My right hand propels the tranquilizer gun up and fires, seemingly before the conscious part of my brain reacts at all.
The dart does its job, and I grab the gun from the man’s limp hand as he drops to the floor, afraid the weapon might make an unwelcome clanking sound if it hit the ground. Though I already have a Glock and the tranquilizer gun on me, I stuff this new weapon into my waistband behind my back as a precaution.
Once my thinking catches up with my actions, I wonder if my sudden quick-draw skills are from the brain boost. Could the Wi-Fi, plus the extra brain resources, be behind my faster reaction time? Since I’ve never been in life-or-death situations like this before, I have no idea what my normal reaction time is, but I doubt it’s this quick.
Trying to steady my overly fast breathing, I walk up to Mr. Shafer’s room and turn the door handle.
The door is locked, but the solution occurs to me right away, and it’s only two feet behind me.
I go back to the guard and search him for the keys, finding them on his belt.
Armed with the keys, I open Mr. Shafer’s door.
It takes a gentle shake to wake the old man, and I resort to holding his mouth shut, Joe style, to make sure he doesn’t scream once he comes to his senses.
At first, Mr. Shafer looks like he’s about to turn a shade grayer, but then I think he recognizes me because the initial desperation in his rheumy eyes turns into a glimmer of hope.
I let go of the old man’s mouth, and he instantly whispers, “Thank God you’re here. They—”
I cover his mouth again and whisper, “Sorry, we don’t have much time.”
I proceed to explain what he needs to do, going as far as pulling up the blueprints of the facility on my phone to show him where to go—not that the instructions are complicated. The parking lot is near the entrance, and that’s just a corridor away from where we are.
“I know how to get there,” Mr. Shafer whispers. “They didn’t blindfold us when we—”
“Okay,” I interrupt again. “I have to go help my mom. Make sure everyone gets to the car as soon as possible and leave the front seats empty so we can jump in quickly.”
Mr. Shafer nods, but then he looks at something behind me and his eyes widen.
The hair on the back of my neck stands up. Spinning around, I aim my gun at whatever Mr. Shafer just saw—and exhale sharply.
It’s Joe.
My cousin is in a half crouch, dragging the unconscious guard behind him.
Mr. Shafer cringes at the sight of the knocked-out guard.
I’m not sure if Joe notices the old man’s reaction, but he takes out a knife and kneels as if to tie his shoe. Before either of us can utter a single word, Joe slices the guard’s throat with all the emotion of someone cutting up a melon.
I forget how to speak for a second and look at Mr. Shafer as though he might explain what just happened. What I actually see raises a warning bell in my head.
The old man is about to scream.
Except Joe is already next to Mr. Shafer, his hand covering the old man’s mouth in a much rougher way than mine did.
My cousin wipes his knife with his left thumb, and the blood lands at Mr. Shafer’s feet. Joe then whispers something into the old man’s ear. Mr. Shafer’s lips tremble, and he turns so white he looks like a ghost.
“Will there be a problem?” Joe whispers loud enough for me to hear.
“No, sir,” Mr. Shafer whispers, eyes wide. “I’ll get everyone into the car. I’ll be quiet. You don’t have to—”
“Then get started.” Joe’s whisper sounds like the crack of a whip as he rips the keys out of my hand and throws them at Mr. Shafer.
Ignoring Mr. Shafer’s frantic nods, Joe heads out of the room. Numbly, I follow him, trying not to think about the literal blood on his hands. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mr. Shafer walk determinedly toward the room adjacent to his. Whatever Joe told him was clearly effective.
I hurry to catch up with Joe, and we make our way to the staircase that will lead us to the second floor.
Joe’s movements remind me of a stalking predator as he exits the staircase into a corridor.
When we reach the target door, Joe puts his finger to his lips, indicating the need for silence. He then points at the earpiece and then at my phone.
Instead of using the phone, I mentally compose a text message to Muhomor that states, “We’re in position.”
“Good,” Muhomor says in our ears. “Gogi and Nadejda are almost ready, but I need a few more minutes with the lights. Please stand by until I say go.”
Joe looks at his phone, checking on the room in front of us. Suddenly, his grip on his tranquilizer gun tightens, and his features contort in animalistic fury. He takes a small step toward the door, but then checks himself.
My heart goes from pounding to thrashing violently as I focus my attention on the AROS view that shows me the video feed from the surveillance camera Muhomor hacked into.
The gray-haired man, the one who was near Mom, is now within touching distance of her.
I stare unblinkingly as he touches Mom’s face with the familiarity of an old lover.
She cringes at his touch and tries to pull away, but her action seems to irritate the man, and he steps even closer.
This time, when he reaches out, his hands go for Mom’s bosom.
She tries to slap his face, but he catches her wrist and leans in closer.
Though there’s no sound, I can see Mom’s lips moving. It seems like she’s yelling at the other people in the room for help. The guard and the three other bastards act as though they’re not even there.
I didn’t think I was capable of this kind of fury. The rage clouds my mind. I can barely think, and it’s almost impossible to understand what I’m seeing at first, but then I extrapolate the revolting direction this interaction is heading.
“This asshole is trying to rape my mother!” I mentally type into the chat, without even meaning to. “He’s so fucking dead.”
I don’t know what my friends respond with because my blood is pumping in my ears, and the red mist of anger overwhelms every cell in my body.
Teeth clenched, I reach for my Glock and step toward the door.