Page 49 of Fourteen Years

Hearing nothing after a few minutes, I sighed with relief and stared around at my surroundings. They’d be pissed when they figured out she was gone. Moving away from the light of the window, I walked back around the walls of the basement, searching for anything I could use to try to get out the door at the top of the stairs.

A gunshot rang out and I froze. Feeling like my blood was running cold in my veins. I pounded up the stairs, trying the door, knowing it was locked. Monica hadn’t been gone long enough for that to not have involved her.

As another gun shot rang out, I yelled in frustration, slamming my shoulder into the door, I didn’t give a fuck if it hurt. I needed to get out there.

“MONICA!” I yelled, feeling the most useless I ever had in my entire life. I heard one of the men yelling. It sounded like Mike. Then Monica’s voice raised in fear and anger. I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Just the yelling and chaos sending me into a range. Of all the things in this shitty house to hold strong, it would be this fucking basement door.

Another gunshot rang out and the voices stopped. Stepping to the top step again. I grabbed the railing and placed the opposite hand on the wall. Drawing my leg back I kicked the door as hard as I could. It cracked.

Turning, facing down the stairs, I braced myself again, kicking backward.

“FUCK!” I yelled, desperate.

I heard the door lock clicking and turned, ready to fight. What I didn’t expect to see was Monica standing in front of me.

Chapter 30

Iwatched the bullet hit the back of the bigger man's head and he dropped immediately.

I’d just killed a man.

Nausea rolled through me, even as my arms straightened again, aiming quickly for the other man who was yelling and already turned toward me, infuriated.

“Fuck,” I whispered to myself, eyes filling with tears, as I tried to blink them away. I fired again. Too soon. Not taking the time to aim properly.

“Crazy, psycho, bitch!” the man’s voice yelled. “Fucking killed Chuck!”

Blinking I saw him coming at me still and I knew I’d missed. I took a step back too late as his hand circled my wrist, still holding the other handgun. I wasn’t going out this way.

Reaching behind me, I drew the second gun, thankful Paul had given me lessons in shooting with either hand. I was awkward with my left and quite frankly sucked at aiming. But I had the advantage of surprise in my corner.

Drawing the other gun around, I aimed it at the man in front of me, even if it felt like he was breaking the wrist of my right hand, pointed the gun under his chin, and fired.

Everything exploded around me as he fell. I fell. Blood and other sorts of matter burst all over me. I gagged trying to keep hold of my bearings. I hit the ground on my hands and knees, staring into his wide, unseeing eyes, and felt tears dripping off my face.

Climbing to my feet, I picked up the gun, and sprinted towards the front door, sobbing.

I couldn’t hold back my emotions anymore. I had just taken two men’s lives. Pushing the door open I stumbled into the darkened house and hit a stack of cans, crying out as they fell.

Trevor's voice was screaming my name from the top of the stairs, but I couldn’t answer. I was near hyperventilating. The smell of gasoline was strong and I was covered in something wet. I blinked looking at what I’d knocked over.

Gasoline canisters had been stacked right inside the front door and the fluid was creeping across the floor as I made my way to the basement door where Trevor was cursing. My hair was hanging in my face, my pony tail long gone and I’d lost my glasses after killing the second man. Everything was blurry and I was unsteady on my feet.

Unlocking the door, I swung it open, staring into Trevor’s furious eyes. He was ready to fight.

“Monica?” he looked me up and down. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” he was up the last stair, his hands all over me searching for injuries. I probably looked like hell, covered in blood and gore.

I heard sirens in the distance, a car door slamming outside.

“WHAT THE FUCK?” a male voice screamed from outside.

Trevor tensed, grabbing my wrist, taking the gun from me.

“Richard,” he whispered, pulling me deeper into the house.

My heart was pounding, my body begging for it to be over, to finally be able to shut down.

“Can you move?” Trevor whispered, backing me into the kitchen, taking me in. “Jesus, did you get shot?” his voice was breaking, his hands searching me again, even as we heard footsteps coming through the front door.

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