Page 66 of Traces of Kara

“I’m going to the patrol car to get help.” He put a hand on Mark’s shoulder.

Mark flinched in pain.

Mitch pulled his hand away. “I’ll call for an ambulance, and backup.” He wiped his face, then took off his jacket and laid it around Mark’s face to block the driving rain. Mitch picked up Mark’s gun from where it had fallen and put it in Mark’s hand, wrapping his fingers around the trigger guard for him.

Mark used his gun to hold up the jacket. Through gritted teeth he said, “Get that son of a bitch.”

Mitch ran toward the parking lot. Goose bumps covered his body. Rain soaked through his shirt, but he didn’t notice the cold. He was determined to get help and get back inside the building as fast as possible.

The Bilco doors beckoned him. He slowed, weighing his options, then headed toward the parking lot. Someone was running down the long driveway—away from the plant. Shit. Mitch cocked his gun and slid out through the mangled fence and under the cover of the trees, his gun pointed down toward the ground, his eyes trained on the escaping figure. In a matter of minutes the person would be at the edge of the driveway, where the road crossed the bridge.

Mitch stepped up his pace as he passed the patrol car.

The person darted across the road.

Mitch noted the short hair, slim body, jilted gait. Definitely male, and definitely older. He gained speed, running at a pace equal to the fleeing man. The rain drowned out their footsteps. The man ran up the steep incline toward the bridge.

It was now or never.

Mitch sprinted across the road, throwing his full body weight onto the man’s back. They fell to the ground, the man screaming and swatting at Mitch.

Mitch expertly flipped him over, pinning his shoulders and stomach to the ground. He tightened his grip around the man’s thin wrists.

The man craned his neck, eyeing Mitch.

“What the—” Mitch climbed off his back, helping him up.

Jackson’s words spewed out so quickly, Mitch could barely understand him. “He’s in there. He has a gun. He’s got Ted, and Mimi.” He stopped to catch his breath. “Kara, he has Kara.”

“Who? How many people? Where are they?”

Jackson leaned over, his hands braced on his knees. “I only saw one guy. Big guy. He’s got Ted’s gun.” He took a deep breath, blew it out fast. “Ted’s in real bad shape. Shot. God—” Jackson looked away, a flush running up his cheeks “I…I should have helped him.”

“Come on.” Mitch turned toward the plant.

Jackson remained where he was.

“Jackson. Come with me. I’m going to the patrol car to call for help.” Mitch recognized the terror in Jackson’s eyes. He wrapped his arm around Jackson’s shoulder and guided him forward. Jackson was in shock. Mitch didn’t have time for shock. He furrowed his brow, and spoke in a strong, even tone. “Every second we stand here is that much longer that maniac is with them. Please.”

Wind whistled just outside the walls of the plant. Roland looked at the hole from which the man had escaped, anger brewing inside his gut. That shit of a man was gone. His eyes brushed over the bloody man’s body. Roland spun on his heels, clasping the gun, and stomped into the hall. How long would it take for that guy to get the police? How long would it take for Marissa and Mimi to die, once he found them?

Roland was numb to the searing pain in his shredded, burned fingers, which were wrapped tightly around a bottle of antifreeze. He wiped his cheek against his shoulder, leaving a trail of thick black coal dust. His eyes glazed over as he brought himself to his full height.

“Marissa!” His deep voice echoed in the darkness. He knew these halls like his own home. He’d been trailing through them for weeks now. The darkness didn’t hinder his movements. Roland thought of Mimi, the way her eyes had looked so sincere when she’d said Roland’s real mother had burned him. He could picture the event in his mind. It was Mimi he saw. What was wrong with him? Why was he replacing his mother with Mimi? If it wasn’t Mimi, Roland wondered, then why wasn’t he allowed to be with Marissa? He’d promised his mother. When his mother went away, she’d said Marissa was his responsibility. He had to take care of her. Sweat dripped down his forehead. Nothing made sense to him. His hand grazed the scars on his face. Who did this to him? Had his mother really slipped—his real mother? Roland hadn’t even known he had a birth mother until he’d stolen the files and put the pieces of the puzzle together. Now, his memories blurred together. His reality was tainted by confusion.

The elevators came into view, bringing with them renewed focus. Roland stared at the doors, then surveyed his surroundings. A thick pipe ran across the left side of the ceiling. Two smaller pipes snaked in the same direction. Three boxes were stacked just outside the elevator doors. Were they there before? Roland couldn’t remember. His mind reeled. This damned game of cat and mouse was driving him crazy. He eyed the piping along the ceiling and felt the lump of the lighter in his pants pocket. He shook away the thought, then peered through the crack in the elevator door.

He touched the lighter again, his heart thumping harder. He spun around, looking down the hall. First left, then right. Needles of anxiety prickled his arms and chest. His breathing became rapid. A pain shot through his lower back with the intensity of a hot knife being slowly pushed into his kidneys. A vivid reminder. The antifreeze. He tightened his grip on the bottle of antifreeze. Born together, die together.

Roland was tired. His body ached. It was time to abandon his well thought out plan for something that couldn’t be undone by police or nosey, shit-ass husbands. He needed a sure thing. Roland drew his eyebrows together and called forth his mechanic’s mind. The intricacies of an explosion would be simple, given the environment. He lifted the antifreeze, squinting as his mind ran through the possibilities. Antifreeze and coal dust: a deadly combination. He reached back and fingered the gun that was tucked into his pants, then lifted his eyes to the pipes that ran along the ceiling. He followed them down the hallway, then turned and followed them the other way. A sign. The solution was easier than he’d thought.

He set the bottle of antifreeze down, reached his massive hands above his head, and pulled with all of his might—hanging until his full weight pulled the piping free from its tethers. The hiss of gas rushed past his ear. Satisfied, Roland lowered his head, rounded his shoulders, picked up the bottle of antifreeze, and plowed forward with renewed determination. They’d see who Roland Greer was. He’d take Marissa and Mimi with him into death, and who gave a damn if the police or that squirrel went with him. He couldn’t worry about them. This was the moment he had been waiting for. He could leave the bottle, just drop it. He no longer needed it—he had a new plan. A great plan. He gripped the plastic bottle like a security blanket, his fingers refusing to surrender the original threat.

Eight years worth of pent up anger ripped another section of piping from the ceiling as he made his way down the hall. One small click of his lighter, and it wouldn’t matter where they were. They’d all go up in flames. He turned the corner and entered the room with the old equipment.

“Marissa!” he yelled. He stood up straight, listening to the silence, the urgency of finding her lessened by the knowledge that she could not escape the blast he had just now planned. He got chills, reflecting on his own intelligence. Why had he needed to die alongside her, he wondered. He should have done this all along. They’d go out in a blaze of glory. Born together, die together. They’d die together, all right. A smirk slid across his lips. Roland reached behind his back and took the gun out of his pants. He thrust his left hand into his pocket and withdrew the lighter. They were going down.

Heavy footsteps drew near. Mimi pushed Kara’s body further behind the equipment. Protect her! a voice screamed in her head. She’d never let Kara down again.