She fights like a wild animal, a feral cat—with fists and claws and teeth. But our fight last night took as much out of her as it did out of me. She’s weaker and sloppier. Maybe I am too, but there’s so much rage and adrenaline surging through me that I don’t feel any of my exhaustion.
I throw an elbow that catches her on the cheek, and as her head whips to the side, I lunge for the door, ignoring the burning pain in my body. When she scrambles after me, I kick her in the stomach, sending her hurtling backward.
Stay the fuck down, bitch.
Part of me wants to lose myself in my fury, in the rage that seems to live inside me all the time. I want to go after her like I went after Cliff that night. I want to keep hitting her until my knuckles are painted with her blood and I’m certain that she’ll never get back up again.
But I don’t. I don’t have fucking time. Alan could come back any minute, and if I’m still here when he walks in, I’ll be dead for sure.
So I satisfy myself with one more punch as Reagan tries to come after me again. I put every bit of my rage behind it, and she goes down hard, her body hitting the floor like a sack of bricks.
Not even bothering to look back at her, I wheel and lurch toward the door again. My fingers wrap around the handle, and when it turns in my grip, I sag with relief.
I wrench the door open and slam it behind me, turning the lock. Distantly, I think that Alan must have some faith in Reagan to leave her alone with me in an unlocked room, but I don’t have time to analyze what kind of fucked up relationship the two of them have.
I need to get out.
Who knows how many minutes—seconds—I might have. Who knows if Alan has a string of guards and thugs, if he has cameras everywhere, seeing everything.
So I run.
I run with everything left in me, even though my muscles and lungs are burning. I’m in some sort of bunker, and even though I barely remember this place, my body seems to remember it somehow—as if the layout has been imprinted on my soul. The tunnels are narrow, shadowy, twisting and turning in every direction. I have no fucking clue where I’m going, whether I’m going somewhere worse or getting closer to finding my way out, but I keep running.
Deep down, I know I’ve been here before. When I escaped last time, these were the tunnels I made my way through, my heart racing in my throat just like it is now.
So how did I get out before?
I keep moving, trusting my body and my suppressed memories to take me where I need to go. If I stop and think too hard about things, I’ll lose the instinct I’m following, the fuzzy image in my head that’s slowly becoming clear.
And then it hits me, razor sharp.
I know where I am.
3
Recognition floods me.
I barely understand how I know, but I have a sudden certainty that I know a way out.
My feet pound against the floor as I round a corner, then another one. The ceilings get a little lower, nearly brushing the crown of my head, but I’m in the right spot now. I have no fucking clue how I found it the first time, but sure enough, as the tunnel splits into two directions, I stop. Right between the two openings is a little metal grate high up on the wall. I scrabble at it with my fingertips, slipping my fingers through the holes and yanking as hard as I can.
I have to pull so hard that the metal cuts into my skin, and it feels like my arms might come out of their sockets—but finally, the grate gives way. I wrench it away from the wall and toss it aside. Maybe when I escaped the first time, I paid more attention to stealth, maybe I covered my tracks. But I don’t have time for that now.
Heaving myself up, I crawl into the vent that the grate was covering. I barely fit. My hips snag a little bit, making my breath catch in my throat, but I push myself through, not letting myself think about the narrow walls that push in from every side. A child could easily fit, but it’s been nearly ten years since I last escaped from this fucking madman.
One small movement at a time, I drag my body through the vent. The metal is freezing, biting underneath my hands, but I push and push and push. I push through the darkness, through the never-ending spiral of memories that threaten to overwhelm me.
I won’t go down without a fight. I won’t go down without the last word. I won’t go down letting monsters like Alan manipulate and control me like he does to Reagan.
For a terrifying moment, I’m certain that whatever path my instincts are leading me on is wrong. That I’ll end up trapped in the duct, lost forever in this dark space.
The cool breeze of fresh air hits my face seconds before I see the light at the end of the tunnel. Pale dawn light filters through the tops of trees and through another grate. The mountain breeze is like a breath of life as I suck it into my burning lungs. The grate is rusted, and I have to beat on it to open it, but when it pops off, I haul myself up and out of the vent, collapsing on the ground.
No. Keep going. Don’t stop.
I want to stay here. To just lie here until everything stops. I don’t think I can go any farther, I’m so fucking strung out and exhausted. But raw determination forces me up from the ground, my broken skin scraping against branches and thorns, dirt clotting with the blood on my face. It pushes me to run again.
Run.
The woods are quiet, but I can imagine footsteps behind me. Following me. In my mind’s eye, I can practically see Alan’s cool blue eyes staring at me. I can feel his hands on me, dragging me back down, down, down. My heart pounds in my ears, but it doesn’t drown out the sound of Alan’s voice in my mind. I can hear the cold smoothness of his voice, promising to “clean up” the mess Reagan made.
But I can also picture Gray, fighting for me. Elias fighting for me. Declan fighting for me. And if they can fight for me, I can fucking fight for them.
I’ll do whatever it takes to get out of here. To find them.
Bile rises in my throat. My stomach cramps. I could fall over and collapse into myself, heave up anything that’s left in my stomach from the past twelve hours, but I’m pushing myself beyond my body’s weaknesses. It’s my mind fighting for me now, convincing my bones and muscles that there’s still a little bit left.
When I suck in a shallow breath, it smells like a dying fire, something burnt with a chemical edge. I recognize the place where Reagan had Max tied up, the place where the guys fought so hard to get us away, and the recognition gives me another push of strength. The sky is quickly growing lighter with the orange-pink sunrise, and I know they’re not waiting at the car for me anymore, but it also gives me hope that I don’t see any bodies gathered around the tree.
They’re alive. The fire didn’t trap them. Didn’t kill them.
My run doesn’t slow, not even when I begin to remember the path that we followed last night. Cutting through some trees, I see tire marks where the car was parked.
I buckle over when my shoes hit the pavement, the world spinning around me in a dizzying mess of color and trees and the sky. I’m about to faint, but I have just enough consciousness left to register the hum of a car turning around the bend. I have just enough madness left to throw myself out in front of it and hope to hell they don’t hit me.
The driver slams on his brakes, a horrible screeching sound filling the silent morning air. My heart pounds in my chest as I slam my hands on the hood and then scramble around to the passenger side door. I yank it open and slide inside, planting my ass in the seat before the driver has time to protest.