NO EXIT a gripping thriller full of heart-stopping twists

by TAYLOR ADAMS

“Larson James Garver,” he howled as he ran, exhaling a furious mist: “You just earned yourself an orange card—”

  * * *

  Darby fought for control of the gun.

  Rodent Face was on the defensive now, stumbling backward, hot blood pumping from his jugular to his own frenzied heartbeat, trying desperately to shake her off, to gain enough distance to control the Beretta.

  Darby wouldn’t let him. She held onto the weapon, her slippery fingers clasped tightly over his. Then she spun, changing direction, and tugged away from him, counter-clockwise, twisting the pistol against the joints of his knuckles. Lars was taller and stronger, but Darby was smarter, and she knew how to use inertia against him—

  Inside the trigger guard, she felt his index finger snap.

  Like a baby carrot.

  He screamed through his teeth. There was a wet whistle to it; air leaking through the hole in his windpipe. Blood surging up in strangled bubbles. They were both spinning now, a whirling tango, hands locked on the firearm, crashing into the coffee counter’s edge, tipping chairs, firing into the ceiling — CRACK, CRACK, CRACK — showering plaster grit, exploding a fluorescent light overhead, until the gun’s slide locked empty and the trigger lost slack.

  They slammed into the Colorado map, both still clutching the Beretta.

  Lars let go — knowing it was empty.

  Darby held on — knowing it was still useful — and punched Lars in the teeth with it. He staggered away from her, holding his neck, but tripped over the bodies of Ed and Sandi. Now Darby was on top of Rodent Face, hitting again, again, again. Bashing with the aluminum heel of the pistol. She landed a particularly good blow and felt his cheekbone break with a meaty crunch.

  He kicked her away, and they separated.

  Darby scooted backwards on the slick floor, the empty Beretta clattering. She tried to stand up, but slipped. Gasoline everywhere. Her palms splashed down, still half-blind, blinking his blood from her eyes. The fuel jug had tipped in the scuffle; it was on its side, pouring with rhythmic glugs. And near it, she saw her Swiss Army knife, a serrated shadow twirling on tile.

  She grabbed it.

  Lars was crawling away from her, toward the locked door. Not fast enough. He was moaning thick words, something desperate, clotted with tears and blood: “Ashley-Ashley-kill her-kill her—”

  Not happening.

  Not tonight.

  “Kill her please—”

  Darby caught up to him and raised the blade high over the back of Larson Garver’s skull, the metal glinting a streak of LED light. Her words from earlier tonight came back like an echo — I’ll cut his throat if I have to — and across the room, she made sidelong eye contact with Jay.

  She was watching, awestruck.

  “Jay,” Darby gasped. “Don’t look.”

  * * *

  Ashley twisted the doorknob — locked.

  “Lars,” he panted. “Open the door.”

  No answer.

  He checked the front window, but it was still blocked by Ed’s overturned table. No access. He peered through the gap and saw only darkness — the lights were off in there. Flustered, he moved back to the front door, stumbling over sloped mounds of snow, nearly dropping his nailer.

  “Lars,” he called out, saliva freezing on his chin. “Please . . . baby brother, if you’re alive in there, say something.”

  Nothing.

  “Lars.”

  Those concussive gunshots rattled in his mind, hollow and panicked. Why would Lars fire a string of rapid shots? That hadn’t been controlled gunfire; that was the sound of desperation. Spray and pray, they called it. So what happened in there?

  Still no answer.

  He reared back and kicked the door. The frame creaked, but the deadbolt held. Getting worried now: “Lars. I’m not mad. Okay? Just answer me—”

  He was interrupted by a voice.

  Not his baby brother’s.

  Darby’s.

  “He can’t talk right now,” she replied, “because I cut his throat.”

  Ashley’s knees went weak. For a sputtering moment his mind short-circuited, and he forgot about the deadbolt and twisted the doorknob again. “You’re . . . no, you’re lying. I know you’re lying—”

  “Want to know his last words?”

  “You better be lying—”

  “He cried your name before I killed him.”

  “Darby, I swear to God, if you really killed my baby brother in there, I will cut the meat off Jaybird’s little bones—”

  “You’ll never touch her,” Darby said, her words hardening with a chilling certainty. “I have the gun now. And you’re next.”

  Ashley punched the door.

  A bolt of shattering pain exploded through his fist. A jangling echo throbbed up his forearm. That was a mistake — a huge mistake — and he clenched his knuckles, his breaths curling through gnashed teeth, his eyes welling with hot tears.

  Broken. Definitely sprained, at minimum.

  He screamed. Something he wouldn’t remember. It started as Lars’s name, maybe, but it morphed into howling nonsense. He wanted to slug the door again, again, again, to break his other hand, to bash his forehead, to destroy himself against an immovable object. But that would solve nothing.

  Later. He’d grieve later.

  He leaned against the door, his forehead touching the iced metal, controlling his breathing. It was still okay. He was still in this fight. In his unhurt hand, he still had his cordless nailer. And plenty of steel 16-pennies, purchased secondhand and fingerprint-free, stacked up in the drum magazine. Ready for duty. The cold weather hadn’t yet sapped the battery. The indicator light was still green.

  Alright, Darby.

  You lost your mom. I lost my baby brother. There was an intoxicating symmetry to their suffering tonight. Two wounded souls, each reeling from loss, each nursing damaged hands, joined by the rawest pain—

  This is our dance, you and I.

  He could still taste her lips from when he’d kissed her in the restroom. He’d never forget it. The sweet sourness of Red Bull, coffee, and the bacteria on her teeth. The humility of it, the realness of a pretty girl with bad breath.

  We’re the cats on the clock.

  I’m Garfield. You’re my Arlene.

  And hold on tight, because this is our whirling, dark dance.

  He collected himself, scraping his thoughts together, his nerves buzzing: “Fine, Darbs. You want a fight? I’ll give you a fight. I’m coming in there, one way or another, and I’ll red-card you both, and by the way, you bitch—”

  He caught his breath:

  “I counted the shots. I know you have an empty gun.”

  * * *

  .45 AUTO FEDERAL, read the golden rim. The cartridge Darby had carried in her pocket all night, ever since Jay had first handed it to her. It was in her hand now, rolling across her trembling palm.

  She thumbed it into the chamber of Lars’s black handgun, one-handed, and let the slide clack forward with a burst of captive-spring power.

  Jay looked at her.

  The gun’s action was closed. The hammer was cocked rearward. It was ready to fire now. She didn’t know how she was so certain; she just was. Guns are visceral. She could feel it.

  “Lars,” Ashley howled outside the door. “Baby brother, if you’re still alive in there, please, please, just kill her—”

  Darby scooted across the wet floor to Jay and squeezed her into a hard hug. “It’s almost done,” she said. “Tonight’s almost over.”

  One brother down, one to go.

  Jay was pale, staring with terror. “Your hand—”

  “I know.”

  “Your finger—”

  “It’s okay.”

  She hadn’t yet looked at her right hand. She’d been dreading it. She did now — for a split-second — and then she ripped her eyes away, gasping—

  Oh God.

  She dared to look at the damage again, her vision clouding with tears. Her thumb,
index, and middle fingers were all okay. But her ring finger was skinned raw. The fingernail was slivered, half-detached, jutting upright like a cornflake. And her pinkie finger was gone. Everything from the first knuckle up. Gone, missing, severed, not a part of Darby Thorne’s body anymore. Still inside that door hinge across the room, crushed and unrecognizable—

  Oh God, oh God, oh God—

  Strangely, the actual act of ripping her hand out of it hadn’t hurt at all. She’d freed herself in two sharp, clockwise twists. Just a fuzzy sort of discomfort, blunted by adrenaline. But she was rapidly losing blood now, spurting a ceaseless trickle that ran warmly down her wrist and blotted circles on the floor. She covered it with her other hand. She couldn’t look at it anymore.

  Like Ed had said, hours ago: When you’re facing a lunch date with the Reaper, what’re a few little bones and tendons?

  And more half-remembered voices, warped and tinny, coming at her in a nauseous swirl: Can you cut a girl in half?

  I’m a magic man, Lars, my brother.

  My toast always lands jelly-side up, you could say—

  Dizzy now, she checked the first-aid box on the floor, leaving sticky red handprints, pawing through the syringes and Band-Aid boxes. Searching for that thick gauze — but it was gone. Sandi had used it all.

  “Can they . . .” Jay hesitated.

  “Can they what?”

  “You know . . . reattach fingers?”

  “Yep. They sure can,” Darby said, trying to sound calm. She wondered how much blood she’d lost already, and how much more she could afford to.

  She gave up on the medical gauze, but beside the bleach she found something better — Lars’s roll of electrical tape. She ripped off a stretch with her teeth and looped it around her right hand. She wrapped all three fingers into a clenched block, keeping her thumb free.

  That took care of the bleeding. But she’d have to shoot the Beretta left-handed. She had never fired a gun before, and she was right-handed. She hoped she could still hit her target. She only had one bullet.

  Jay kept staring at the injury with morbid awe, and Darby noticed she’d turned shockingly pale. Gray, like a body dredged up from underwater. “What if . . . what if they can’t find your finger in the door? Because it’s too smashed up—”

  “It’ll grow back,” Darby said, biting off the last stretch of black tape.

  “Really?”

  “Yep.”

  “I didn’t know fingers could grow back.”

  “They do.” She touched Jay’s forehead, the way her mother used to feel for a fever, and the girl’s skin was cold. Clammy, like candle wax. She tried to remember — what were the symptoms Ed had described to her? Low blood sugar. Nausea. Weakness. Seizure, coma, death. His words echoed in fragments: We have to get her to a hospital. It’s all we can—

  “Daaaaarby.” The front door thrashed in its frame and the deadbolt chattered. “We finish what we start—”

  “He’s . . .” Jay cringed. “He’s so mad at us—”

  “Good.” Darby scooted against the wall and raised the pistol in her left hand, aiming at the door.

  “Don’t miss.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Promise you won’t miss?”

  The gun rattled in her hand. “I promise.”

  One round in the chamber. Like a grim destiny, she’d carried it in her pocket all night, and now it was finally time to use it.

  The door banged a violent thunderclap as Ashley kicked it again. Darby flinched, her finger tightening hungrily around the trigger. She wanted to fire right now, through the door, but she knew that would be risky. She knew where he was standing and roughly how high, but she couldn’t count on the bullet piercing the door with enough power to kill him. She couldn’t waste her only shot.

  She’d have to wait. She’d have to wait for Ashley Garver to kick down the door and step inside the room with them, point-blank, whites-of-his-eyes, at a distance she couldn’t possibly miss—

  “You’ve shot a gun before, right?”

  “Yep,” she lied.

  The doorframe splintered. A long sliver of wood hit the floor. Ashley screamed outside, banging his fists, a pummeling animal rage.

  “But this kind of gun . . .” Jay fretted. “You’ve shot this kind before, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “Are you a good shot?”

  “Yep.”

  “Even without a finger?”

  “Okay, Jay, that’s enough questions—”

  THWUMP. A sharp, pneumatic sound interrupted her.

  The window shattered behind the barricaded table, spilling crunchy shards across the floor. She saw something there, something moving in the three-inch gap between the table and the window frame. It was orange, blunt, like some big, dumb animal outside was sticking its beak in. It took Darby a few heartbeats to realize what it actually was.

  Of-fucking-course.

  She hurled Jay to the floor, covering her face. “Get down, get down—”

  THWUMP. The vending machine’s glass exploded into white kernels. Skittles and Cheetos bags hit the floor.

  The nail gun’s muzzle twisted, repositioning. Ashley’s first two nails had gone high, so he was adjusting his aim. Trial and error. It was the very same gap Sandi had peered through before, now being used against them.

  “I hate him,” Darby whispered, rolling onto her belly, whipping her slick hair from her face. “I hate him so much—”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Is he shooting nails at us?”

  “It’s fine.” She tugged Jay upright, by the wrist. “Come on, come on—”

  They slid into Espresso Peak, taking cover behind the stone counter as — THWUMP-THWUMP-THWUMP — an onslaught of shrapnel pierced the air, pinging off the floor, the walls, the ceiling. The pastry case shattered. Styrofoam cups bounced. A carafe banged like a gong and hit the floor beside them, splashing warm water. But the counter and cabinets, a forty-five degree inlet, protected them from Ashley’s direct fire.

  “See?” Darby patted Jay, checking for injuries. “We’re fine.”

  “You said he wasn’t shooting nails at us—”

  “Yeah, well, I lied.”

  THWUMP-THWUMP. Two pounding impacts on the wall above them, and something slashed Darby’s cheek. Like a bee sting, then a rush of warm blood. She ducked low and sheltered Jay from more ricochets, shielding her body with her own. She saw tears in the girl’s eyes.

  “No. No, Jay. It’s fine. Don’t cry—”

  THWUMP. A nail slapped wetly into Ed Schaeffer’s shoulder, twisting his body in a rictus of floppy horror, and Jay screamed.

  Darby held the girl close, ignoring the gash on her cheek, stroking Jay’s dark hair, trying desperately to hold it together: Oh, Jesus, this is it. This is the last ounce of stress she can take. I’m going to watch helplessly as she locks up and dies—

  “Please, don’t cry, Jay.”

  She sobbed louder, hyperventilating, fighting Darby’s grip—

  “Please, just trust me—”

  THWUMP. A nail thudded off a cabinet, peppering them with wood chips.

  “Jay, listen to me. The police are coming,” she said. “They got held up, but they’re still coming. They’ll check every rest stop on this highway, especially the one with an almost-identical name. They’ll save us. Just a few more minutes, okay? Can you last a few more minutes?”

  Just words. All of it, just words.

  Jay kept sobbing, her eyes clenched, building to another bracing scream, as — THWUMP — the cash register tipped, crashing down beside them, keypad buttons skittering across the tile like loose teeth.

  Darby held the seven-year-old close amid all the violence, shielding her face from shrapnel, trying to soothe her panic. She was certain it was over — that Jay’s nervous system couldn’t possibly handle any more trauma — but then something came back to her. Surfacing from her memories; her mother’s warm voice in her
ear: It’s okay, Darby. You’re fine. It was just a nightmare.

  All you have to do is—

  “Inhale,” she told the girl. “Count to five. Exhale.”

  THWUMP. The Garfield clock exploded off the wall, showering them with plastic bits. Darby brushed away debris from Jay’s hair, touching her cheek, keeping her voice level: “Just inhale. Count to five. Exhale. Can you do that for me?”

  Jay took a breath. Held it. Let it go.

  “See? It’s easy.”

  She nodded.

  “Again.”

  She took another. Let it go.

  “Just like that.” Darby smiled. “Just keep breathing, and we’ll—”

  “Daaaaarby.” Ashley kicked the table and it honked on the floor, scraping a few inches. Broken glass teeth sprinkled from the window. He huffed as he pushed. “You could’ve been my girlfriend.”

  Darby rose to her knees, dizzy with gasoline fumes, pushing aside tipped Styrofoam cups, and aimed Lars’s black handgun over the counter. Aligning the green-painted sights, her finger on the trigger.

  “I’m not normally like this,” Ashley howled outside. “Don’t you understand, Darbs? I wasn’t going to kill you. I don’t even . . . I mean, I don’t even drink or smoke—”

  Jay winced. “He’s . . . he’s going to get inside.”

  “Yeah.” Darby closed her right eye, aiming the Beretta. “I’m counting on it.”

  “We could’ve gone to Idaho. Together.” Ashley kicked the table again, scooting it forward another scraping inch, shedding splinters. His voice boomed in the pressurized air: “Don’t you get it? We could’ve gone to Rathdrum. Rented the loft over my uncle’s garage. I’d do jobs with Fox Contracting. You’d be my girl, and we’d leave our cities behind, you and me, and I’d show you the river I grew up on, and the trestle—”

  “Is he telling the truth?” Jay asked.

  Darby sighed. “I don’t even think he knows.”

  Ashley Garver — a piteous creature that wore so many masks, he didn’t even know what he looked like beneath them. Maybe his heart was breaking, even as he discovered he had one. Or maybe it was all just words.

  “You could’ve been my girl,” he wailed, “but you fuckin’ ruined it—”

  Darby aimed the Beretta as the table shifted again. But she couldn’t fire yet. She would have to wait. She’d have to wait until Ashley Garver was visible, until he scraped the table aside and vaulted in through the broken window. Then, and only then, could she—