But when she opened the door, Clara waited there, gun pointed in her face. “Back to your chair.”
No. She was done with this. Done being this woman’s victim. Done being afraid. Maybe this wouldn’t turn out well, but if she let Clara run the show, nothing would.
Time to act.
“All right,” she murmured.
Clara took a step back to allow her out of the bathroom. Brea pretended to trip, then stumble into the woman. Clara yelped. Brea half expected to feel a bullet penetrate her, and she squeezed her eyes shut. But nothing. Emilo’s sister fell, her backside hitting the concrete with a thud. Brea landed on top of her, reaching for the gun as it fell out of the woman’s hand and skated across the hard cement. She leapt to her feet as quickly as her pregnant belly allowed and reached for the weapon, only a few yards away.
Suddenly, the woman’s hand closed around her ankle like a vise, and Brea felt herself falling. She managed to catch herself with her hands. Pain radiated up her wrists, all the way past her elbows and to her shoulders, but she managed to keep her weight off her baby bump, roll to her knees, and find her feet again.
“Bitch.” Clara shoved past her and scrambled on the ground for the gun.
No way was she going to win that fight now. With her, Clara had been polite, almost gentle. But she wouldn’t make that mistake again.
So now Brea had to be smarter.
She ran into the darkest part of the massive building, shoving tools onto the ground and rattling chains. The deafening sounds magnified by the echo in the cavernous room masked her footsteps as she ran to a blessed door she saw on the far wall, unlocked it, and hurtled outside.
A bullet pinged off the doorframe inches to her left.
Brea bit her lip to hold in a cry of fear and ducked, scrambling along the side of the building. Run into the adjacent swamp or double back for her phone?
The creatures in the swamp could be every bit as deadly and unpredictable as Clara. Brea didn’t know where she was or what, if anything else, was around. She needed her cell.
Creeping through overgrown foliage, she tiptoed her way back to the front of the building and the main office where Clara had been keeping her, praying the phone still sat there. As she reached the entrance, she spotted a rusty tire iron someone had propped against the dilapidated wood and snagged it. That wouldn’t protect her like a gun, but it would provide a last line of defense. She had to keep thinking ahead—and think positive.
Behind her, she heard Clara’s loud footsteps and her angry grunts. The little beam of the flashlight from her phone gave her away.
Brea ducked into the office, grabbed her phone from the counter, then disappeared into the body of the warehouse again, hoping that since Clara had just searched there, she wouldn’t double back to scour the place again.
She unlocked her phone with trembling hands. Her first instinct was to call Pierce or the police—someone. But Clara wasn’t far behind. She’d hear. So Brea searched her settings, turned on her location services, silenced the device, then opened her messages. She dashed one off to Pierce.
Location turned on. I’m okay. One woman. No accomplices. Emilo’s sister. She’s crazy.
Seconds later, she received a reply. In the area. On my way. Don’t move. Bringing help.
Brea breathed a sigh of relief. Pierce was coming. She would be okay. Someone would cart Clara away. Except for Emilo’s sister, everyone would hopefully live happily ever after.
If she could reach the main road in front and escape this crazy woman, maybe her wishes would come true.
Brea pocketed her phone and glanced behind to make sure Clara wasn’t following. Nothing. She didn’t know where the woman had gone, but as long as Clara couldn’t find her, Brea didn’t care.
When she turned and stood to make her way to the main road and to freedom, she rounded the corner—and came face to face with her assailant. Clara’s face was pinched and harsh as she stomped closer. Brea didn’t dare run; she had zero doubt the woman would shoot her.
“Bitch.” She pressed the barrel of the gun to her head and glanced at the tire iron in her hands. “Drop it.”
A quick mental calculation told Brea that Clara could get a shot off way before she could ever swing the heavy metal bar to strike her. With a sigh, Brea tossed it a few feet away, onto the concrete.
“What did you do?”
“N-nothing.” Brea tried to be brave, but her voice shook. Her whole body trembled. Her heart threatened to beat out of her chest.
Please, please don’t let this be the end.
“Liar.”
She had to come up with some version of the truth that would allow Pierce time to get here. “Really. I was trying to find the road to escape, b-but I got turned around. Please. I don’t want to die.” Tears pricked her eyes as she wrapped her hands around her belly. “My baby…”
Clara’s mouth pinched even more as she wrapped a cruel fist in Brea’s hair. “Come with me.”
If she did, would she be as good as dead?
Brea didn’t have the opportunity to make that decision. She heard the hum of a vehicle approaching soft, lights off. It stopped. The door opened.
Clara turned to her, eyes flaring. “Who did you call, puta?”
Tell her or lie?
“Who did you call?” she hissed as she yanked on her hair.
A cry slipped past Brea’s throat, and the woman clenched the gun tighter, looking ready to explode in fury.
Using her ponytail, Clara dragged her around the corner of the warehouse and peeked. Brea saw no one, heard nothing, but she sensed Pierce. She felt him in the electricity in the air, in the sudden calm that came over her. He was here; he would
