Page 69 of A Vegas Crush Collection #3

not like the movies

Reagan

I don’t know how long I’ve been crawling through the vents.

I just know I’ve been moving slowly so that I don’t make noise and attract attention.

I also know that it’s much easier to do this kind of thing in the movies.

The vents in the movies are bigger and cleaner, and these are small and full of dust and don’t seem to go to any obvious exit point.

I’m hungry, my stomach a constant drum of the reminder it’s been days since I’ve eaten.

I’m so thirsty I want to cry. I curse myself for not drinking from the tap before I crawled into this rat’s maze.

I think I’ve fallen asleep once or twice.

I’ll probably die in here. Which is worse?

Dying and rotting in the vents of the criminal’s mansion or being sexually abused to the point of death by the same criminal?

I think I’ve lost it.

This seemed like a good idea at the time, but I have no idea how to get out of here. I just crawl and crawl until, somehow, I’ve gotten myself back to my own room. I shove myself through the hole to the floor under the bed, lying there for a long time.

When I finally persuade myself to move, I crawl out from under the bed and stumble to the bathroom, slurping water from the sink and washing dust from my hands and face. I trudge back to the bedroom, only to find the door wide open.

Wide. Open.

Someone must have come for me and found me gone. Did they think I’d pulled a Houdini? Did they see the vent cover on the floor beneath the bed? Did they think someone else had come to grab me? I laugh and it’s an insane sound, void of any real humor. Oh God. Now I’m delirious.

I tiptoe to the door and peek out into the hallway.

Finding no one, hearing no one, I make a run for it, down the hallway, past a row of identical, closed doors.

I find a door marked Staff Only and push through it, finding a set of stairs.

I go as fast as I can on weak legs, holding on to the rail, holding my breath, clinging to any shred of hope I can make it out.

At the bottom, there are two doors, and one of them literally goes outside. I hesitate. What if it sets off an alarm? But I can hear people in the kitchen. So I push and, hearing no alarm, make a break into the back yard.

The lawn is soft sod, well-maintained. It’s an odd thought to be enjoying the feel of grass between my toes as I’m running for my life, past the pool, into the vast yard.

I stop short at a tall fence. It’s tall, built more like a prison wall than a fence for someone’s home. It’s not meant to be climbed.

I look around desperately, spotting not one but at least two or three cameras.

I’m going to die. This is it. There is no way out. They will spot me on the cameras and come to get me. They’ll probably make it extra painful because I tried to escape.

I slink along the perimeter, which is likely futile, since they’ve surely got me on camera at every angle. When I hear a commotion back at the house, I run toward the pool house, slipping inside. I find a towel bin and open it up, folding myself to fit inside, a dirty towel over top of me.

Outside, I can hear the men yelling. “She went this way!”

They open the door. From inside the bin, I see the flash of lights and hear heavy boot steps. “Where the fuck did she go?” someone asks.

I just focus on not breathing, not moving, not making a sound. The boot steps retreat, the guy yelling “Fuck!” as he trips over something. I hear something fall to the ground as another muffled voice from outside tells him to go back inside and look.

It’s not until it goes quiet that I poke my head out of the basket. I’m alone in the small space, taking huge gulps of air, silent tears streaming down my face. And then I see it.

The guy dropped his cell phone. It’s face-up on the ground beneath a towel rack. I scramble for it. Oh, thank God. It’s unlocked.

I dial 9-1-1.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

“This is Reagan Marlowe. I’m at Henri Sodorov’s mansion, against my will. I’ve been kidnapped and beaten. They’re going to kill me. Please. Come quickly. I’m hiding in the pool house, but they will find me soon.”

“Keep the line open and go back to your hiding place in the pool house, Reagan,” the dispatcher says in a steady, calm voice. It helps.

“Okay. I—I’m g-going to be in the t-towel bin.”

“Reagan, you can do this. You’re brave, and you just hold on now. We’re coming to you.”

I stay on the line, again trying not to breathe, not to move. I hear footsteps again, but beyond that, nothing else.

Then I hear…sirens.

Alarms go off all around the property. People start shouting and running. I hear cars start as tires squeal. I hear women screaming and shots fired.

When the pool house door opens, I hear a man’s voice. “Police. You’re safe.” But I stay put, not moving until the basket opens, an older police officer peering in, offering his hand. “Reagan Marlowe?”

“Yes, that’s me. Thank you,” I breathe. It takes everything I have to stand, to take his hand, to step free. My earlier adrenaline rush crashes, and I collapse against him, no longer able to stand on my own.

He wraps me in a blanket and carries me across the property, somewhere, to a waiting ambulance. To precious freedom and safety. I hope.

How I hope this nightmare is finally over. That I’m finally free.