"Hallowed be thy name," Izzy joined in, her hand squeezing his. "Thy kingdom come, thy will be done..."
They spoke the words together, drawing strength from the familiar rhythm. When did his faith become her anchor? When did her courage become his?
"Get us through this," Cory added. "Get Izzy home to her girl."
"Por favor, Dios," Izzy whispered.
Tom made a sound—not quite conscious, sliding further down the wall. They were running out of time. The edges of Cory's vision were going dark, his chest tight.
"The chimney," Izzy said suddenly. "If we can break the cap?—"
She staggered to her feet, grabbing Tom's champagne bottle. But her movements were uncoordinated now, the poison working through their systems.
They had seconds, not minutes. And somewhere outside, Janet Morrison waited with a rifle and forty years of rage, ready to play the grieving widow.
But they weren't dead yet. And Cory had learned to never give up while Isabella Reyes still had fight in her.
Even if that fight was fading with every poisoned breath.
43
Minutes until brain death—ifthey were lucky.
Izzy pressed her back against the log wall, fighting to keep her eyes open. Every inhale introduced more poison gas, every exhale took more of her strength. Beside her, Cory's face had gone red, his movements sluggish as he checked the door one more time.
Barred. Of course Janet had barred it. Izzy gritted her teeth against the sludge moving through her brain.
Ninety seconds. Maybe less.
Tom hadn't moved in the last minute, slumped against the far wall like a broken doll, face beet red. Still breathing—she could see his chest rise and fall—but barely there.
"Can't... get out," Cory slurred, sliding down beside her.
Think, Reyes. You've gotten out of worse.
But her thoughts scattered before she could grasp them. They were going to die here, in this stupid cabin, while Janet played grieving widow and Chantal?—
No.
She patted down her vest, searching for anything useful. Her fingers found the cylindrical shape clipped to the molle webbing.
"Flash-bang," she croaked.
Cory's eyes sharpened. Even dying, he tracked her logic immediately. But his gaze went to the barred door, the boarded windows. No exit.
"Inside," she managed, each word a monumental effort. "Make her... think we're..."
Dead. Make Janet think they were dead.
Understanding flickered across his face. He fumbled for his own vest, movements uncoordinated but determined. Two flash-bangs between them. If the first one didn’t work, they’d launch the second. “You first,” she ordered.
Cory nodded in slow motion.
Izzy forced her body to move, crawling to position Tom away from where the door would open. Cory swayed over to help. Inch by inch, they dragged the unresponsive man to the farthest corner of the tiny room. Breathing hard now, Cory stumbled to one side of the door, she took the other.
Quick hand signals.You pull pin. I cover ears. Then we drop.
Play dead. Let Janet come check. One chance.
