I’d seen people try to twist luck to their ways before and it never went well for the people who’d made the deals.
I grumbled under my breath as I moved toward the strip mall, bothering to take a peek at my forearm.
It hadn’t changed—one hour left, but just how much of that hour remained? My tattoo didn’t take minutes into account.
That galvanized me into doubling my pace until I fell into something just short of a run. My gaze kept flicking to the sky, tracking the double rainbow in hopes of pinpointing exactly where it ended.
I made my way onto the asphalt of the strip mall and caught sight of what I believed to be the end of the twin beams. The location brought me to a stop.
The clinic I’d first tried to catch a glimpse of myself at. A familiar piece of paper stared back at me. The one with a young boy’s face on it—Andy’s face.
My fingers tightened against the mouth of the paper bagholding my last doughnut and I resolved to treat myself to it after kicking Lucky’s ass.
I rushed over to the door to the vet, giving it a forceful tug. It didn’t budge. A quick look around the strip revealed two people leaving the doughnut shop. Smashing my way through the window wasn’t an option. The noise would draw more attention than I could afford and—
My vision tilted before images flooded me. Curtis’s hands slipped an odd key into the deadbolt of the door before me, giving the tool a jiggle before smacking it hard. Clarity returned seconds later along with a migraine like someone had taken a bat to my temple.
I recognized the key from my vision and sent a hand fumbling through my pocket. My fingers slipped over the piece of metal and I plucked it free, turning it over in my grip. It took me another second to realize what I really had in my hand. A bump key.
They were tools fashioned by criminals more than anyone else to help circumvent a lock. Genuine locksmiths didn’t have much use for one outside the novelty... and that they could work in select situations.
The principle is simple. They’re filed down just enough to slip into any lock. You put them in, apply pressure, give them a good bump, and the impact jars the pins of a lock into place for a fraction of second. You can usually get through a single lock that way.
And then it clicked. Curtis had used his background to fashion this to get through the door before me.
I slipped the key in just short of all the way, then pulled off a shoe, applying pressure to the broad face of the key with a thumb so it would try to turn the lock. A smack from the heel of my shoe slammed the key in.Click.I tugged the door open, slipping inside without bothering to put my shoe back on immediately.
It took me longer than I would have liked to adjust to thedarkness of the boarded-up interior. I moved past the small reception area, heading toward the back. That was when I heard it.
Sniffling. A few moans. The kind that could only come from one source. Little kids. You know the sound if you’ve ever heard it before.
I gritted my teeth, opening the first door on my right.
A child who couldn’t have been more than eight lay strapped to a bed. He’d been blindfolded.
Crimson streaked my vision and I rushed to help him.
Well, I tried.
Something barreled into my midsection, slamming me into the door hard enough to threaten tearing it from its hinges. The paper bag slipped from my grip. Instinct drove me to twist and drive an elbow down into the back of my attacker.
The blow connected, forcing him to his knees, but I must have had a moment of bad luck as the inside of my joint struck a bony bit of his spine. My arm went numb, tingling in odd places. I’d struck my funny bone in the attack.
My assailant used the pause to right himself, swinging a fist toward my ribs.
I pivoted and stepped to the side, hoping he’d slam his hand into the unforgiving metal door. I didn’t pay enough attention to my surroundings, though. My haste led me to shove a foot against the protruding doorstop and I tumbled to the ground in another bit of misfortune.
A laugh sounded from above me.
I rolled over to take stock of my attacker.
He stood at five-six. Dark hair and eyes, blotchy pale skin. He had a lean body carved from gnarled wood. I could tell he knew how to scrap even if he didn’t have much muscle. He wore a gray tank top and a pair of jeans that only stayed on because of thebelt. His nose had the sort of crookedness to it that came from being repeatedly broken and never once set right.
I slowly got to my feet as he watched me. “I’m guessing you’re Lucky, huh?”
He gave me a toothy smile. “Bad stereotype. And I thought you died the first time you tried this.”
Which answered my question.
