I’ll have to find another way out.
I look for cameras one more time, then dart toward the back of the lot, giving a wide berth to what looks like a garage with twin roll-up doors. Sodium-colored floodlights cast everything around the building in a ghoulish white, illuminating walls covered in sprawling graffiti tags.
I pause, breathing hard. The graffiti means there’s a way in.
And out.
Relief floods me until I spot the razor wire glinting along the fence top. Whoever tagged these walls didn’t climb over that. They either found a break in the fence or made one.
I sprint across the parking lot, skidding to a stop at the back fence. Pain explodes behind my eyes. The world tilts. I clutch the metal links, swaying as fear, adrenaline, and dizziness swirl through me. When the pain subsides, I scan the shadows, hoping I’m hidden.
Hope.
A fool’s wish.
Once my eyes adjust to the darkness, I glance over my shoulder at the factory, my heart sinking.
I have to do this. There is no other way.
Besides, he’s expecting me.
Dragging my hand along the cool metal links, I walk the fence line, searching for a break in the links. Just as I’m ready to give up and find another way out, or go back and reason with Clyde, I spot a section where someone’s cut just enough chain link to curl upward, leaving a gap just big enough for a small body.
Small like me.
I drop to my knees, ignoring the pain blaring in my head and the dull ache between my legs, and push the fencing outward.
I may fit.
I have to.
Loose asphalt scrapes my palms as I lower to my belly and slowly shimmy through the opening. My shirt snags on a jagged piece of fencing.
“Fuck,” I hiss, twisting to free myself. I push through as my hair snags, then my jeans. Biting my lip against frustrated tears, I force my hips through the opening. Chain links rattle as I pop free, scrambling to my feet on the other side.
Clyde’s going to strangle me.
God knows what Breaker is going to do.
Nothing, Cora. They can’t do a damn thing, which is why it’s up to you.
And I need to hurry.
With one last glance over my shoulder, I sprint the empty lot beside theirs until I hit the sidewalk. I double over, hands on knees, gulping air. Pain spikes through my temples, and I stand upright, pressing my fingers against the dull throb as I scan the shadow-draped street. At this hour, I’m hoping that anyone with nefarious intent is home sleeping, and not out looking for someone to kidnap.
I’ve already been through that and I doubt I’d be so lucky a second time.
Inhaling, I square my shoulders, trying to untangle the knot in my chest, and head away from the men’s compound, past deserted stores and vacant lots. Overhead, the streetlights buzz and pop, like those bug zappers people use when they’re camping, blasting every inch of pavement with harsh white, leaving me exposed. I quicken my pace, throwing glances over my shoulder until the factory disappears behind me.
I relax, but then a voice rasps from the darkness beside a boarded-up convenience store and my pulse explodes.
Fuck. I really don’t feel like being murdered right now.
“Hey,” the voice says again. “Got some change?”
The shadows shift, and an old woman emerges into the harsh streetlight, a ratty flannel draped over her bony shoulders.
“Nope,” I say, picking up my pace into a jog.
