Perfectly composed.
Perfectly dressed.
And smiling.
24
Saint
Ipush up on one arm.
My ribs scream in protest.
The fall knocked the breath out of me, but I’m still conscious.
Still thinking.
Still fighting.
My rifle is gone.
Of course it is.
“You’re very predictable,” she says lightly from above. “Men like you always are.”
I don’t answer.
Talking is wasted oxygen.
Instead I’m counting.
Angles.
Distances.
Depth of the pit.
Positions of the lasers.
Possible exit points.
There aren’t any.
This was built for one purpose.
Capture.
“Where is my granddaughter?” she asks, her tone almost bored.
“You don’t have one,” I say, forcing the words past the pain in my ribs. “Laney and my daughter aren’t related to you.”
She tilts her head slightly.
Studying me.
Like a scientist examining an insect.
“We’ll see about that.”
