Izzy.
Relief poured into her.
“Dr. Kincaid?” Izzy said, her look quickly darkening.
“Let’s get you out of here,” Cassidy urged, hurrying to Izzy’s side.
Izzy retreated from Cassidy’s outstretched hand.
“Come on,” Cassidy said. “There’s no time.”
“No,” Izzy said, her pretty face twisting in agony. “You have to go,” she added. Her eyes darted towards the door.
Cassidy tried to make sense of what was happening. “No, Izzy, it’s over. I can get you out of here. You don’t have to do this.”
Izzy shook her head. “You don’t understand,” she said, looking desperate. “Please,” she pleaded.
“Did they threaten you?” Cassidy asked. “Because—”
“No,” Izzy interrupted. “I made a deal, okay? Now go,” she added, her lips curling back in a grimace.
“A deal for what?” Cassidy asked, feeling exasperated. “I’ve been chasing you for two whole days, Izzy and I’m taking you out of here.” Her eyes slid to the table of carefully arranged instruments.
“I’m the only one who can save her,” Izzy said.
“Save who?” Cassidy asked. “Dominique?”
A look of confusion crossed her face, but then it was gone. “Leave, or I’ll start screaming,” Izzy said, her eyes turning hard. “They’ll stuff you in a hole and you’ll never get out.”
Cassidy felt like she’d been slapped. “Your jumping ship in Biggs may have ruined Martin’s career, you know that? All for what, so you can have some kind of twisted . . . adventure?” she spat out the last word, flustered.
“Call it whatever you want, but I’m not leaving.”
Cassidy felt the air leave her lungs. She looked around the room, unable to focus. Then, she heard a car approach from outside, its wheels grinding softly on the pavement.
“They’re here,” Izzy said. Her tone was icy, but the anxiety was back in her eyes. “Now go before you ruin everything.”
Thirty
Stunned, Cassidy had no choice but to retreat and rethink the problem. She slipped from the room, her mind reeling. What is keeping her here? she thought.
I’m the only one who can save her.
Save who?
Cassidy hurried to the adjoining room and ducked through the door, then paused, hoping to catch a glimpse of whomever was meeting Izzy. Peering through a crack in the door, she didn’t have to wait long. Five men entered the hall, each in various types of clothing—jeans to camo pants, Western shirts to t-shirts but all with a common muscular physique, their faces gritty with stubble and dark eyes gleaming. They swaggered down the hall, talking loudly, one with a toothpick tucked between his lips, followed by Saxon, dressed now in cowboy boots, designer jeans, and the same tight black t-shirt. Their escort, Cassidy thought, or videographer. At Izzy’s door, one of them adjusted himself and made some kind of joke that got them all chuckling. Then the door opened and the party stepped inside.
After the door closed, Cassidy heard the murmur of conversation—rich, low voices coupled with Izzy’s higher one. She laughed but it sounded forced.
I have to get her out of there.
Standing with her hand on the doorknob, she tried to form some kind of plan. But there was no one to help her make one. Calling Bruce would do no good—Cassidy knew she was currently burning that bridge. There was the gun but what good would it do against six men? And what about all the other people behind the doors? How would she free them, too? She could call the police, but would they even believe such a story? Even if they did, how long would it take them to send someone? Meanwhile Izzy was stuck in that room with a gang of predatory males. And then there was Bruce and his plea to walk away. By calling the police, would she put their undercover agent in jeopardy?
I need an earthquake, Cassidy though. Or a fire. Her mind ticked through all of the ways she could cause a distraction. Was there anything in the warehouse that would burn? But then Cassidy realized that she had no idea what was in the boxes. What if it was something flammable and the whole building went up before she could get Izzy out?
I’m good at this, she thought, reviewing the warehouse space for materials, ideas. Then, she remembered the pipes hanging from the ceiling. Quickly, she slipped from the room, making sure the hallway was empty, and dashed to the stairs. At the bottom, she hurried across to the middle row of shelves and gazed up. Directly above was a sprinkler head.
By the time she reached the top of the second shelf, beads of sweat dripped down between her shoulder blades. The thick metal construction was so sturdy it barely moved when she pulled and braced against it. By the time she folded her body over the last level, the ground felt very far away. Dust and thick, stuffy air filled her nostrils and glommed onto her eyeballs, threatening to eject one or both of her contact lenses. Don’t rub your eyes, she told herself.
On her hands and knees among odd-sized boxes on the top platform, she got to her feet slowly, feeling the shelf jostle slightly beneath her, until she was standing upright below a long, skinny pipe with a red sprinkler head. Even at full reach, the fixture hovered several feet above her. So she pushed the biggest box beneath it and climbed on top, imagining the box lid punching open and her legs falling through, then everything crashing down. But the surface held. Using all of her focus, she stood, her lips clenched. She saw her ten-year-old self standing at the barre practicing her tendus and tried to remember the way tightening her core helped with balance.
Carefully, she reached for the gun
