Page 176 of Split You Open

I crouch down beside the child first. I pull off her hood and find myself staring into wide, red-rimmed, blue eyes. They widen in alarm but with duct tape over her mouth, she can’t scream—though I can tell she tries.

I force myself to tilt my head up so that she can see my smile beneath the lip of my Gnarly Pines ballcap.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m going to get you out of here but the minute these are off, you and your mom have to run, okay?”

The little girl, who can’t be older than nine or ten nods quickly. The fear in her face makes me sick. I wish I could assure her that I don’t want to hurt her.

But words mean nothing in a situation like this.

So rather than waste them, I pull the knife from my boot and cut her free at once. The girl reaches up and pulls the tape from her mouth with a whimper. As she pulls it off, I turn to her mother next. The hood comes off first. When our eyes meet, I see disgust and fear burning Arnon’s wife’s eyes.

“You have to run right when I get these off, alright?” I tell her, ignoring the guilt churning in my gut.

The woman gives me a stiff nod.

Cutting through her zip ties is swift and easy. The duct tape comes off next.

She gets to her feet as I shove my knife back into my boot.

“Let’s get moving,” I mutter.

“I’ll see you in hell,” she promises as she grabs her daughter’s arm and drags her toward the stairs.

Yeah… I probably will see her there.

Hopefully not for a long time though.

I nod once before turning and leading the way up the stairs. They follow but at a distance. When I get to the top of the stairs, I hear the sound of the shower water turning off. Swearing under my breath, I usher the two hostages forward. They get to the first floor and I lead them to the back sunroom. Sliding open a glass door, I wave my hand to get them moving.

Both take off into Santi’s backyard and into the darkness.

I don’t breathe easy until they’re out of sight of the house and deep within the shadows of the yard. Dad is going to be beyond pissed off at me, but this is worth it. How he can, in good conscience, ever do something like this is beyond me. I grew up right alongside him and I still can’t stomach the thought of using other people in such a manner.

Disappointment beats at me.

As much as I love my dad, he’s not perfect.

Just as I’m about to shut the sliding glass door and retreat into the dark house for the night, movement catches my attention. It’s so slight I could’ve passed it off as a leaf rustling in the light breeze.

Until I catch the glint of metal.

I’m moving before my brain even has time to process the threat. I slam the glass door shut and drop to the floor. Seconds later, that same glass door shatters as a round of bullets come flying into the sunroom. My jaw clenches as I crawl on my stomach behind a wicker couch for cover.

A bullet grazes the armrest just over my head.

Reaching for my gun, I unholster it and take a steadying breath. Fear doesn’t creep in. Worry doesn’t beat at me. Years of growing up with Dad as my teacher allows me to squash all of that. Right now, I’m focused on getting the hell out of this room. Despite being behind a couch, the wall beside me is glass. It’s time to move if I don’t want to catch a bullet to the skull.

Unfortunately, I’m in a bind.

The entrance to the sunroom is wide open and with glass on all sides of me, I’m an easy target. Even crawling toward it won’t help me. No doubt I’ll be seen and struck. It’s a risk I have to take. With a deep breath, I lurch to my feet and sprint for the entrance. Bullets whip by my legs, arms, and face—all way too close for comfort.

The minute I’m in the shadows of the house, the bullets stop.

Keeping low, I hurry toward the kitchen where my go-bag is sitting. There, I dig around in the bag for my phone. If I can send off an SOS to the guys, Dad and I might be able to hold them off long enough to⁠—

The sound of the front door breaking down sends goosebumps down my arms.

Shit. Forgoing the phone, I straighten and look for a place to hide. I don’t have long to find a spot. The heavy footsteps that follow the crash have me scrambling, searching for somewhere to squeeze into.