My foot slips and I snatch the cold railing, forcing my body upright. Fear is pounding through me, thrumming in my ears, making my heart want to explode.
His steel-toe boots ring out on the stairs above me. He’s getting close. I pick up my pace, jumping down the last of the stairs and nearly stabbing myself as I tumble to the ground with the knife still clutched in my bound hands.
He’s five steps away, growling at me like an angry bear. A bright red patch is soaking into his shirt. His hand is smeared with blood.
The look in his eyes injects me with another shot of adrenaline and I struggle to my feet, flying around the corner before he can reach me.
The dock is open with security lights that will give me away in a heartbeat. I push through them, my running slowed by the fact my hands are still bound.
I need to hide. I need time to cut this rope and figure out what the hell I’m doing. Surging for the rows of containers, I duck into the darkness between them and stop to catch my breath. Sawing at the ropes around my wrists is an awkward job. My heart is thundering the whole time, and I’m waiting for Brutus to pounce on me at any second.
With a soft grunt, I manage to cut through the final rope. The knife clatters to the ground, giving away my location. I snatch it up and start running between the containers.
My erratic breaths feel loud, like a GPS locator.
But it’s hard to stay silent.
Reaching the end of the row, I’m about to round the corner and get my bearings when I’m stopped short by the beast. His body looms over me, blocking my escape.
I scream and slip to my ass as he makes a grab at me. I spin and try to crawl away, my knuckles scraping on concrete as I refuse to let go of the knife.
He snatches my ankle, yanking me back to him. I buck and kick but have nothing on his strength. My only advantage is the knife.
So I use it.
Swiveling around, I slash out with the blade, slicing through his leg. He flinches and growls, tussling for the knife. I dodge his attempts, writhing out of his grasp and throwing all my force into a final spin, burying the knife in his thigh.
He roars in my face, his knee buckling.
I jump away from him and sprint for my life.
Bursting out from between the containers, I quickly scan my surroundings and notice a small office to my right. I reach it in record time, wrestling with the handle. It’s locked!
Thumping the door, I step back and assess the window next to it. I don’t have time to hesitate. Offices have phones and right now, I need any help I can get.
I pull off my shirt, wrapping it around my elbow before punching it against the glass. It takes three attempts, but finally the glass shatters enough for me to reach through and unbolt the door. My arms get nicked and I’m sure I’ll be picking out splinters of glass for the next week, but adrenaline is a magical thing. I can’t feel any pain as I smash through the door and leap around the desk.
Snatching the phone, I don’t even think to call 911. Instead, I punch in the only number I can trust.
#36:
The Eton Breakout
Trey
Shadows cloak us as we creep towards Henry’s dugout. As far as we know, no teacher has ever found it. The hole was made by the legendary Henry Trenchman as a way to sneak in and out of the school. He went down in Eton history, and his hidden passageway beneath the south-line fence has been passed down through the last few years. We’ve used it a couple of times to get to weekend parties or to sneak out to buy booze on a Friday night.
I’ve never needed it for something so important before. My heart is still hammering. I don’t know if it’ll ever stop. Breaking for the trees, we dash across the last patch of exposed lawn and disappear into the forest. The guys are puffing behind me, Riley bringing up the rear as he tries to run and hunt for clues on his phone.
“So if Ivan does have her,” he puffs, “and he’s handed her over to the Sorrentinos, then he must be getting some kind of payout or something, right?”
I nod. I don’t know what else to assume.
“No, wait!” Riley slows to a stop. I spin in frustration, urging him on with a flick of my hand. He won’t be able to see it in the darkness, plus he’s too busy looking at his phone screen.
“Come on, man. Talk and run. Talk and run.”
He catches up with me and shares his theory while we jump over tree roots and weave our way out of Eton.
“There was an article on the news about the Candellas thinking Chris did it, right?”
“Only you would know that, dude.” Kade dodges a low-lying branch in the nick of time.
I crouch against a tree trunk and scan the field in front of us. Henry’s dugout is about a football field to our left. We’ll stick to the tree line and should make it undetected. By now teachers will have been woken and told to search the school.