Eighty-three

She’s here. Time to stop messin’ around, boy, and get to work.

The warning came, loud and clear, stopping him in his tracks. He stood in the doorway, bolt gun dangling from his fingers, gaze traveling around the room. He knew Elena was in here. Where else could she be? There was no way out. Her hiding places were limited. Still, he couldn’t see her. His gaze fell on the pile of bodies he’d tossed in the corner.

There’ll be plenty of time to play with little sister later. Right now there’s a big, fat fish headin’ your way that needs fryin’.

Melissa.

“Okay,” he said, nodding his head, excited for what was to come. “Okay.”

He hurried across the room to the place he’d piled his discards. Peeling them off one by one, he lifted them—letting them fall to the side until he found her.

Crouching, he rolled her over, her arm flopping to the side, soft and boneless. Her hair was gnarled and dried stiff against the back of her skull by blood. He pressed a thumb against her wrist, feeling for a pulse. It was there, thready and erratic. But it was still there.

Tick tock, motherfucker. We don’t have time for your little one-man show.

He ignored the harsh words. Lifting Elena into his arms, he carried her down the hall, back to his workspace. He laid her on the hospital bed in full view before heading back the way he’d come.

You really think she’s gonna save her, boy?

He could hear her. The metered rapping as she broke through the padlock. The heavy clank of the lever that closed the hatch. The faint squeal of hinges as she pulled it open. She’d be down the stairs soon.

“No,” he said, quietly. “But I want her to try … I want her to hope. It isn’t any fun unless they have hope. Isn’t that what you taught me?”

In his head, Wade laughed.