The flash-bang felt impossibly heavy in her hand. Izzy watched Cory struggle with the pin, her own hands pressed against her ears. She squeezed her eyes shut just as he released the spoon.
Even through closed lids and covered ears, the detonation was overwhelming. Light that burned through everything, sound that became physical force. Then?—
A high-pitched whine that consumed everything. Her ears rang like church bells, drowning out the world. She let herself collapse where she'd planned, face down but angled to see the door through barely cracked eyelids.
Don't breathe. Don't move.
Her lungs screamed for air, but she forced herself to take only the tiniest sips. Beside the door, Cory had crumpled convincingly, one arm flung out. Even Tom's unconscious form had been jostled by the blast.
Movement outside. Shadows shifting in the crack under the door. Izzy's vision swam—from the poisoning or the flash-bang, she couldn't tell. But she saw the door handle move. Saw it jiggle as someone tested it.
The bar. Janet would have to lift the bar.
Snow fell through the widening crack as the door opened inch by inch. A rifle barrel appeared first, sweeping the room. Then Janet, silhouetted against the snowy night. Her mouth was moving—calling out?—but Izzy heard nothing through the ringing in her ears.
Janet stepped inside, rifle trained on Cory's still form. Another step. Checking for movement, for breathing. She moved past Izzy without a glance, focused on Tom.
Now.
Izzy tried to roll for her stun gun, but her body barely responded. Across the room, Cory lunged for the rifle barrel—or tried to. His grab was weak, uncoordinated. Janet spun, rifle swinging toward him.
No.
Then—movement behind Janet.
Tom Morrison rose like something from a nightmare. The champagne bottle clutched in both hands, raised high. His face was a masterpiece of grief—forty years of love warring with the betrayal, the necessity of what he had to do.
Izzy saw his mouth form the words: "I'm sorry."
The bottle came down.
She felt the impact more than heard it—the vibration through the floorboards as Janet crumpled. The rifle clattered away. Tom stood swaying over his wife's still form, the brokenbottle neck still clutched in his hand, champagne mixing with blood at his feet.
Fresh air poured through the open door. Izzy gasped it in. Beside her, Cory was doing the same, great heaving breaths as their systems fought to purge the poison.
Tom dropped to his knees beside Janet, his mouth moving in what might have been prayers or apologies or declarations of love. Tears streamed down his face as he cradled her head, checking for a pulse with shaking fingers.
Izzy's hands found the zip-ties on her vest. She crawled to Janet, securing her hands even as Tom wept. The woman was unconscious but breathing, blood matting her gray hair.
They were all alive.
She met Cory's eyes across the small space. Blood trickled from a cut on his forehead, and his skin was still bright red, his mouth slack, but his gaze was steady, grateful. They'd made it. Somehow, impossibly, they'd made it.
Her ears still rang, the world still silent except for a strange, consuming whine. Through the open door, she could see lights in the distance. Help coming.
She let herself collapse onto the rough pine floor, gulping in clean air, and thought of Chantal. Her baby would have her mother for Christmas after all.
Gracias, Dios. Thank you.
The prayer came as naturally as breathing. Maybe more so, after tonight.
44
Oxygen had never tasted sosweet.
The ER's fluorescent lights felt like needles stabbing through Izzy's skull, but that might have been the carbon monoxide hangover. Or the fact that she'd been awake for….She'd lost count of the hours. Her oxygen mask fogged with each breath, and the IV in her arm pulled every time she turned to check on Cory.
Which was every thirty seconds.
