84. Mandy
MANDY
The asshole turns away from me.
Mistake.
I’m out of the chair before he makes it two steps. My foot slams into the back of his knee.
He drops with a grunt, and I’m on him before he can recover, one arm around his throat, the other wrenching his head back.
“What the fuck—”
I squeeze.
He claws at my arm.
Strong.
But I’m determined.
His elbow catches my ribs. Pain flashes through my side, but I hold on. He thrashes around, lifting me off the ground, but I know if I just hang on long enough, it’ll be over.
Three seconds.
Five.
He tries to throw me over his head. I squeeze harder, holding on despite his struggle.
Seven.
His movements slow.
I tighten my grip until he goes limp. I keep the pressure up until I can’t feel him breathing.
Then I let him hit the concrete and collapse, panting, next to him. “Asshole.”
My face throbs. My lip is split. One eye is already swelling. I touch it gingerly and wince. Hendricks is going to lose his fucking mind.
I crawl closer to the asshole and dig my comm out of his pocket.
Dead.
“Fuck.” So much for that.
I shove it into my pocket and check the rest of him. Gun. Knife—if only I’d seen that before I started strangling him. Phone. Pack of cigarettes with only one left. Lighter. Keeping the knife out, I drop the cigarette pack, shove the rest into my pockets, and go to the door.
Locked. Of course it is.
I press my ear against it but I don’t hear anything. It’s probably soundproofed. I could shoot the lock, but announcing that I’m loose before I know how many men are out there seems unnecessarily enthusiastic.
So I bang on the door instead.
Silence.
I hit it harder until I hear footsteps.
Well, that was easy. I grip the knife ready and move to the side so I’ll be hidden when the door opens.
The lock turns.
The door opens and a man sticks his head through.
“Derek?”
Breathing easily, I wait for him to see his asshole friend and rush in. As he crouches down to check the pulse, I sneak behind him and draw the blade across his throat.
He starts to turn, gurgling, but he drops to his knees, his shocked gaze on me.
“Derek’s taking a nap,” I tell him. “You should join him.”
He starts to topple.
I catch him and lower him as quietly as I can before I step into the hall.
The mill is bigger than I realized. Old timber beams cross a cavernous ceiling. Rusted machinery sits in the dark like the bones of something enormous. Dust hangs in the thin shafts of moonlight coming through the high windows.
Somewhere below me, men are talking.
I crouch beside the railing to listen.
“…should be almost to the airstrip by now.”
Another voice answers. “Plane ready?”
“Should be. Ashford wants wheels up as soon as he gets there.”
Shit. Ashford is running.
I ease backwards. I’m not letting that bastard get on a plane.
I check the stairs—at least two men below, probably more. I have a gun, one functioning eye, and a growing suspicion that one of my ribs is going to be a bitch tomorrow.
Not ideal.
I need chaos.
I look around but don’t find anything useful.
There’s always something. “Think,” I order myself silently.
The cigarette.
I slip back into the room and pick up the pack where I dropped it. Taking the last cigarette, I pull the lighter out of my pocket. “Thanks for the smoke, Derek. Literally.”
A minute later, I’m standing on the chair under a smoke alarm. I light the cigarette, drag deep, and blow the smoke directly into the detector.
Nothing.
“Come on, you sensitive little bastard.” I do it again.
Nope.
“You have one fucking job,” I mutter, lifting the cigarette as I check the doorway.
The third drag, the alarm screams.
Red lights begin flashing.
Below me, men start shouting.
Doors slam.
Footsteps pound through the mill.
I drop the cigarette onto Derek and head for the nearest window. Time to get out of Dodge.