by Stone, Kyla
Slowly, soundlessly, she began to edge down toward the end of the second aisle, toward the large open area with the study tables, the check-out counter, the entrance beckoning to her.
Once she reached the end of the stacks, she would run.
A sound from outside.
She hesitated, her brain struggling to place it. Was that—
A shadow separated from the other, inanimate shadows. This one deeper, darker. Alive.
She screamed. A cry of desperation, of primal terror.
It lunged at her. Something hard struck her stomach.
She doubled over, gasping for breath, sucking in oxygen that wouldn’t come. A low pulsing pain radiated from her belly, spreading to her hips, her ribs, her thighs.
The shadow struck her again, backhanding her across the face and knocking her to the floor. She gasped and clutched her stomach, wincing, eyes stinging from the pain, the fear.
The shadow transformed into the heft and substance of a man. Sinister, malevolent, no less of a monster.
He smiled. His red slash of a mouth was barely visible, but she didn’t need to see it. It was seared into her memory. She’d never forget it, not for a second, not until her dying breath.
She scrambled backward on her hands and feet, scrabbling like a spider until her back hit the bookshelf and she was stuck, trapped, nowhere left to run.
She screamed again, louder this time. The sound echoing and bouncing off the ceiling, the floor, and against the walls, as if the library itself were screaming, as if the scream emanated from the books themselves.
“You think someone is coming for you, little mouse?” He loomed over her as she cowered before him. “I promise you, no one is coming. That idiot you were with? The moron you manipulated into helping you? He’s taken care of. He won’t be bothering us anymore.”
He had killed Liam. Liam was dead. She was completely and utterly alone.
She hadn’t thought her fear could intensify, could worsen. But it could.
Things could always get worse.
52
Liam
Day Eight
Liam fired.
The burly man’s head whipped back in a fine red mist. He collapsed sideways.
The woman screamed.
Two whirled around, stunned, flailing for the rifle still slung across his back.
Liam aimed and fired again. A double tap. The first round hit his target’s right shoulder. The man spun. The second round slammed into the side of his head above his ear. Two crumpled to the snow.
The fat one didn’t hesitate. He ran for the nearest snowed-under car across the street, stumbling and righting himself and falling again as he dove for cover.
Two more hostiles came running out of the grocery store across the street waving pistols. Another three appeared in front of the bank up the street and headed his way.
The windshield above his head exploded, followed by the sharp report of a rifle. Gummy glass fell into his hair. A barrage of rounds shredded the air, slamming into the buildings on either side of him.
There were too many of them. Eight or nine now, taking cover behind cars and buildings, all aiming their fire power in his direction.
Liam felt every second passing like a bomb ticking inside his head. They had too much time. Time for the hostiles to consolidate their forces, for a few of them to circle around and flank him.
He was just one man. No one had his six.
And there was still Hannah.
Muzzle flashes in the darkness. Bullets whined, thunked into the stone façade of the building behind him. He risked a glance back.
It was a bakery named The Mix-Up. The blaze-orange awning sagged beneath the onslaught of snow. Shards of glass glittered across the sidewalk. Every window and the front door were shattered, the place ransacked.
He raised himself and laid down cover fire, squeezing off five rapid-fire shots. In the brief reprieve as the hostiles scrambled for cover, Liam backed across the sidewalk and ducked into the darkness of The Mix-Up Bakery.
The interior was long and narrow, a glass display counter to the left, a half-dozen yellow booths to the right. Directly ahead stretched a hallway to the bathrooms, staff room, and exit.
A week after the grid went down, the place was still infused with the sweet and yeasty scents of cinnamon rolls and freshly baked bread.
He headed for the exit, his boots squeaking on the tile. As he hurried down the dark hallway, he reached behind him and retrieved the first extra magazine from a side pouch of his go-bag.
He did a tactical reload, quickly switching out the pistol’s magazine for the fresh one and stuffing the used mag in his pocket. He chambered a round. Seventeen shots.
He thought of Hannah. Thought of how he’d failed everyone in his life. His twin brother, Lincoln. Jessa. The baby.
The terrible images flashed through his head—the wreckage, the dead bodies, blood everywhere. Lincoln on the ground, staring dully. Jessa’s desperate, fierce eyes locked onto his.
Liam was a warrior. A protector. He’d dedicated his entire life to war, to battle, to defending the defenseless. But when it counted most, he hadn’t been able to save them.
He was weary and battle-broken. He’d lost everything he cared about. And yet.
He was still here. Still fighting. He wasn’t even sure why. It just wasn’t in him to give up or turn his back. He thought he could run away from himself, but he couldn’t.
Liam refused to fail anyone else.
He would kill every man here with his bare hands before he did that.
Sounds from outside the bakery. Crunching boots. A hissed curse. They were coming after him.
Anger seared through him: anger at the world. At himself. Disgust and self-loathing fueled him, drove him. His muscles tensed, adrenaline icing his veins.
Let them come.
53
Hannah
Day Eight
Hannah let out a low moan of despair. She tried to shield her face with her arms, but he batted them away with the toe of his boot.
“Oh no,” he said almost gleefully. “You get to see this. All of this. Every excruciating, exquisite second. I owe it to you, don’t you think?”
“Please,” she mumbled. “Please…”
“I gave you a chance. Didn’t I? You didn’t listen. You chose to disobey me. You’ve left me with no choice. I wish I could say it pains me to do this, Hannah, but the truth is, I’ve been relishing this moment for a long time.”
He squatted on his heels. Though it was dark, she could still make out the maniacal gleam in his eyes, the cruelty and anticipation twisting his features.
He reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I feel I can tell you this. Only you and I understand this, don’t we? Only you’ve been here this whole time. Only you.”
She shuddered, her skin crawling.
Memories lanced through her, sharp and painful. Memories she’d repressed for years, buried somewhere so deep she’d forgotten they were even there.
That night on the road. The high beams in her rearview mirror. The sheer relief when she’d caught sight of him striding toward her, his breath steaming in crystalized white clouds.
The nametag she’d glimpsed sewn on the pocket of his uniform as he leaned into the driver’s side window and shone his flashlight into her eyes.
His tall, sturdy form. His pleasant, unassuming face. A face she’d recognized.
“I know you,” she whispered groggily.
He reeled back, like she’d surprised him. “What the hell did you say?”
“I remember,” she said. “Your name…Pike.”
His expression contorted. He seized her chin and yanked it up, forcing her to meet his furious gaze. “You little whore! That’s all you are. All you’ve ever been. How could I have ever thought you were anything special? My mistake. And I’ll correct that mistake tonight. You’re pathetic. Pitiful. A waste of my time, just like that old blubbering hag. You s
hould have heard her scream, Hannah. I wish you’d heard it.”
Hannah stiffened. “No!”
“I visited her. The one you stayed with. What was her name? Oh, yes. CiCi.”
Even in her stricken state, the horror of his words sank like claws into her brain. “You didn’t—hurt her.”
Pike’s smile widened. “I did. I had to. I couldn’t leave her thinking she’d done a good deed by aiding and abetting you. That’s not how the world works. It’s not how I work. And I decide, Hannah. Not you. NOT YOU.”
A terrible buzzing sounded in her head. Her vision narrowing as dizziness lurched through her. Not CiCi. Please, no. Grief—and guilt—slammed into her.
The woman had done nothing but help. She’d shown kindness and mercy, and CiCi was dead now because of it. Because of Hannah.
She didn’t want to see the images flashing behind her eyes, didn’t want to imagine it, but she did. Every horrible thing Pike must have done to her.
She remembered CiCi’s sharp gaze probing her own. There are two kinds of fear…
CiCi’s gun. The Ruger .45. It was still in her pocket.
She fumbled for the pistol. Her stiff fingers closed over the grip. She struggled to pull it out. Something snagged on the seam of the pocket. She yanked it free and thrust the gun at him.
He looked like a normal person. Nothing special or different about him at all, nothing to betray what he really was.
Except for his eyes. Dark and liquid. Unblinking. Nothing behind them—nothing at all. He grinned at her. “Just what are you going to do with that?”
The muzzle trembled, wavered. She couldn’t seem to keep it still. The pistol that had felt so feather-light before was suddenly heavy in her hand. The heaviest thing she’d ever held.
Pike laughed, cruel and malicious and ugly, like nails on a chalkboard.
She held it out, pointing shakily, her finger frozen on the trigger.
“Like you know how to use that. I’ve already broken you, or have you forgotten?”
The memories flooded in, freezing her blood in her veins, paralyzing her. The endless agony. The fear. The awful crack of her own bones splintering beneath her skin.
Pull the trigger. Her brain screamed at her body to obey. Nothing happened. The weapon remained inert. A lump of metal. Useless.
Pike lunged at her. He seized the gun and ripped it from her hand. He tossed it across the room. It skittered across the carpet, smacked the base of a bookshelf, and landed several yards away.
He spun and kicked her in the ribs. Sharp pain flared through her torso.
Instinctively, she curled into herself, arms crossed protectively over her belly, knees drawn up, chin lowered and tucked against her chest.
She was utterly worthless. Just a victim. Nothing more.
What had she thought? That she could do this? That she could defend herself against a psycho, against a madman? Against someone so much bigger and stronger and more lethal than she was or ever could be.
He kicked her again. “Look at me, you little—!”
Shouts and screams from outside. More gunshots.
She heard everything as if filtered from far away, from deep underwater.
Cold tears tracked down her cheeks, blurring her vision. Another world lay out there. A world she’d never see again because she was never leaving this building.
Pike drew a wicked-looking tactical knife. “It’s your turn, Hannah,” he said, eager anticipation mingled with the contempt in his voice. “Your turn.”
54
Liam
Day Eight
Liam hesitated before the heavy steel exit door. Instead of shoving open the door and fleeing, he checked to make sure it was locked. It was.
He would end this threat. Then he would get Hannah.
He moved through the opened doorway directly to his left. Dim light flared through the window on the far wall. The strong chemical scents of industrial cleaners and bleach stung his nostrils.
It was a ten by ten supply room filled with shelves of spray bottles and white gallon jugs, boxes of hair nets and plastic gloves. A mop and large yellow bucket stood in one corner.
He shrugged off his go-bag and leaned it against the back shelf next to the mop bucket. He removed his coat and draped it over the bag.
It was freezing, but he needed a full range of movement. Exertion would warm him up soon enough.
If he went back to the library, they would pursue him, lead the danger straight back to Hannah. She would be safe as long as he kept them occupied.
As long as he ended the threat here and now.
The long dark hallway created the perfect choke point. He had a full magazine, plus two spares and the confiscated pistols bulging in his left coat pocket. A 1911 and a Smith & Wesson M&P 2.0, both fully loaded.
He did a quick system check on the Glock, took up a position against the wall on the opposite side of the door, and gripped his weapon low and ready.
Liam waited. Blood rushed in his ears, tension thrumming through him. He hated killing. He found no pleasure in it. The deaths would haunt him later, weighing his conscience. Just like all the others.
He hadn’t asked for this fight, but he would win it. He would end it.
The shuffling noises drew nearer. The hostiles creeping quietly, hesitantly, not speaking. Liam strained his ears for every sound. Four sets of boots.
He diagrammed the bakery in his head, saw the dark shapes of the hostiles as they advanced in his mind’s eye. They were confined to single file in the hall like cows in a slaughterhouse chute.
Come on, come on.
“He went out the back,” someone whispered.
“Then go get him,” a deeper voice retorted.
The voices were close. In the hall, headed toward him.
His pulse jumped. He crouched, readied himself.
A muzzle appeared. The first hostile emerged in front of the supply closet doorway, inching forward, weapon held straight out in front of him, his focus on the rear door.
Liam swung out and fired a double tap into the hostile’s chest. The thunderous boom in the confined quarters exploded in his ear drums.
The man jittered and fell. His pistol clattered to the tile floor.
The man behind the first hostile had no time to react. Liam put two rounds into his head before he could scream or even blink. A spray of blood and he was down. Three hostiles left.
Liam stepped over the two dead bodies and aimed at his next target.
The third attacker had the presence of mind to duck. Liam’s fifth shot slammed into the drywall above the fourth attacker’s head. He missed.
Hostile four, crouched at the end of the hall, fired three rounds in rapid succession. Two pinged into the metal exit door behind Liam. One whined past his right ear and smashed into drywall, spraying him with dust.
Liam’s ears rang from the concussive blasts. Sound went distant and tinny.
His next two shots didn’t miss.
Number Four sagged, his legs buckling as he clutched at the puncture wounds in his chest, a streak of red painting the wall behind him.
Before Liam could lower his weapon and re-aim, the third thug charged him. Thick neck, brawny arms. A heavy brawler used to winning bar fights.
He barreled into Liam’s gut headfirst and sent him sprawling backward. Pain erupted from his stomach, stole his breath.
Liam attempted to roll with the attack to absorb the impact. He fell over the body behind him, arm flailing. His gun hand struck the door frame, and the Glock was knocked from his grasp.
Gasping, his spine wrenching painfully, he managed to twist away from the attack as he fell through the doorway of the supply room.
Liam hit the tile hard, his shoulder banging into the mop bucket, white pain like an electrical shock shooting up his spine. His lower back spasmed. Agony flared through his whole body.
He clambered to his feet, but not fast enough.
The brawler slammed into him again, slas
hing hard with a knife. Liam managed to spin away even as he crashed against the shelves, sponges and paper towel rolls raining down on his head.
The wicked blade carved the air again. Liam turned into the knife attack, and using his left arm, he struck the knife-wielding hand with the edge of his palm to deflect the strike.
But Brawler came down on top of him, pummeling Liam’s head and shoulders with his left fist, swinging with that deadly knife again with his right.
It was too dark. Hard to see the flash of the blade.
Liam slammed his head backward, smashing Brawler’s face and crushing his nose. Blood sprayed everywhere. Brawler let out a pained grunt, lost his grip, and staggered back.
Liam climbed to his feet, slower this time, knocking into the mop bucket with his feet.
A scream. Muted, distant, and tinny. So low and soft he might have imagined it. But Liam knew it. Felt it like a punch to the gut.
Hannah.
Cold dark dread unfurled in his chest.
Urgency crackled through him. Hot anger underscored with panic.
Liam exploded into action. Seizing the mop, he whipped around and flipped it so the mop head faced him, wielding the handle like a martial artist’s staff.
He lunged forward and drove the rounded end of the handle into Brawler’s Adam’s apple. Brawler made a wet rasping sound, his eyes wide with shock. He dropped the knife and staggered back against the shelf.
The metal shelving rattled. Spray bottles of 409 and window cleaner thudded to the floor.
Grunting from the effort, from the pain, Liam rammed the handle into his throat a second time and kicked the man off his feet.
Brawler’s skull bounced dully off the floor, and he went still, his jaw slack. Dead from a crushed windpipe.
Chest heaving, Liam strained to hear over the tinny ringing in his ears. His spine protested with sharp stabs of pain. The adrenaline dump left him shaky and lightheaded.
