AMA Chapter 77 | 7:03 PM, December 9, 2006 | Tarson, Georgia

MICHAEL’S BREATHS CAME SHALLOW AND wet. Blood leaked from his nose, mouth, and ears.

“It’s okay,” Ama said. She reached out for Hazel, who jerked away.

No, it is not okay Not by a long shot.

Ama’s gaze turned to the door. “My name is Ama. Your dad is on his way. Your dad and a detective. They’re coming.”

“They won’t find us. Not down here. Everything is locked. We have to get aboveground.” Hazel’s shoulders shuddered, and her tiny frame began to shake. “If we can get this door open, I can get us all the way out.” She staggered to the door and began pounding it with her fists.

“What kind of lock is it? Combination?”

“Yeah. Bill… Bill said it’s a four-number code, but Michael had changed it.”

“What’s the biggest number on the dial?”

“One hundred,” Hazel answered.

Ama sat quietly, remembering the day she walked out of that courthouse following Michael’s verdict, knowing immediately she was leaving there for the last time. How for years she would do her best to convince herself she didn’t remember the date, didn’t care that Michael was free.

“Try ten, ten, nineteen, eighty-nine,” Ama said quietly. “You’ll need to spin four intervals to the left on the first one, then it’s just like a high school locker.”

“We don’t have time to be wrong,” Hazel cautioned.

“Ten, ten, nineteen, eighty-nine,” Ama repeated.

Hazel heaved a jagged breath, and then spun the dial as directed. The hatch popped open, and she let out a child’s laugh, swinging her gaze at Ama.

“No!” Hazel shouted suddenly. Ama turned in time to see Michael swing the walking stick at her injured leg. The cane cracked the outside of her knee, and she dropped, smacking the side of her face on the floor.

“Run!” Ama sputtered, gasping, nearly blind with pain as starbursts clouded her vision. She kicked out and slapped her hands in the space above her. She was able to flick her eyes briefly to the open door—it was empty. Hazel was gone.

Michael gripped her wrists and dragged her to her feet. Heat and anger rolled off him, and his face was the portrait of rage. She would have one shot to survive the next sixty seconds. One. And it was going to take everything she had.