Bryson coughed and blood sprayed out of his mouth. Not a good sign. Darkness was closing in on the edges of his vision again. He shook his head to stay awake. He still had one more thing that he had to do. Step one had been to get out of the handcuffs. Step two was to get Teagan out of the shack to safety. Step three was still to come. He had to ensure that first responders came out here to help her so she wouldn’t die in those woods. And at this point, there was only one way he knew to do that.
He slid his hand behind the stove beside him, then yanked hard on the gas line. Like most things in this shack, it was old and brittle and much easier to pull loose than he’d expected. Finally something was going his way.
“I’m coming for you now!” the killer yelled from the other room. Shoes stomped on the hardwood floor and a hulking dark shape appeared in the hallway. Dawn was finally breaking on the little glade in the woods. And the first rays of sunlight shone through the door, glinting on the pistol in the other man’s hand.
He narrowed his eyes at Bryson, his face red with anger and exertion. He looked left and right, not that he needed to in such a small space. One glance could clearly show that they were alone.
“Where is she?” He lifted his gun, aiming it at Bryson. “Tell me right now or I’ll shoot.”
Bryson smiled and held up the gas line, which was hissing and spewing out foul-smelling propane. “She’s gone. Go ahead andshoot me. The flare from the muzzle will take us both out. And Teagan will never have to be afraid of you ever again, you scum-sucking, piece of human excrement. You’re not even fit to lick the bottom of her shoes, pervert.”
The other man’s gun started shaking. His face was so bright red it looked like he would have a stroke at any moment.
As gas continued to fill the room, Bryson piled on more insults, trying to prod the killer’s temper so he’d shoot. He wanted him to shoot. Because Teagan would be safe. She could finally live the life she deserved, without fear. And the explosion would bring the help she’d need to make it back to civilization.
“You stupid cop.”
“Is that the worst you can think to say? Really?” Bryson clucked his tongue. “You’re dumber than I gave you credit.”
He roared with rage, then strode across the room toward Bryson and shoved the gun against his temple. But when he glanced at the gas line, he swore. He tossed a few more curses Bryson’s way, then yanked open the door and headed outside.
Bryson swore a few choice curses himself. He hadn’t defeated the devil after all. But he’d get the help Teagan needed. Of that he was sure. As soon as the gunman was far enough from the cabin to feel safe, he’d shoot that propane tank. He was too mad not to. The explosion would be spectacular. Half the firefighters and cops in the county would be here in minutes.
“Bryson, what are you doing?”
His eyes flew open. Teagan was running toward him from the hallway. “What the hell? The place is full of gas and he’s going to—”
“Shoot the propane tank, I’m guessing? Was that your stupid plan?” She put her hands beneath his shoulders and hauled upward. “Help me. Hurry.”
He swore a blue streak and drew on reserves of strength he never knew he had to push to his feet.
“Go, go, go,” she yelled, repeating his earlier words to her.
They hobbled into the bedroom and she hopped down into the hole. He winced as he tried to lower himself, then gave up and went headfirst. She was reaching back to help him, but he shoved her toward the patch of sunlight just a few feet away. She hurried forward and he half-scrambled, half-crawled after her.
Out front, the truck engine started up. Tires crunched and the engine roared as he drove away from the cabin.
They cleared the structure, him leaning heavily on her once again as they stumbled toward the tree line. Just past the first stand of trees, palmettos viciously scraped their flesh.
“Down,” he yelled. “Over here!” He yanked her behind a fallen tree log and rolled on top of her.
A shot sounded. The shack exploded, turning the clearing into a fiery inferno.
Chapter Eighteen
Teagan restlessly paced the hospital conference room. From the exasperated looks on the faces of most of the men sitting at the table, she knew they were getting tired of her jumping out of her chair. But she was too nervous, too freaking scared about what was going on with Bryson that she couldn’t sit still for more than a few minutes.
“Ms. Ray,” one of the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office detectives called out to her.
Which one was he? Burns, Rodriquez, Bunting? The names of the other two sitting at the long table had been forgotten right after they’d introduced themselves. How many detectives did it take to question one lone abduction victim? How many did it take to change a stupid light bulb?
“Ms. Ray,” he called out again.
Burns. That was his name.
He motioned toward the other side of the table. “Will you please sit and answer some more questions?”
Five against one. JSO on one side, her on the other. Not that they were enemies, exactly. But their lack of interest, or ability, to solve her abduction and torture two years ago didn’t make her much of a fan now. The only reason she was talking to them was because Bryson was in surgery after being life-flighted from Live Oak to the trauma unit at UF Health Shands Hospital here in Jacksonville.
