Page 84 of Mercenary
Sometimes life’s blow is crippling. Sometimes it’s kill or be killed—haven’t I learned that the hard way? Sometimes riding along shotgun isn’t enough. Sometimes you have to take over the driver’s seat.
Time’s wasting.
Sometimes a broken promise is what it is.
Broken.
I’ll find Kylie myself, heroes be damned.
I stand and calmly walk over to the window. Expecting to find bars on it or, at the very least, it nailed shut. All it takes is a slight twist of the lock, and voilà, I have it opened.
Removing a pillowcase from its pillow and a lightbulb from the lamp on the dresser, I wind the cloth around the grooved end, and in two slick moves that would have make Kylie proud, smash the bulb against the wooden windowsill. With the jagged edges, I cut a large square into the window screen.
How long has it been since Declan locked me inside? A half hour. Slightly more? Probably thinks I’m in here, cowering and twiddling my toes while waiting for him to address the issue of how I drugged him. “I’m your worst nightmare,” he said. Yeah, well nightmares can only hurt you when you’re asleep. And I’m wide awake now. Eyes wide open.
Dangerous.
A killer.
A hit man after Kylie.
And after I find my sister and help her out of this mess, all he’ll be is a complicated memory.
Right.
I listen for any sign of him. But the ranch is sprawling and he could be anywhere. Yet with any luck, he’s somewhere inside this massive home and far away from the room he’s locked me inside.
Cautiously, I stick my head outside. The window leads out onto a narrow wooden porch that runs along the full length of the front side of the ranch. Aside from a few white wicker rocking chairs, the space is empty.
Securing the straps of my duffel around my shoulder, I climb outside, careful how I lower myself onto the wood, uncertain as to how noisy I’m being.
A wood panel creaks. I scowl, then toss caution to the wind and take off running.
I follow the long, winding dirt driveway heading away from the ranch. From what I remember, it leads out onto an unpaved secondary road. The wrought iron entry gate we passed through earlier looms up at me in the distance. And for the first time, I notice the intricately detailed sign hanging overhead like an ominous warning.
Freedom’s Bluff.
Terrific. It’s like the sign is giving me a stiff middle finger along with the message: You will not escape.
The gate’s bigger than I remember. Closed, secured tight with a dead bolt. Its bars too close together to squeeze through.
As kids, Kylie and I held climbing contests, especially when we were vacationing on Lake Eufaula, where trees—and subsequent views—abound. I usually was the first one up.
You can do this.
I reach out to check my grip on the rectangular-shaped bars but snatch my hand away as a painful jolt of electricity shoots into my palm and up my body.
I stare at my hand, expecting to see the outline of the pole branded into my skin. The marks are pink and tender. And shocking, in a literal sense, too.
It reminds me of those invisible fences around dog owners’ yards that keep the animals contained. Giving off a warning jolt rather than a killing one. The fence itself is ten feet high and scalable, if not for the electricity.
What are the chances the iron monstrosity doesn’t surround the property?
No one is leaving this place without a shock.
Or permission.
I shake my head, the truth of my situation hitting me full force.
