Chapter 121 #39: Hello, Nora
The second my hands go up and I step into the open, the night explodes again. I keep my palms visible and my eyes locked on the men pouring out of the lodge porch. Five of them, maybe six, are standing all in dark tactical gear with their rifles up and steady. They fan out in a practiced half-circle, cutting off any clean path back to the trees.
One of the men steps forward first. “Hands behind your back. Slowly.”
I comply. One of the men wraps cold zip ties around my wrists, while the other man pats me down thoroughly and finds the gun at my waist, the knife at my ankle, and the spare magazine in my jacket pocket. He takes everything and tosses it to the first guy, who catches it without looking.
They lead me toward the lodge. I don’t resist because there’s no point. But meanwhile, my mind is already racing ahead, cataloguing every detail I can see: the number of men, their positions and all possible exits.
I’m fully aware that there’s a good chance I won’t make it out of here alive, but the only thing that comforts me is the fact that Lucy is with Sel. That’s the only thing that matters right now. Sel will get her out. Sel will get her to the hospital.
The front door opens before we reach it, and they push me inside. They shove me onto the leather sectional and stand guard. One speaks into his radio. “Package secured. No resistance.”
Static crackles back. “Copy. Secure her upstairs.”
They haul me up again. We move down a short hallway, past framed hunting photos and mounted antlers that look like they’ve been here for decades. The stairs creak under our weight. At the top they turn left, and down another hallway with three doors. They stop at the last one on the right.
The room is small and windowless, just four walls of dark panelling, a narrow bed with a thin quilt and a single wooden chair bolted to the floor. No lamp. No clock. Just a recessed ceiling light that never seems to change brightness.
They push me inside and the door slams shut.
I stand in the middle of the space for several long seconds, breathing slowly through my nose while I force myself to take stock. My wrists are bound tight behind my back again. I roll my shoulders once, testing the range of motion, then walk to the chair. I turn my back to it and lower myself carefully until I can hook the edge of the seat under the plastic strip connecting my wrists. The angle is awkward and my shoulders burn from the stretch, but I manage to get the tie caught on the sharp corner where the seat meets the leg. I saw back and forth, slowly at first so I don’t snap the chair itself, then with steady pressure. The plastic heats against my skin. Pain flares along the inside of my wrists but I keep going.
After maybe forty seconds of steady work the tie finally gives with a soft pop, and my hands come free.
I rub my wrists hard, flex my fingers until the circulation returns, and move straight to the door. The handle doesn’t turn.
I step back and scan the room one more time. No vents large enough to crawl through. No loose floorboards I can pry up. The nightstand is solid wood, too heavy to move quietly. The bed frame is metal and bolted to the wall. Nothing obvious I can use as a weapon unless I want to start smashing furniture and announce exactly what I’m trying to do.
I sit on the edge of the bed and let my mind work.
The zip ties are gone, but I’m still locked in. It seems Vincent wants me contained until he can decide what comes next.
I stand again and pace the small space, counting steps out of habit. Seven from door to far wall. Five from side to side. Not much room to manoeuvre, but enough to work with if someone comes through that door.
And someone will come through that door soon enough. I stop pacing and press my back to the wall beside the frame... and wait.
Sure enough, eventually, the lock clicks and the door swings inward slowly, and a man steps through with a rifle slung over his shoulder. He’s carrying a tray with a glass of water and a sandwich wrapped in wax paper. He doesn’t look at me right away; he’s watching the hallway behind him.
I make my move the second his foot crosses the threshold.
I slam my shoulder into the door hard enough to drive it back into his face. He stumbles, sending the tray flying, and the glass shatters on the floorboards. I don’t give him time to recover. I grab the rifle strap and yank with everything I have, making him crash into the nightstand I follow, my knee driving into his ribs once, twice, three times. He grunts, then swings an elbow. I duck under it and slam my forearm across his throat until he goes unconscious beneath me.
I step over him into the hallway.
I move quickly, keeping low, my rifle ready but not raised. The hallway is short – three doors on this side, two on the other, then stairs at the far end. Voices drift up again, louder now. At least two men, maybe three. No sign of Vincent’s voice among them.
I pause at the top of the stairs and listen.
“–can’t keep her here forever,” one man is saying.
Another voice answers. “Boss said she stays until she decides what happens next.”
She? I think. Their boss is a woman?
I shove the thought down and ease down the first few steps, staying close to the wall where the boards are less likely to creak. When I reach the bottom step, the floorboard groans under my weight.
Both heads turn.
I don’t hesitate. I raise the rifle and fire once into the ceiling, making plaster rain down. The two men dive for cover. I sprint across the living room, vault over the sectional, and slam into the man nearest the window. He goes down hard. I drive the rifle butt into his temple. He goes limp.
Shouts erupt from upstairs, followed by more footsteps.
I scramble into the kitchen and kick the door shut behind me, then flip the table on its side for cover. My heart is hammering now, adrenaline coursing through my veins.
I peer around the edge of the table.
The second man is on his feet again with his rifle up. Two more come down the stairs, weapons drawn.
I fire two controlled shots into the wall just above their heads. They duck to avoid the raining plaster, and I use the moment to sprint for the back door.
It’s locked.
I fumble with the keys I took from the unconscious guard. My hands shake just enough to make the first key stick. I force it and finally, the lock clicks.
I burst outside into the night.
The cold hits me hard. I run toward the tree line, my legs pumping, rifle bouncing against my back. Behind me shouts echo from the lodge. Headlights flare. Engines roar.
I don’t look back.
I make it twenty yards before headlights sweep across the yard. A black SUV skids to a stop between me and the trees. The doors fly open and four men pile out with their guns aimed at me.
I skid to a halt. They close in fast, running towards me.
I raise the rifle to fire.
“Drop it,” a familiar voice calls from the doorway, making me freeze in my tracks. Without even turning, I know who it is, but my brain refuses to accept what it already knows.
“It’s so nice to finally get the chance to have this talk,” the voice continues. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
Finally, I begin to turn slowly, and the person slowly steps out of the shadows, closing the door behind her. The light from the hallway catches her face, revealing a calm, composed, and almost amused expression.
“Hello, Nora,” Maya says softly.