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Why are my siblings always giving me such shit? “Get a van to Site 6.”
I hang up and head inside before she can respond.
Creepy as hell in here. No lie. A dangling, red lightbulb bleeds along a narrow stairway and slim corridor. Everything from ceiling to doors to stairwell seems too small in this old house.
Taking up way too much space on the steps, Tony gives me a what-took-you-so-long stare.
I shrug, and his annoyed hand motions up. I nod, going the other way down the hall and check two rooms before sighting around the last doorway. Not that I need eyes to know someone is in here. It reeks of BO and whiskey.
What was probably once a living room has been turned into an office. A television sits atop a file cabinet tuned to Netflix, there’s a desk, and, directly left of the desk, a saggy plaid couch. A man in boxers, his potbelly protruding from his dirty t-shirt, is passed out on the couch.
Eyes watering from his stench, I reach for a zip tie and step into the room. My booted foot toes into an unseen bottle of Jim Beam, sending it churning across the hardwood. Whiskey leaks everywhere in the absolute worst game of spin-the-bottle ever.
The guy who looked dead to the world jumps up, then blinks in my direction. His eyes go wide, and he lurches for me, arms outstretched like Frankenstein’s monster. This might be the biggest guy I’ve ever seen. Also, the slowest.
I slip around him, reach up, and slam my gun into his head. One, two, three times.
He drops to his knees and shakes his head. Still conscious?
There’s a tug of meaty fingers against my ankle and, in a split second, I’m horizontal. My elbow slams against the desk. My head smashes against the floor.
When I blink back to the world, Drunky is on me like a pro wrestler, pinning my neck with one beefy limb. Where’s my fucking gun?
I can’t breathe. His bulk crushes my left arm between us. I swing out with my aching right. Anticipating the move—obviously I’m not the first person he’s held down—he grabs and forces my arm to the ground.
Panic edges over reason as my gaze bucks around the room. I can’t draw breath. Heart frantic in my chest, electric currents zinging through my veins, I’m pinned. Like that night. My recurring nightmare. I need help. I need to…
No. Hell no. I’m not that little kid anymore. I’mnothelpless.
Calming myself, I realize that my hand—squeezed between Drunky and me—is in the perfect spot. Trembling, I locate and squeeze one sweaty ball. Hard.
He grunts, presses harder against my neck. Hearing cartilage creak in my neck, I put a shark-like grip to his jewels. The damage might be permanent, but he’s too drunk and determined to understand this.
It’s basically which one of us can tolerate what the other is doing for the longest. But I’m not drunk. I feel everything.
Black spots cloud my vision. My lungs scream for air. I’m going to pass out.
Convulsing, I kick out blindly until I viciously connect with his ankle.
His body jerks, slips left.
Gathering every bit of energy, I thrust up my hip, swing my foot flat, and push.
He topples to the side.
Snakebite fast, I belly-crawl away. Where the fuck is my— I grab my gun and roll.
Drunky marches toward me. With no ability to shout, I point my gun in warning.
Bam!The guy crashes back and down, blood seeping through his dingy white T-shirt
What the hell? I didn’t shoot.
Rolling to my knees, I turn to the doorway, gun aimed. All hollowed eyes and jutting bones, the teen lowers her Glock.
Holy Shit. The kid killed the guy.
Wheezing through a throat still aching tight, I lower my own gun and get to my feet. My legs shake under me.
