“Reagan, no…” Luke yells after me.
But I’m already running toward the house. The anger that started in my heart has pumped through my veins and circulated through my entire body. A fire burns with every step, growing with each stride, until I cannot feel the strike of my heel or the wind on my face. All I feel is heat.
“She’s entering the house to find Elizabeth. Someone stop her,” I hear Thomas say in my ear.
“Reagan, get back here,” Sam pleads.
“Reagan, get in the truck, please,” Cooper says, his voice harsh. “This is what Torres wants. He wants…”
“Goddammit,” my mouth hisses as I yank out my earpiece and shove it in my pocket, quieting their protests.
My blood is hot and my muscles feel like they’re being pulled apart. I dig my heels into the ground. Run faster, run faster, run faster. My legs stretch out further, pulling me closer and closer to the house. Two hundred yards. One hundred yards. Fifty yards. Twenty yards. I grip my weapon as I reach the back patio. No one is around. My fingers grasp the cool metal handle of the guest room door.
“I’m coming, Mom,” I whisper. I pull down on the handle and swing the door open. I point my gun into the guest room. It’s dark and empty. I listen for footsteps, for gunshots. I hear nothing. “I’m coming.”
THIRTY
I step inside the dark room. A king-size four-poster bed is against the wall to the right. A fireplace and sitting area with two chairs and a small table is to my left. Where is the freaking door? I step quietly across the plush carpet, my gun still pointed in front of me. I see a thin line of pale light on the floor straight ahead. There it is. I cross the room and put my ear to the door, listening for what may be happening on the other side. I listen for footsteps or voices or screaming, but I hear nothing, just an eerie stillness. I stay there for another moment just to be sure, my hand on the doorknob, when I hear the tap, tap, tap of someone’s feet. But it’s not coming from the other side of the door, it’s coming from outside. Someone has followed me. I let go of the door handle and dive to my knees behind the bed.
The footsteps slow. I look through my scope and point the gun straight at the open door that leads to the brick patio. I see a long, thick shadow on the ground in the moonlight moving toward me. I tighten my grip on the gun and brace my finger to pull the trigger.
A man’s silhouette steps through the doorway, his gun pointed into the room. “Reagan?”
“Jesus Christ, Luke,” I whisper and lower my weapon. “You almost just got a bullet to the temple.”
“Sorry, I called for you the entire time I was running,” he says, lowering his weapon. “Why didn’t you answer?”
“I took out my earpiece,” I whisper and step around the bed toward him.
“Reagan, you can’t do that,” Luke says, grabbing me gently by the shoulder. “That’s like the number one thing Sam said. You need to stay in contact with everyone.”
“I can’t find her with everyone screaming in my ear to stop,” I whisper and search for his eyes in the darkness. The dim moonlight hides their color but I can still make out his long lashes. “What are you doing here? I told you to go to the truck with Dad.”
“I got him in the truck but then I came after you. There’s no way I’m going to let you do this by yourself,” he whispers. I should have known he’d never let me do something so dangerous alone. As much as I love him for it, I don’t think I can live with myself if he gets hurt.
“Please. Can I convince you to go back?” I whisper and grab his arm.
“Not a chance,” he says, putting his hand back on his weapon. “Where do you think they are?”
“I don’t know,” I say and do a mental scan of the house blueprint. Would he take her to a bedroom? No. The library? No. The garage? No. I put mental Xs on every room until I get to the basement. And then I remember the unfinished space down there. They’ve been torturing her. And as much as Torres loves to hurt people, the thick, rich carpet at my feet tells me he likes nice things. He wouldn’t want to get blood on his expensive furniture and floors. He needs a cold, dark, filthy room for his dirty work. “Let’s start in the basement.”
I press my ear to the door again and listen. Still nothing. I grip the door handle, pulling it all the way down so the metal doesn’t scrape against the doorjamb. Light from the hallway spills into the room as I lower my stance and peer into the hall. I look left, I look right. No one. I step into the hallway, my gun pointed in front of me. I motion for Luke to follow me into Santino Torres’s elaborate home.