The pantry door was missing and the shelving left no room for anyone to hide.
Broch pushed open the back door and entered the screened porch he’d noticed while peering over the fence. He left through a screen door and visually traced the edge of the yard’s perimeter, the fencing dimly visible by the light in the kitchen. There didn’t seem to be anywhere to hide in the dirt filled back yard.
Broch turned to re-enter the house, pausing when something about the angle of the wicker sofa on the porch struck him as odd. He noticed drag marks on the floor where the sofa had been moved.
Pushing it further away, he spotted the outline of a square on the floor.
A trap door.
He dropped to his knees and pressed his ear against the floor, his fingers scrambling along the wood, searching for a way to open the hatch.
“Dez!” he called to the other room.
Dez appeared from the kitchen.
“Yeah?”
“Tak’ Mo tae the car. Git her oot o’ ‘ere.”
“What are you doing?”
“Ah’m keeking fae Catriona.”
As if on cue, Mo appeared behind Dez. “Let’s go. I’ve got to get out of here.”
Dez sighed and looked at Broch. “I’ll take her. I’ll be right back. Don’t do anything stupid.”
Broch nodded.
The moment Dez left the room, he pulled his knife from its sheath. With his other hand, he felt the top of the trap door until his fingers brushed over a handle embedded in the wood. He hadn’t been able to see it with the sofa blocking the light from the kitchen.
He wouldn’t be waiting for Dez to get back.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Catriona glanced down the slanted hall leading to the ladder. Could she make it to the ladder, climb it and get out in time? Maybe, if she could incapacitate him long enough…
Volkov lunged at her again, swiping with his long arms.
She tried to dodge and use his momentum against him, but the tight quarters made it difficult to move from his reach. He grabbed her around the middle and she pounded down on his chin with her fist. He ignored the first blow and pushed her to the wall. The ragged stones ate into her back, bruising her spine. She cried out, the sound of her pain acting like gasoline on the fire of Volkov’s malicious intent. Laughing, he lifted her from the ground, but she twisted in the air to interrupt his body slam. He lost his balance, falling to the side to catch himself on one knee and she fell to the ground beside him.
Catriona scrambled away, trying to put enough distance between them so that she could find her feet, but Volkov was on her in an instant. He grabbed her from behind and she kicked, catching him in the chest once before he enveloped her and fell with his weight pinning her torso to the mat.
He punched her hard in the back of her head.
The world flashed white.
No no no...I can’t lose consciousness.
She’d seen what happened to the unconscious girls, twice. He would stand over her, victorious, before falling, elbow first, cracking her teeth like fine china. Then the things she couldn’t watch would happen, and she’d end up rotting in the oubliette, where no one would ever find her. If they did, by then, she’d be nothing more than a few drops of DNA on a crime scientist’s slide.
The elbow drop.
The move was predictable.
Catriona went limp. She hoped it wasn’t too late, that he hadn’t seen her move after the blow to her head.
Volkov ground his hips against her buttocks, shifting to straddle her. She could feel the tension in his thighs, knew he had his hand raised ready to hit her again. She didn’t know when or where the blow would land. Staying still, defenseless, awaiting the blow, was the longest five seconds of her life.
He didn’t swing.
Volkov dismounted, stepping over her with one foot to stand. She could feel the flexing of the floor pads on her right. Was he raising his hands in victory? She didn’t dare look. She had to trust the pattern. He’d rolled the other girls on their backs.
Volkov kicked her in her side, not softly but not hard either. She couldn’t stop the rush of air escaping from her lungs but she showed no other sign of consciousness.
“Victory in the first round.” Volkov clucked his tongue. “I thought you would be better.”
He slid his foot under her shoulder and flipped her over, squatting to arrange her on the ground. He straightened her legs on the mat and brought her arms down straight at her sides.
A moment later, she felt the bounce of the mat beside her.
This is it.
His hands were raised over his head now, she was sure. She replayed the videos in her head and saw the way he bounced on his toes as he celebrated his victory.
Catriona relaxed her face muscles. She needed to risk opening her eyes. She’d never realized how hard it was to crack open an eyelid without squinting. Squinting would give her game away.
She allowed her eyelids enough slack to open naturally, feeling oddly grateful he’d punched her in the back of her head and not her eyes.
Above her, Volkov turned to his imaginary audiences, represented by each wall, one by one. When his back turned to her, she lifted her chin a bit to get a better view through the thin arc of her open eye.
Volkov made his full circle and then crooked his arms like a football field goal to make muscles on either side. He glanced down at her, lining up her mouth.
He turned sideways, preparing to fall.
Catriona tried not to tense.
Like a felled tree, Volkov began to topple, his
