Light floods in, so bright it burns. It pours over all three of us until I can barely keep my eyes open.
Motherfucker.
He’s right there.
He leans in halfway, boots scraping dirt as his shadow swallows half the space. Through squinted eyes, I see him holding the gun in one hand while the other guides a key into the cabinet’s lock. The key clicks. He bends, yanks the cabinet door open, and the gun dips just enough.
That’s all I need.
I lunge.
My shoulder slams into his ribs, and the gun jerks sideways. He grunts, his weight pitching back.
Take this, you son of a bitch.
His finger squeezes the trigger as he stumbles. The shot cracks into the sky.
I don’t think. I grab whatever my hand lands on in the cabinet and swing. It connects with his temple. His body lurches, then folds, collapsing halfway into the dirt. The gun tumbles from his grip and skitters to the ground a couple of steps away.
I dive for it, but my knees skid and my palms slide through dust and gravel. He’s already rolling over. Blood leaks down his face. His hand clamps around my ankle hard enough to jar my bones. I kick him in the shoulder and lunge again, stretching for the gun until my fingers scrape cold metal.
Got it.
He grips my hair in his fist and yanks. The world goes white-hot. My scalp feels like it’s being peeled off. I twist, aim wild, and squeeze the trigger.
Click.
Nothing fires. The gunbursts.
What the hell?
Heat slams into my hand, a shockwave ripping through my fingers like fireworks detonating in my palm. The muzzle spits smoke and metal shrapnel instead of a bullet. Pain rockets up my wrist. I drop the gun on instinct and clamp my other handover the burn. My skin is already searing red. A thin line of blood cuts across the base of my thumb where a splinter of metal nicked me.
The man screams. He’s on his knees now, clutching his face. The blast caught him worse than it did me. Blood trickles down his cheek, and when he jerks his hand away, there’s a dark scorch mark near his eye. Tiny shards glitter in his skin, like someone pressed ground glass into flesh.
Did the dirt jam the barrel or something? I don’t have time to figure it out. I kick the ruined gun away and shove myself up. My vision pulses at the edges as I stagger backward, half-running and half-falling toward the van.
I need to free the girls. None of this matters if I don’t free the girls.
I scramble to the cabinet, my burned hand throbbing like it’s trapped in a vise. Inside, everything swims into a blur of metal and plastic until my good hand finds what it needs.
Wire cutters.
“Oh, shit,” Hailey gasps.
“Hold still,” I rasp, dropping beside them and forcing my shaking fingers to work. The cutters squeak against the plastic, and I almost miss with the first bite.
The tie around Hailey’s wrists snaps, then Lila’s.
The second the last one breaks, a sound rolls through the van that turns my blood cold.
A wet, guttural grunt.
I spin.
The man’s already up.
Blood streaks his cheek, one eye swollen and gleaming with something rabid. His hands are empty for a heartbeat, and then he surges forward and slams me into the side of the van hard enough to dent the metal around my shoulder.
