Page 104 of Deathmarch

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“If you don’t stop howling,” the kidnapper said as he rolled up the truck’s back door, “I’m going to gag you.”

The words filled Allie with hope instead of dread as she squinted against the harsh light. If noise was an issue, that meant the man had close neighbors. When she broke free, she might have only a short distance to run before she could bang on a door and ask for help.

“I need to go to the bathroom.”

“I don’t care.”

“Then you’ll have a truck that smells like pee.”

He said nothing.

“Why am I here? You said you were going to trade me for something? Drugs?”

“Money, stupid. Ransom.”

“You got the wrong person. I don’t have a rich family. Nobody is going to pay any money for me. When I said earlier that I had money, I lied. I panicked. I’m sorry.” Did he think she was one of Rose’s daughters-in-law? “You might have seen me at Finnegan’s, but I’m not a Finnegan.”

“Your hardass cop boyfriend is.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“He’s got my money.”

Whose money did Harper have? Nobody’s.Allie racked her brain. The only thing she could think of… The police had Lamm’s gold bars in evidence, the one his killer had stolen.

Oh God.Her breath grew ragged, panic stiffening her muscles. Was she facing Lamm’s killer?

Slow down. Think. Don’t let him realize you know who he is.

“I have to pee,” she said again, a distraction, something safe.

The man looked around behind him, then stepped over to the pile of gallon paint buckets and picked one up to chuck it at her. “There. That’s empty.”

She ducked the missile that flew by her shoulder, then bounced off a shelf. “How am I supposed to open it?”

He didn’t look inclined to climb in there and help. “You figure it out, or you piss your pants.”

Then he reached up and slammed the door down. And Allie’s heart fell and crashed with it, because this time, she heard something she’d missed the last time he’d left her—the snick of a lock.

She wasn’t just tied up. She waslockedin the truck.

The thought made her want to scream. She didn’t. She didn’t want to be gagged.

How long had she been gone? Had anyone realized yet that she was missing? She had no idea what time it was, if she’d been grabbed an hour ago, or two.

She sat on the floor, waited until her eyes adjusted to the near-complete darkness, then pulled the paint bucket over with her foot while humming “The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow” under her breath. She maneuvered the container behind her back with her knees—a freaking circus act and a half—then wedged her fingernails under the lid, but the lid was stuck. The old, spilled paint had glued it in place.

She needed a screwdriver, or something else flat and metal. She catalogued everything metal on her: the zipper of her jeans—too short. The underwire in her bra—too flimsy. The supports in her foot brace…perfect.

She kicked off her left shoe, then used her toes to undo the Velcro fasteners on her other leg. She kicked the brace to her hands, and felt for the edge of the metal under the plastic mesh. When she found it, she held the paint can steady between her back and the rack, then wedged the stiff edge of the brace under the lid and worked it until the lid popped free.

And then that was that, because she couldn’t take off her pants with her hands tied behind her back. Which was a problem because she hadn’t been lying about desperately needing to use the bathroom.

Think dry thoughts.God, she was doomed.No! Don’t think that.

Okay, if she couldn’t use the paint bucket as a toilet, could she use it for something else? She imagined throwing it at the kidnapper’s head. Sadly, also an impossibility with her hands tied behind her.