Chapter 128
[Rose's POV]
Roughly half an hour had passed since Zoey locked the door at the top of the stairs. I'd used every minute to prepare, mentally cataloging my injuries, testing the limits of my freed hands while keeping them positioned behind my back as though still bound. The rusted nail lay concealed in my palm, slick with my own blood.
When the deadbolts finally clicked open again, the footsteps that descended carried a different rhythm than Oliver's heavy tread. Lighter. Quicker. Accompanied by the rustle of fabric and what sounded like a plastic case being carried.
Zoey. This had to be her.
I kept my breathing shallow and irregular, my head lolled to one side as though consciousness had abandoned me entirely. Through barely parted lashes I watched a figure emerge from the stairwell's shadows.
She carried a white plastic first aid kit and muttered complaints under her breath with each step.
"Can't believe Lucas is making me patch her up. Like I'm some kind of discount ER nurse." Her voice carried the flat vowels of someone who'd grown up in the harbor districts. "Stupid princess probably can't even handle a little blood."
My hands remained positioned behind my back, sticky with drying blood that I prayed wouldn't be visible in the dim light. The rope around my ankles cut deep enough that the numbness had progressed beyond pain into a worrying void of sensation. I controlled each breath, making it seem natural, unconscious.
She reached the bottom and paused, setting the kit on the concrete with a plastic clatter. Her boots scuffed closer. I caught the scent of stale cigarette smoke and cheap body spray trying to mask it.
Every muscle in my body screamed to move, to strike, to escape. But I forced myself to remain limp, unresponsive. Timing was everything. I needed her guard completely down.
Her hand reached toward my face, presumably to check the damage Oliver had inflicted. The moment her fingers touched my swollen cheek, I moved.
My right hand whipped out from behind my back, the rusted nail gripped tight despite the blood making my palm slippery. I drove it forward with every ounce of strength my weakened body possessed, aiming for her knife hand.
The nail punctured her forearm.
Zoey's scream split the air. The folding knife clattered from her grip onto the concrete. I threw my weight forward despite the rope still binding my ankles, using momentum to pin her beneath me. My left hand shot out and grabbed the fallen knife.
She thrashed like a wild animal, her scream tapering into a whimper as I pressed the blade against her throat. The cold metal seemed to freeze her.
"Make another sound and I'll sever your carotid artery." My voice came out hoarse but steady. The words felt foreign in my mouth, as though someone else was speaking through me. "Do you understand?"
She nodded frantically. Tears streaked through her heavy makeup.
"Where are we?" I kept the knife steady despite the trembling in my arms. "How many people upstairs? Where's the exit?"
"Port... port warehouse district." Her voice shook. The nail still protruded from her forearm, and she cradled it against her chest. "Two guys upstairs. Oliver and Lucas. Back door leads to the parking lot where we have the van..."
"Phone. Now."
With her uninjured hand, she fumbled at a tactical holster strapped to her thigh and pulled out a smartphone. The screen lit up as I took it. Fifteen percent battery. But it had signal.
My fingers moved automatically, pulling up the messaging app and finding James's number. I typed quickly: Location share active. Warehouse district near port. Three captors. Need immediate extraction. I hit send and watched the message go through before the screen dimmed.
"Take off your jacket. And your boots."
"What?"
I pressed the knife harder against her throat. She complied, hands shaking as she peeled off the oversized hoodie and kicked off her boots. I kept the blade on her while I grabbed the bandages from the spilled first aid kit and bound her hands behind her back, then her ankles. The knots were clumsy with my bloody, trembling fingers, but they would hold.
"Into the corner. Move."
I half-dragged, half-shoved her toward the darkest part of the basement, behind the collapsed workbench. When she was positioned, I grabbed a torn canvas drop cloth and stuffed part of it into her mouth as a gag.
"If you make a sound," I said quietly, "I will come back and finish what I started. Understood?"
Her eyes were huge, but she nodded.
With Zoey secured, I turned my attention to my own bindings. I bent forward, ignoring the protest of bruised ribs, and positioned the knife against the nylon rope around my ankles. The blade was sharp enough. I applied pressure and began sawing.
The rope resisted at first. Each stroke sent vibrations through my swollen hands, making the cuts on my palms burn. I gritted my teeth and kept working. One fiber separated, then another. The knife slipped twice, nearly cutting into my skin, but I adjusted my grip and continued.
After what felt like an eternity but was probably less than a minute, the rope finally gave way. Blood rushed back into my feet with a sensation like thousands of needles piercing flesh. I had to bite down on my lip to keep from crying out. For several agonizing seconds I couldn't move, couldn't do anything but wait for the circulation to restore enough function to stand.
I flexed my toes experimentally. Pins and needles, but movement was returning. I pushed myself upright using the wall for support, my legs shaking with the effort.
I pulled on Zoey's hoodie. It reeked of cigarettes and hung loose on my frame, but it would work. The boots were too large, but I tied the laces as tight as they would go. I grabbed the phone and tucked it into the hoodie's pocket, then pulled the hood up to shadow my face.
The knife felt heavy in my grip as I moved toward the stairs. Each step sent jolts of pain through my barely-functional feet, but at least I could walk now. If I encountered resistance upstairs, I had no illusions about my ability to fight, but mobility gave me options I hadn't possessed thirty seconds ago.
I reached the landing and pressed my ear against the door. Voices filtered through the wood.
"—need to get everything loaded before midnight. The buyer wants her delivered by dawn, and I'm not missing that payout because you two can't keep to a schedule."
Lucas. The controlled voice from earlier.
"I'm telling you, she's not going anywhere." Oliver's whine. "Tied up tight. Zoey's probably got her patched up by now."
My hand closed around the doorknob. I turned it slowly, praying it wouldn't squeak. The bolt slid free with a soft click that sounded deafening to my ears.
Footsteps approached from the hallway beyond. I froze.
"Zoey!" Lucas's voice, coming closer. "You done down there? We need you to help load the electronics into the van!"
My mind raced. If I opened the door now, he'd see immediately that I wasn't Zoey. But if I didn't respond, he'd come down to investigate and find Zoey bound in the corner.
I made my voice as low and rough as I could manage. "Coming!"
A pause. My heart hammered against my ribs.
"Make it quick. We're already behind schedule."
His footsteps retreated. I counted to ten, then eased the door open.
The hallway beyond was narrow and dimly lit, wallpaper peeling in long strips. To my right, stairs led up to what had to be the main floor. To my left, I could see what looked like a bathroom door and, beyond that, an exit with a faded red sign above it.
Back door. That's what Zoey said.
I moved forward, each step a calculated effort to stay quiet despite the oversized boots. The bathroom door was closed. From upstairs I could hear Lucas and Oliver arguing about packing order.
The exit was maybe twenty feet away. So close.
I had just passed the bathroom when its door swung open.
Oliver stood there, swaying slightly, his eyes unfocused. For one frozen heartbeat we stared at each other. Then his expression shifted from confusion to recognition to rage.
"You—"
I didn't let him finish. I lunged forward with the knife, more instinct than strategy. He caught my wrist, his grip crushing. I brought my knee up hard into his groin. He doubled over with a grunt, his hold loosening.
I wrenched free and ran.
My barely-functional feet made each step agonizing, the pins-and-needles sensation intensifying with every impact. I crashed through the back door into cold night air that burned my lungs. A parking lot stretched before me, mostly empty except for a rust-streaked white van and two sedans. The driver's seat was empty, no keys visible in the ignition. Beyond the lot, rows of shipping containers rose like metal walls, creating a maze of shadowed passages.
Behind me, Oliver's shouts split the night. "She's out! Lucas, she's running!"
No time to search for keys. I turned toward the containers instead and forced my protesting legs forward as fast as they would carry me.
A door slammed. Flashlight beams cut through the darkness.
I reached the first row of containers and pressed myself into the narrow gap between two of them. The metal was ice-cold against my back. My legs were failing, the circulation still not fully restored. But if I could hide, if I could stay quiet long enough for help to arrive...
"Spread out!" Lucas's voice, sharp with authority. "She can't have gone far. Oliver, check between the containers. I'll circle around to the street side."
Footsteps. Multiple sets. Getting closer.
I gripped the knife tighter and tried to control my ragged breathing. The phone in my pocket felt like a lifeline and a death sentence at once. If they heard it ring, if James or Christopher tried to call...