Eighty-six

“Well, do you, darlin’?”

The words had been spoken out loud, the breath of them fluttering against the nape of her neck. Sabrina nodded, her right arm inching slowly toward the edge of the mattress she was pressed against. Right hand, left pocket. Tricky but not impossible.

“Yes.” The knife dug into her thigh and she shifted, lifting her leg against the bed, trying to wedge its frame under the knife enough to raise it from her pocket. “I believe in miracles, Manny.” Her fingers brushed against the top of the knife and she leaned forward, pushing it up until she could close them around it. She pulled it free, concealing it beneath her hand on top of the mattress.

“Good,” he said, the pleasant tone at odds with the application of pressure to her skull. “That’s good, Melissa. Now I want you to give her a part of what you’ve been given. I want you to save her.”

Save her.

Again, the voice she heard was her own. This time she nodded in response before bowing her head, trying to buy herself some time. Her left arm was useless. Her ankle too. If she struck, she had to be quick and she had to be sure, because there was little chance of her getting away.

She focused on Ellie, the shallow expansion of her chest. The pale bluish tinge that stained her mouth. She was dying. Slipping away, right in front of her.

Save her.

“We both know I can’t do that.” She curled her fingers around the short hilt of the blade, tucking it tight against her stomach to conceal it. “Don’t we, Wade.”

The pressure against her skull intensified.

“I know you’re in there. I know Manny isn’t running the show, not anymore.” She raised herself slightly onto the ball of her good foot, pushing back against the sting of metal. “Probably hasn’t been for a while now. How long did it take before you realized Nulo wasn’t his real name? That he lied to you in case you came after him? Manny never trusted you.”

He dropped the bolt gun. Gripping her shoulder, spinning her around, his empty hand raised and fisted—already rocketing toward her face.

She spun, using the momentum he created to swing out with the blade even as she evaded the punch. It grazed her temple, catching her in the ear. The blade in her hand arced upward, separating the fabric of his shirt and the flesh beneath it.

She missed her target, slicing his chest instead of his throat. He roared, the hand on her shoulder gripping her, pulling her closer before throwing her into the wall, her hip slamming into the cinderblock. Her knife clattered to the floor, spinning out of reach.

She didn’t scramble for it. She didn’t assess the damage she’d caused. She didn’t wait for him to attack. She just turned and fled.