This would most likely include getting rid any evidence, of which she and Lucas most definitely were. Bending over him, she tried to rouse him again. “Please wake up,” she murmured, pressing her cheek to his chilly one.
He groaned softly, but didn’t come to. He’d lost a lot of blood and needed medical attention, but with her hands behind her back, she couldn’t help him. Instead, she gently dropped her forehead to his shoulder and allowed herself one last sob. “Just don’t die, okay?”
More applause, louder this time.
Struggling to her feet, she twisted to try the door.
Locked or jammed somehow.
There was a window. Unfortunately, it was high up on the wall. Long and shallow, it was meant for letting light in and some ventilation, not for escaping out of. She used her hip to shove one of the tables beneath the window, but the table was heavy and it took her a ridiculous amount of time to get it around Lucas without hurting him further. It also meant getting way too close to Santa, and when his leg jerked, she nearly had heart failure thinking he was still alive—until she realized the table had bumped into him.
When the table finally was up against the wall, she hit another snag. No hands to climb onto it. Turning her back, she attempted to hitch her butt up, but she couldn’t quite reach. Facing it again, she tried lifting her leg, but her numb thigh kept her from getting high enough. She tried the other leg and . . . her bad leg collapsed under her full weight and she fell onto the floor.
Hard.
Shaking her head to clear it, aching from the impact, she rolled over to get her legs under and came nose to nose with Bad Santa, now Dead Santa. With a startled squeak, she backed away and swallowed hard, getting over her aches and pains pretty quick because hey, at least she was still alive.
And so help her God, Lucas had better stay that way too.
She staggered upright and with sheer grit, managed to get onto the table. Getting to her feet from there was trickier because her leg was protesting loudly. Ignoring that, she slowly straightened and eyed the window. It was locked. She’d need her hands to get it open.
“Dammit.” She dropped to her butt and slid off the table, frantically running her gaze around the room for something sharp. The old, rickety metal shelving unit lining the wall had promise. The corner of it had rivets along the seam, basically just rusty, jagged edges of metal meeting metal.
Tetanus seemed preferable to being shot to death by Mrs. Claus, so she backed up to it and pressed the flex-cuffs against the metal, moving her arms up and down, trying to saw through the plastic. Moving too fast, she slipped and cried out as she sliced her hand open.
Taking a deep breath, she repositioned her hands and went at it again. It took what felt like hours, but was probably only a few minutes before her hands suddenly sprung apart.
Blood dripped down her fingers from a deep cut in her palm. Ignoring this, she ran back to Lucas. Still breathing, and . . . still not responsive. She needed help. She tried to find her cell phone, but it was gone. She looked at Santa. Blowing out a deep breath, she patted him down, looking for his phone. “You were an asshole,” she whispered when she found it in a pocket. “But I’m still sorry.”
She used the emergency feature on the phone to call 9–1–1. She asked for the cavalry and then wanted to call Joe. Unfortunately, Santa had a passcode, but she had the option of using a thumbprint. Gingerly, she picked up Santa’s hand and pressed his thumb to the home key. “Sorry about that too,” she murmured and called Joe.
He picked up on the third ring sounding breathless. “Who’s this?”
Normally, she’d bug him about his phone manners, but that could wait for later. All she could manage at the moment was his name. Her leg hurt and her hand hurt and her head hurt, and her stomach was thinking about throwing up. “I need you.”
His voice went from annoyed to very serious. “Molly? Where are you?”
“At the Christmas Village in Soma. I already called 9–1–1, but I need you.”
“Call Archer,” he said to someone with him, “tell him to get everyone to the Christmas Village in Soma ASAP.”
Molly knew he was probably talking to Kylie and that he’d already be on the move to get to her. That was Joe, that’s what he did, he moved heaven and earth to get to her whenever she needed him.
“Molly,” Joe said, an engine turning over in the background. “Talk to me.”
She opened her mouth, but suddenly she realized she could also hear voices from the main room rising, like the games really were over now and everyone was saying their goodbyes. She managed to roll herself up onto the table again, leaving a gory bloody handprint that made her swallow hard. She looked out the window. The distance to the ground was nothing compared to the three-story distance she’d faced last time she’d been in a similar situation, but the brain was a funny thing. The drop felt like a hundred miles.
It didn’t matter, it was hers and Lucas’s only exit.
“Molly,” Joe said again, tightly. “What’s going on?”
“Just hurry,” she whispered. “The bingo hall. South window.” Again, she jumped down from the table, gritted her teeth against the pain and went to Lucas. Stuffing the phone in her bra with the connection to Joe still open, she hooked her arms under his armpits and pulled. All lean muscle, he weighed a ton. She huffed and puffed, managing to drag him over to the table. “Lucas.” She shook him. “Dammit, you’ve got to wake up. You weigh a freaking ton and—”
He groaned and cracked open an eye. “Did you just call me fat?”
She choked out a laugh that might have been more like a sob of relief.
Lucas blinked and appeared to focus in on the blood all over her. Suddenly looking far more alert, he struggled against his restraints to sit up. “You’re hurt,” he said. “The blood—”
“Mostly yours,” she said, trying to hold him still. “Santa’s dead and Janet’s MIA with Tommy, but they’re going to come back. We need to go out the window. Now.”
“Talk to me, Molly,” Joe said from inside her bra. “I’m ten minutes out. What the fuck is happening?”
“Lucas has been shot,” she said. “He also took a pipe to the temple and has a head wound. Mrs. Claus lost her shit. Hurry.” Then she grabbed a chair—she had no idea why she hadn’t thought of it sooner, probably because her brains were scrambled—and shoved it near the table. She turned back to Lucas and pushed him toward the chair. “Get on the table. We’re going out the window.”
She kept her hands on him to keep him steadied and climbed up beside him. Then she bent for the chair. “Duck,” she said to Lucas. And when he did, she threw the chair against the window.
It broke straight through the glass and hit the ground. It didn’t sound like too far of a fall, she assured herself.
There were glass shards still in the window. Lucas was leaning heavily against the wall, looking more unconscious than conscious, but he straightened and pulled off his shirt, grimacing as it brushed his head wound. He tossed it to her. She wrapped her already bleeding hand in the material of the shirt and knocked out the rest of the glass, and then tugged Lucas to the window. “You first, big guy.”
He resisted, crouching and giving her a push with his shoulder, lifting her with some reserve of strength she hadn’t imagined possible.
“No,” she gasped. “You first—”
He never slowed, just shoved her through the window opening.
For a single heartbeat she clung to the window ledge, the remnants of glass biting into her hands. She didn’t feel it. Her eyes were locked on the ground, only ten feet down or so, her entire body frozen in terror. Well, not exactly frozen since she was shaking like a leaf.
“Molly.”
She lifted her head and locked eyes with Lucas’s.
“Listen to me,” he said, leaning as close as he could without the use of his hands. “You saved us. You did it. You’re amazing, but we’ve got to move. Right now they’re overconfident, unsuspecting that we’re on the move. They won’t stay that way. We have an edge and we need to keep it.”