Never Die Alone (A Bentz/Montoya Novel Book 8) (20 page)

Now, he had only to rip a little more, make a deeper, longer cut, and then maybe a few more. Whatever it took. He needed a lot of blood to flow to get it done.

He felt a grim satisfaction at his accomplishment. Hovering somewhere between euphoria and terror, he pressed the sharpened edge to his skin again and decided to take his time.

He wasn’t in that big of a hurry.

He had the whole damned night.

C
HAPTER
20

I
t didn’t take as long as he’d expected.

The screws had come out easily, but the trapdoor was heavy, the lock holding it in place unforgiving. He’d worked feverishly, using brute strength to push against the inside of the hatch. Over and over again he thrust his palms against the trapdoor, shoving his weight and all his force upward. But the door would only wiggle a bit, push up an inch or two, then fall back into place. The long plate holding the lock didn’t budge.

Not good enough.

But there was movement. Progress.

He stopped to throw on his jeans, shirt, and boots, which gave him protection and extra height. Dressed, he’d be able to chase down that stupid Chloe. If he could find a way to escape!

Every time he thought of how she’d duped him, he saw red and felt the pain still throbbing in his crotch and face. Revenge burned bright in his soul as he scowled and paced the room, noticing the crowbar mounted on the wall. Would it work? Only one way to find out. He yanked it from its hooks and climbed on the table again. Wedging the curved part through the opening, he put all of his weight on the handle and shoved, hard.

Crreaaak.
The wood and metal resisted, but started to give.

He tried harder. Pushing. Prying. Forcing the bar to move the door. And sweating. Oh, man was he sweating. In the dank cement room, one of the few basements in this area, the air was still and warm. Salty perspiration ran down his face, irritating his wounds.

But he didn’t stop.

With each straining thrust of the metal rod he thought of the Denning twins, how they’d outwitted him, played him for a fool.

That thought burned in his gut and inspired him.

Harder he pushed, screaming with the effort.

He’d become complacent, felt as if he could control the situation, and he’d been lulled into a sense of security, of his own infallibility. Stupid. Stupid. Fucking stupid! Was it possible that his bitch of a mother and Myra, sweet know-it-all Myra, were right about him? “No way!” he yelled through gritted teeth.

Again he threw his weight on the bar.

Metal groaned, bending.

Good.

He figured the screws holding the plate with the lock, or maybe the plate itself was giving way.

Once more!

All his force!

Hard on the damned crowbar!

Clenching his teeth, he drove all his weight against the crowbar. His muscles screamed, sweat poured down his face and, inside his gloves, his fingers clutched so hard he was sure the bones were showing through his skin.

Again the door moved, metal twisting.

His entire body was trembling with the effort, pain rocketing through his muscles. His legs shook, but he resisted the urge to give up. No, damn it, no!

Another eerie moan of twisting steel.

“Come on, you fucker! Open up!” With a final wrench, wood splintered and the door quit resisting; he almost fell forward but caught himself before he shot off the table.

“Son of a bitch.” Dropping the bar, he stood straight, pushed hard on the door and felt it give.

Three seconds later, he’d moved the table, set the ladder, and climbed to freedom.

Barely catching his breath, he found his keys in his jeans and raced outside. The blast of night air was a relief, and he doubled over, hands on his knees, and took the time to fill his lungs with fresh air. He had to clear his head.

Chloe had gotten a head start, yeah, but she was barefoot and naked, didn’t know the area. He had a vehicle and weapons, as well as his night goggles locked in a metal box in the van. He would use technology, knives, and guns to prod her back to submission. This time he’d make sure she was submissive. And then he’d go hunt down Zoe.

Tricky little bitches.

Straightening, he listened for sounds of Chloe over the rasp of air going in and out of his wounded throat, but there was only the hum of insects and the whir of bat wings overhead. His eyes skimmed the night-draped property to the trees just visible in the starlight, to the sheds that surrounded the old house listed under Myra’s name. It had become the perfect hiding spot.

Until those damned twins had outfoxed him.

Eyeing his property, he wondered which way she went. Would she take off through the fields and woods, head toward the river in search of Zoe? Tough as she’d turned out to be, he didn’t see that happening. It was too tricky and unlikely she’d connect with her sister. The opposite direction would take her to a band of saplings that led to open fields. But she didn’t know the lay of the land or what was behind the brush and trees.

He figured she would try to get as far away from here as fast as she could, get to civilization and call the authorities, if she already hadn’t with his damned phone.

Hell.

He had to get moving!

He swung toward his van and frowned at its shattered passenger side window. He knew the damage would attract notice. He could fix it himself, given enough time, but he had to get going now.

“Woof!”

Looking up, he spied old Red loping down the lane from the direction of the main road. He’d bet his last dollar that Red had chased after Chloe, followed her right to the gate. Red knew her smell. The dog would be able to track her down! He whistled to the dog, pulled out the keys to his van, and felt that maybe, just maybe, his luck had turned.

 

 

Chloe finally reached the road. It seemed to have taken forever, but at last she’d come to this isolated ribbon of country asphalt. Which way? She’d searched for lights, any sign of illumination, but if there was another farmhouse nearby, they were in bed for the night. No distant squares of light glowed from windows, no security lamps burned as beacons in the darkness.

Damn it all to hell.

Her euphoria at having escaped had withered as the night closed in on her. Alone and naked except for the lousy T-shirt, she was once again aware of her aching bones and her raw feet, now scraped and bleeding. The road was eerily still, with no sign of a car or human in sight. She imagined what lurked in the Louisiana forest surrounding her. Night predators came to mind, and she shivered, only to remind herself that she’d just escaped the worst predator on the planet, so she should count herself lucky.

But were there wolves? Or bobcats? Maybe cougars? She wasn’t sure. But there
were
alligators and snakes. That much she was sure of. She’d better stick to the road and hope to high heaven that someone would come along and save her.

Again, her thoughts turned to Zoe.

Was she alive?

Or injured somewhere?

Or . . . could she have suffered and died?

Sometimes her internal monologue made her crazy.

God, she missed Zoe. At least their conversations, jokes, and even fights were out loud. None of this internal voice, head-games crap she’d been playing with herself ever since Zoe had escaped.

Please keep her safe. And me, too,
she silently prayed as she kept moving.

Far in the distance, she heard the sound of an engine. Her heart leaped. Was it coming this way? Was it? She turned, searched for headlights, and thought she saw the misting illumination of dual beams.

Finally!

Now what? How to get their attention?

The car, or whatever it was, seemed to be coming fast, the engine whining. She realized she needed a weapon, just in case the driver wasn’t friendly. It was late at night. Very late. Who would be out?

She reached to the ground, found a handful of gravel and waited on the side of the road, afraid if she stood in the middle the car would hit her. Geez, it was going fast. Roaring toward her, the headlights, twin beams, rounding a corner and bearing down on her. Like the eyes of some growing, looming beast.

Heart pounding a hundred times a minute, she started waving from the side of the road, the flashlight in one hand making arcs across the sky. Frantically she swung her arms and hoped the T-shirt was long enough to cover her buttocks.

The vehicle bore down on her.

Faster and faster, as if the driver were flooring it.

“Hey!” she screamed. Did he intend to run her down? Couldn’t he see her?

God, the guy must be going seventy on this narrow road.

“Stop!” she yelled. “Please, stop! Help me!” But as the car or truck or whatever approached, she heard the sound of laughter and the thrum of bass throbbing through the night. The music was so loud, it nearly drowned out the whine of the engine and the staccato of her racing heart. “Stop!”

She screamed until her voice was hoarse, but the car, a dark sports model of some kind, streaked by. As it passed the sounds of laughter and hip-hop music and the smell of smoke, cigarette mingling with weed, escaped through the open windows.

“No! Help!” she cried, and saw the car swerve wildly and hit the shoulder. Gravel sprayed, the wheels slid and for a second she was certain the vehicle would crash. But the driver managed to get control and skid back onto the road. Someone threw something from the passenger window. Glass shattered, shards spraying on the asphalt.

Chloe backed up. Damn, she couldn’t take a chance on stepping on the broken pieces. She shined the flashlight toward the road where bits of glass glimmered and caught the light.

“Idiots!” she murmured, her spirits sinking as the glass sparkled brightly.

Too brightly.

What?

And then she heard it. Aside from the fading noise of the disappearing sports car, there was a deeper rumble, fast and ominous, approaching from behind her. From the way she’d just come.

Another car!

Another chance?

Whirling, she was caught in the headlights of the larger vehicle, a pickup or . . . or . . . Oh, sweet Jesus, it couldn’t be! Not the monster who’d abducted her! He was locked up. In his own damned prison. She’d clicked the padlock closed herself. No way could he have . . .

Her heart took a nosedive as she recognized the van with the broken window as it bore down on her.

She couldn’t let him catch her again. She wouldn’t! Spinning, she started running as fast as she could, breathing deeply and trying not to freak out. She ran through the glass and gravel, feeling as if a target was drawn on her back. She was directly in the path of the headlights, her silhouette captured in the smoky light.

She veered quickly to the right, shined her flashlight over the terrain. She could vault the ditch, climb over the fence, and . . . Crap! The fence was wire, thorny strands of twisted barbed wire held up by skinny metal posts. She’d have to roll under it or bend the wires and step through.

Fine.

Whatever.

Brakes squealed as the Dodge skidded to a stop.

Over the idling of the engine, she heard a door fly open.

Pulse hammering in her ears, she kept moving. Fast! Fast! Fast!

The crack of a rifle thundered through the night.

Holy Christ! A gun? The freak had a gun?

He won’t kill you. If he was going to, he would have already. You heard him; he’s not going to murder you until he has Zoe.
But that was all before she’d locked him up. Before she’d nearly taken his life. How, for the love of God, did he escape?
Who cares? He’s here and shooting at you! Keep moving. Get out of his line of fire. For God’s sake, Chloe, RUN!

Heart in her throat, she threw herself over the ditch, her body sailing through the darkness to land hard.

“Ooof!”
All of the air came out of her lungs. As she hit, both phone and flashlight fell from her hands. And she could hear him getting closer, nearly upon her. The horrifying crunch of heavy boots on gravel, the crackle of glass smashing under his weight—all the sounds of his hulking body moving through the night sent alarm shrieking through her.

Fast as she could, hugging the ground, she crawled. Mud caked her fingertips as she scuttled toward the fence only to hit it full-on, rusted barbs piercing her skin, a sharp post scraping her shoulder.

“Ow,” she cried, then bit her tongue.

His boot steps sounded closer and he was running, but at least he wasn’t shooting again. Obviously the shotgun blast had been intended to scare her.

It did.

Then the thud of boots stopped and he was airborne, jumping into the ravine. His flashlight’s beam bounced over her. She cringed and tried to get away, tried to slide beneath the lowest strand of wire.

She just needed a few more seconds. With her body flat against the ground, she slid, trying desperately to reach the other side, praying she would make it, pulling herself, inch by inch . . .

Until the horrid T-shirt caught on one of the sharp barbs, yanking her back.

She lunged herself forward, heard the T-shirt rip with a sickening hiss just as a huge hand clamped around her ankle. “No, you don’t,” he wheezed, his voice a harsh whisper. “You’re not going anywhere.”