Page 57 of Dark Night of the Soul

I pulled the gun from my back and fired. Kneecap. He went down, blocking the stairs. The second guard tried to climb over him. I dropped his knee, too.

I stepped over them and kept descending.

The lower level was quieter. Most of the response was concentrated upstairs. I moved fast, her weight pressing into my shoulders, wrists burning where the cuffs had torn skin.

The maintenance corridor was ahead. Fluorescent lights. Concrete walls. A janitor stood near a utility closet, mop in hand, eyes wide.

He looked at me. At her. At the gun.

He stepped aside.

Smart man.

I kept moving. The exit was ahead. Metal door, no guards. I kicked it open.

The car was there. Engine running. Driver’s door open. GPS screen glowing with a route already queued.

Silas had come through.

I got Anna into the back seat, positioned her carefully. Checked her breathing again. Still steady.

I slid into the driver’s seat. Put the car in gear.

A shot cracked. The side mirror exploded. Close. Too close.

I gunned it. Tires squealed as I pulled out of the lot and onto the access road.

In the rearview mirror, Anna lay unconscious. I didn’t know what they’d done to her. Didn’t know if she’d wake up as herself or as something else.

But she was out. She was breathing.

And I was driving toward a safe house I’d never seen, following directions from a man who’d burned his cover to get us this far.

The escape was over.

Now came the hard part.

Chapter 21 | Anna

I regained consciousness with the memory of being lifted. Then the drug smeared everything into gray.

I sat in an unfamiliar room on an unfamiliar sofa with a scratchy blanket around my shoulders while I shivered uncontrollably. My mind was still groggy from the strong sedative they gave me. And my reflexes weren’t where they should be. Better that way.

I still wore the hospital gown and nothing else. My feet and legs were still bare, the air cold against my skin, and I hated—hated—they’d stripped me of everything. Even the choice to cover myself.

Kincade moved through the room. Checking exits. Checking doors. Checking windows. Making sure everything was secure. Both of us pretending I was fine.

I wasn’t.

This was no high-rise five-star hotel. I had no idea where I was. Frankly, I didn’t care since I was out of the hands of the Brotherhood and the Knights and that man who called himself a doctor. He wasn’t a doctor. He was a butcher.

I heard rattling in the kitchen. The clink of a glass. Then his footsteps.

He sat on the coffee table in front of me, the wood creaking with his weight. Poured. Then placed a cold glass in my hand. Numb, I peered down into the amber liquid.

Whiskey.

We’d made a pact we’d drink whiskey during a tragedy. When my uncle died, we drank together. That was unmitigated raw grief.