, and I recognize the back of Jack’s head instantly. My fingers tingle as I hold back another scream.
“Jack. Wake up.” I rattle the door against him, but there is no movement, and I dry heave at the thought he might be dead.
I reach down and grab the gun as a loud thud from the other room ends the commotion. There is only one way out of here now. Taking a step toward the kitchen door, I freeze in place as it swings out slowly. My eyes lock with someone who is looking at me like I’m a slab of beef at the supermarket and nothing more. His face is beaten, and blood coats his lip as he glances into the room, checking for anyone else.
There’s no way Michael would let him in here. I point the gun and squeeze the trigger like I’ve seen in the movies, but nothing happens. These things have safeties, don’t they?
The thought of him getting the gun away from me, taking the safety off, and killing me with it makes me ill, and I spin on my feet, jamming my body hard against the door again. I know I’m not getting out of here, but at least I won’t be holding my own murder weapon anymore. I push the gun through the little crack in the door. It clatters on the concrete somewhere near Jack’s body before the guy grabs me by my top, spinning me to face him.
“You have some files I need.” His voice is deep, apathetic, and I glance around the room, not bothering to look up at the shelf above us. “You give them to me, and I’ll let you go.”
There really is no honor among thieves. I know he’s lying.
“Okay. Um, it’s there.” I point, then wait for him to release his hold on me. When he does, I walk slowly over to the counter beside the coffee maker.
He groans behind me as he follows with a slight limp in his gait. I reach forward, pull out the laptop we use to track the kids’ lunch money, and open it up so he can get a good look at it.
He leans over the computer, and I watch as his eyes bounce around the desktop, his bloody fingers tapping away at the mousepad. I slowly slide my hand up the side of the coffee maker while he’s distracted.
“I guess this is it,” he mutters to himself, and my fingers touch the thing I’m searching for out of sight. “We’re leav?—”
As he turns his head toward me, I bring the glass coffeepot down, shattering it across his face. He drops to the floor, his hands immediately going to his head, and I try to step around him, but he’s too fast.
Reaching out his arm against the large table in the middle of the room, he blocks my way forward, and I turn to go the long way around our work area when he catches me, slamming my body against a wall.
“Fucking bitch.” He spits blood into my face as he yells at me, and his hands move up from my shirt and circle my throat.
Before his grip tightens, I lift my knee hard between his legs, and he buckles again as I stumble farther around the table.
Another slam against a different wall. My breath leaves me and doesn’t return as quickly as I cry out.
“It’s too bad I won’t get the bonus of my buyer seeing this, but I’m going to enjoy ending you.”
His hands return to my neck, and he blocks my attempt at getting free. Panic consumes my limbs. Flailing my arms, I land on the container of sugar, which is sitting on top of the?—
That’s it.
I knock over the plastic tub, tear open the lid of the container below, grab a fistful of cinnamon, and rub it into his face, making sure to focus on his nose and eyes.
“FU—” He tries to scream but starts choking on the cinnamon, and I inhale a bit of the spice as well. My eyes instantly burn, and I struggle to breathe. Stepping back from me, he releases his hold, and I crumple to the floor at his feet, coughing and sucking in air. The sound of his wheezing spurs me forward. He blinks rapidly, rubbing his eyes, and I stand to run again.
The tip of my finger barely touches the swinging door, and I yell for help as his hand grips my shirt at the back of my neck, pulling me back and flinging me into the room. I roll over myself before I slam into the freezer door.
He wastes no time jumping on me, lifting my weight up and over him, pushing me through the pots and pans hanging from a holder above and slamming me down hard on the worktable in the center of the room.
My lungs don’t expand, and I gasp, trying to open my airways as he pulls himself up. He climbs on top of the table and straddles my midsection, pinning one arm against my hip under his thighs.
Sounds leave my ears as pressure builds in my lungs, and I uselessly kick my feet out as the fingers of my free hand move frantically, trying to find anything I can use to fight.
My vision blurs with tears, and I slide my hand back before touching the handle of the kitchen knife I know all too well.
I lift it between us and point it at his chest as he eases his hold to reach into his jacket.
The strength to push it into him is leaving me, and I blink my eyes once, trying to center myself.
I meet his eyes. His face is red and twisted into an angry sneer as spittle drips from his bloodied lip. A loud crack echoes through the kitchen, and his rage transforms into nothingness before he falls forward on top of me and the room goes still.
My lungs finally expand, greedily sucking in air, and I gasp, kicking my legs a couple of times, but he’s too heavy.
I can’t move him off me.
“Oh, dear. Are you all right, Kim?” My legs stop, and I go still at the sound of a grandmotherly voice.
I can’t see anything around the large man on top of me, and I have no idea how I’m going to explain my way out of this one as I imagine the mess out front.
“Um, G-Gerri?” I call out from under the mass that’s pinning me.
“Just a minute. Let’s get this guy off you before he wakes up.” Gerri and Vi come into view as they push together. The body lifts a little as I wedge my arms under him and help roll him off the table.
“I don’t think he’s gonna be waking up,” I mumble as the large knife I was holding between us leaves with him, embedded in his chest.
A chill sinks into my bones, and I sit up straight, looking around the kitchen. Glass is shattered all over the ground; supplies are everywhere. Gerri is still holding a frying pan, with Vi and Betty on either side of her, and there’s a knife sticking out of the chest of a stranger who just tried to murder me.
I feel dizzy.
“Gerri, what are you doing here?” I feel that odd giggling urge again as I look between the three ladies standing around me. Then another question suddenly seems more important: “And why is Betty holding a sawed-off shotgun?”
“Vi, put on the tea. Kim, who’s the guy facedown in your cupcakes out there?” Gerri tilts her head toward the swinging door.
“Oh, shit.” Jumping off the table, I call over my shoulder, “He’s with me. There’s one out back too; he needs help.”
Michael lies on his stomach with his limbs spread out and a chair lying across his back. I don’t bother to flip him over; I have no energy left for that. Instead, I check his pulse. He’s still got one. Good.
My heart sinks as I remember Jack in the alley, unconscious, and I leave Michael for a moment to check on him. By the time I get into the kitchen, the ladies have managed to pull him away from the alley door, which is now wide open, letting in a freedom I didn’t have a few minutes ago.
Together, they drag him into the room, and I kneel down, checking for his pulse as well. A deep sigh relaxes my body as the thump, thump, thump of his heart beats in his neck.
“Gerri, what’s going on?” I focus on her, because she’s the one I see every day in my coffee shop, and all the women still. “Just, for now, leave them. Okay?”
I’m not ready to wake up Jack or Michael. I have a chance, a window to escape without them, and I want to talk to the ladies before either regains consciousness and drags me out of here.
I also need to deal with Zane.
Dragging out the step stool, I grab the box, toss the lid away, and palm the drive in my hand, and the women watch me as the kettle whistles. I need to hide this in my backpack until I decide what my next step will be.
“Gerri.”
She nods at the warning in my tone. “Dale told us you were in trouble. Said your past was catching up to you.”
My vision blurs. “He told you? All of you?” I point at the other women standing around me.
“Oh, no, dear.” She smiles before clarifying, “He told all of us. The town. Well, most of us anyway. We had a meeting this morning, out at the barn.” She pats me on the arm like I’m the crazy one.
“What?”
“Well, you see, this”—she points at Michael and the mess around us—“is bad for business.”
“What business are you talking about?”