Page 55 of Resuscitation
Sara had hosted a staff BBQ last summer. It was the only time he’d been to her house, but he remembered she lived in a small development of mid-century ranches. He drove there, squinting to make out street signs and house numbers. All the houses appeared near-identical in the dark, their outlines blurred by the fallen snow.
“Maybe she’s fine,” he muttered, unable to convince himself. No sign of any cops, either.
Then he rounded a corner, a pair of red taillights flashing as they braked to pull into a driveway.
Blake’s breath caught. Was it Sara’s car?
Or was he chasing shadows, letting his paranoia get the best of him?
He slowed, switched off his lights, eased to a stop a few houses away. The vehicle ahead parked haphazardly. Definitely Sara’s Subaru.
Two figures emerged from the car, barely visible in dark.
Blake held his breath as he recognized Sara’s slender form being shoved toward the house by a taller, much broader figure. Harper, the South African. Had to be. He reached for his cell to call the cops but realized he didn’t have it.
He watched the man push Sara through the front door, disappearing inside the darkened house. Blake’s instincts screamed at him to rush in, to save Sara, but he forced himself to remain still. Rushing in mindlessly could put Sara in even more danger.
Blake quickly scanned the interior of his truck, his gaze settling on the glove compartment. He kept a long screwdriver in there. He snatched it up, testing the weight of the tool, and quietly opened the truck door. The snow crunched under his boots as he stepped out into the frigid night air, the screwdriver secured in his pocket.
The snow-covered yard offered little cover, but he kept low, his training kicking in as he assessed the situation. The house, like its neighbors, was a ranch with a detached garage. He shimmied up to a side window, peered into the dining room. The lights were on in the living room, and as he watched, more flicked on in the kitchen. He ducked low.
The kitchen was in the rear of the house, so he crept around to the front. Sara was smart. If she could, she would have left the door unlocked—she wouldn’t want to limit her escape options. At least he prayed she’d been thinking clearly enough to do that.
He reached the front porch, made himself small as he approached the storm door, then opened it and reached to check the front door. Not only unlocked, but not quite latched. Smart lady.
Standing up just far enough to glance through the windows at the top of the door, he scanned the foyer and living room. No one.
He pushed the door open a crack and listened. Harper and Sara were still in the kitchen. Harper was demanding that Sara give him all her cash and access to her bank accounts. Sara was telling him her cash was hidden in her freezer. Stalling, Blake was sure, just as he was sure she had a plan.
Carefully, in case the hardwood floor creaked, he eased through the door and shut it before the cold could alert Harper. The foyer opened into the living room and the wall across from him had a brick fireplace. He spotted a poker beside it, hanging from a cast-iron base. The South African was bigger and stronger than Blake, and he’d moved as if he’d had some training—Blake had barely escaped him the first time they fought.
He switched his grip on the screwdriver and sidled across the open space to the fireplace. Blake eased the poker out from its stand and placed it on the hearth. Then he grasped the stand, feeling the solid weight of the iron in his hand. He tested its heft, gauging its potential as a weapon. It would do damage, more than the screwdriver or poker would, that much he knew.
He slid the screwdriver into his jacket pocket and planted himself against the wall, in Harper’s blind spot when he emerged from the kitchen. The dark dining-room window he’d peered through earlier gave him a partial reflection of the kitchen. He couldn’t see Harper, but he saw Sara, leaning into her freezer.
Now all he had to do was watch and wait.
But Sara had other ideas.
“Where’s that cash?” Harper demanded.
“It’s in here, but there’s frost. I just need to dig it?—”
She grabbed a bottle of vodka and swung it into the side of Harper’s head, hard enough to stagger the man, sending him a step into the living room?—
—right into Blake’s path.
Blake wielded the heavy iron stand with all his might, aiming it at the side of Harper’s head. Before he could connect, Harper turned, the stand slamming into the man’s neck and shoulder. The impact reverberated through Blake’s arms, the force of the blow snapping his jaws together.
Harper merely gave a surprised grunt and spun around, crashing against the wall but somehow remaining upright. He raised his pistol and fired. The shot narrowly missed Blake, ripping past his ear, the bullet riding on a hot gust of air.
Blake swung again, this time aiming for Harper’s gun arm, but Harper anticipated him, grabbing the poker stand with his other hand, yanking it from Blake, flinging it to the floor. Blake stumbled backward, Harper following with a kick to his belly that had Blake fighting for air. The room spun, his vision swimming from the impact.
Through watering eyes, Blake saw Harper regain his balance, a cruel smirk twisting his features. Time seemed to slow as the South African raised his weapon, the barrel pointing directly at Blake’s chest.
A blur of movement caught his eye.
Sara appeared behind Harper. She gripped the iron poker stand, her knuckles white with the effort. She swung the heavy object, whacking the back of Harper’s head with a nauseating thud. Harper’s eyes rolled back before he crumpled to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. His gun clattered to the floor, sliding across the hardwood and coming to rest at Blake’s feet.
