Page 65 of Traces of Kara

Jackson stopped walking. He closed his eyes tight and whispered, “I’m sorry, Nancy.” He opened his eyes and pulled back his shoulders, reaching for the wall for support. Jackson’s high-pitched, cracking voice startled Ted. “Mimi!”

Ted shot him a shocked look.

“If he’s calling for her, she’s still alive and he doesn’t know where she is. Let him find us instead,” Jackson said. “We can’t let that maniac hurt them like he did—” His eyes dropped to Ted’s side, then lifted and held Ted’s stare.

When had this squirrel of a man become a hero? It was a good plan, except that Ted couldn’t fight, Jackson was too small, and…the man had his gun. Shit. The gun.

“He’s got a gun.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Jackson spat. “I saw—”

“He’s got my gun.” Ted turned to show him his side.

Jackson’s eyes grew wide. He grabbed Ted’s arm. “C…come on,” he said in a thin voice. “We gotta get outta here.”

“No shit.”

Roland stormed toward the voices, the veins in his neck and forehead bulging. His gut ached. His hands stung so badly they were practically numb. Roland was sick of this petty shit. He was done messing around.

He stormed past the hall where the guy had shot himself, and stopped, staring at the puddle of blood, noting the empty space where his body had lain. Roland stood with his jaw agape, momentarily dumbfounded. The missing body sparked a vengeance that boiled his blood. He let out a visceral yell, so loud it echoed long after he’d finished.

Idiots. He’d show them. He reached for the gun, relishing in the sting of it in his injured hand. He cocked the barrel, set his chin low, focused his eyes, and headed for the trouble that awaited him.

He stood in the passageway, listening to their frightened voices plan their escape. The gun burned into his palm. He lifted his finger from the trigger guard, placing it securely on the cold, metal trigger. Roland had very little exposure to guns. He’d held a coworker’s gun once, after work, when they’d walked to their trucks together and the guy had just bought some kind of pistol and wanted to show it to Roland. He’d said it was a gift for his wife. Roland had thought it odd—a gun as a gift for a woman.

Roland thought of Marissa, and the way she’d cast the Barbie doll aside like it was meaningless. He clenched his jaw. Images of the cake flying across the room returned. He breathed harder and heard a guttural sound come from deep within his lungs.

They were going to get away. He pushed aside the thoughts of Marissa and her unappreciative bullshit, and focused on the escaping troublemakers. Roland broke into a reckless trot. The folds of his flesh jiggled. His stomach bounced up and down, his sweaty hair slapped against his cheeks and eyes. A great roar came from within his lungs as he burst out of the hall and into the room. The man he’d tied up hung halfway out of the broken window.

Ted leaned against the wall, his body folded over. Blood dripped down the front of his pants leg. He lifted his eyes, holding the stare of the man who’d attacked him, who now moved at full-speed toward Jackson.

Jackson whipped his head around. His high-pitched wail filled the room. He used his feet to scramble up the wall.

Ted held onto the wall for support, and pushed his mangled body between them.

Roland grabbed Ted by the jacket and flung him across the room. His body hit the concrete wall with a thud, and the distinct crack of bones breaking. He crumpled to the floor. Blood poured from his mouth. His body stilled.

Jackson pulled himself up the wall and out the window.

Chapter Forty-Nine

Wind whipped around Mitch and Mark, their jackets flapping behind them. The rain had picked up once again, driving into their cold cheeks. The ripples and fits of the canal blended with the sounds of the blowing leaves and the wind that whistled through the electricity wires that laced the plant like a web. Their feet sank in the mud as they trudged across the back of the building.

“Are you sure there’s another way in? Why don’t we just shoot out the door?” Mark asked.

Mitch spun around, his jaw set in a tight line. “I told you, if they’re alive and we shoot, he might hear the shots and get scared. He might kill them and himself. God only knows what we’re dealing with.” Mimi’s face flashed before him. He shook his head. “If we can’t get in through the Bilco doors,” he raised his voice to compete with the storm, “then we’ll shoot it in. Not yet.” He stomped away in the direction of the canal.

He was certain he’d seen an entrance on the drawing. He just wasn’t sure where it was—at the back or the side of the building. Lightning brightened the sky with a loud crack, partnered with a thunderous boom. An extended cracking sound rang out to their left. Mitch turned just as an enormous tree branch, hanging like a loose tooth, broke free from the tree and descended directly above Mark’s path.

“Mark!” Grant broke into a sprint, running toward Mark. “Look out!”

Mark turned just in time to see the massive branch connect with his shoulder, knocking him to the ground. He wailed like an injured animal, his leg bent at an odd angle.

“Shit,” Mitch knelt beside him. “Your leg.”

Mark clenched his teeth. Rain and tears filled his eyes. “Broken. Shit. Goddamn it.” Mark’s leg was pinned under the thick branch, his back sunk into the mud.

Mitch assessed the angle of his leg. Definitely broken. He had to get to the patrol car and call for help. He needed backup. There was no time to waste.