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SEVENTY-ONE

NICK

Even the smartest sheep willingly go to a slaughterhouse if given an incentive.

“Phil,” I whisper. “We need to get our money. We need to get out of here, find a safe place, and get the money back.”

He breathes heavily, his stare on me both doubtful and hopeful at the same time.

“Come on, man,” I plead. I can’t believe I’m begging this idiot. “This is our only chance. This or prison. For life.”

“I did what you told me to do. It’s all you.”

“Nah, man. Your face is everywhere. Your signature is on all the legal documents. But I won’t let them put you in prison. We need to get out of here and out of the country. I have plenty of funds.” I nod toward the living room. “They can keep their stupid money. I have more. Much more.”

In seconds, Phil rips the duct tape off my hands and torso.

See? That’s the power of money-talk.

I exhale in relief, rubbing my stiff wrists.

My head is buzzing from all the water I swallowed. My pants are wet from pee—just freaking great. I listen to the sounds from the living room, the hushed conversation between Julien and the gardener. I’m sure they are fascinated with the numbers they see in my bank accounts—it’s all right, I’ll take my revenge later.

My eyes go to the bathroom window. It’s a large two-panel window covered by blinds. And that’ll be our escape.

“What now?” Phil asks, nervously rubbing his hair with both hands. He finally looks like the worthless gambler that he is, but I need him. Window, backyard, garden fence that goes into the utility road behind it—I need Phil to give me a lift to get over that fence. Then I’ll leave him behind.

I push him out of the way, carefully lift the blinds while making as little noise as possible, and open one of the window panels.

“Come on.” I motion to him. “Be very quiet.”

Thank god for the one-story guest house. The windowsill is only three feet off the ground, which I cross in seconds. This side of the guest house is hidden by shadows, which is great.

Rosenberg pants and crouches like a raccoon as he clumsily jumps off the windowsill as if it’s the third floor.

“Follow me and stay close,” I order. “We need to hurry.”

I trot along the side of the guest house, toward the back, and then dart as fast as I can across the lawn to the back garden. It’s close to a football-field length, but as long as I can make it to the other side of the property’s fence, I can hide out in the bushes while they search for me.

Wind whistles in my ears as I run. My heart races. I don’t look back to check if Phil is following—he’d better be.

I trip over something on the ground, stumble, fall, and roll like a sack of potatoes.

“Christ!” I howl, feeling pain in every limb.

“You all right?” Phil is by my side, panting, too, as he bends down, hands on his knees, staring at me.

It’s dark here. The only dim light comes from the sparse solar garden lights sticking out of the ground. My white button-down is soaked with water and sweat, and so are my pants. I get up and hiss, feeling the burn in my right ankle.

“Help me,” I tell Phil. “I think I sprained my ankle. We should be only a hundred or so feet from the back fence.”

I’ve never actually seen it, except in the property pictures I looked at before renting this mansion.

Loud voices in the distance make my nerves shoot on edge. “Quick. They’re on us!”

A radio beeps from that direction, and that’s all it takes for Phil to swing his arm under mine, holding me around the back, and help me move forward. He’s taller than me but has never done any exercise. Nevertheless, it must be adrenaline, or the promise of money, or the threat of prison that makes him move fast, hauling me forward with astonishing strength as I limp along.

I see a light ahead. They must have lights along the property line. As we hurry among the trees and shrubs, the pathway clears, revealing the fence.

Well, what do you know?

The eight-foot fence has an opening with a small waist-high metal gate with a lock. Dumb, really, considering that anyone can jump over it in seconds. It’s the camera mounted on top of the fence, pointing at the gate, which makes me grunt in frustration.

I’m sure someone is watching us, but I can’t worry about it right now, because the voices in the distance get closer.

I’ll easily get over the gate myself. My thumb drive is in the wrong hands—nothing I can do about it. But I have another little stash back at the guest house. I’ll find a way to get it back, but there’s no way I’m sharing it with Phil. I really don’t have time for a pep talk with him either.

I push him away and fish in my pants pocket, finding what I’m looking for—the syringe cartridge. It’s meant for Phil, who is kicking the gate lock, trying to break it but failing.

“We’ll just have to crawl over it,” he says, turning toward me when I pull the syringe out and, popping the cap off, lunge at him.

I’m fast. I’m super fast. Usually. But this time, only a split second before I reach Phil, aiming for his neck, my ankle gives out with a sharp, awful pain that makes my legs weak. I howl and collapse against the gate just as Phil jumps away.

“What are you doing?” Phil cries out.

He watches me from a safe distance, wide-eyed like an owl, as I scramble to my feet.

Realization dawns on him. “You! Liar!” he shouts, his chest rising, his eyes darting to my hand that holds the syringe. He knows what those are—he’s seen me use them, though most of the time, when I had to sedate the girls, he was drunk.

I can’t argue, but I need to pull off a lie one more time. Phil can’t stay alive, absolutely not.

“I need this injection,” I lie, hoping that he falls for it again. “It’s a painkiller. Otherwise, I won’t make it.”

My ankle hurts like a mother, but I clench my teeth and hoist myself up. My back is purposefully turned toward Phil. I need to fake more pain and confusion to get close to him.

“Give me a second, buddy,” I pant, pretending to roll up my sleeve for an injection, meanwhile swaying, hunching, stumbling backward toward him.

When I sense him closer, I swing around, throwing all my weight at him.

In the blink of an eye, he grabs both my hands and rams into me, slamming me against the fence.

“You scumbag!” he yells and throws a punch into my face.

The pain is so sudden and sharp that I see stars.

“You liar!” he roars, punching me again.

“Traitor!” he snaps. A kick in my gut folds me in two and cuts off my breathing as my entire body stiffens in unimaginable pain.

“I lied for you! Cheated! Gave up my career!” he sobs.

I want to tell him that he was scum and a loser when I met him, but I can’t talk, can’t even take a breath. My eyes are shut as I try to work through the pain.

“There! Get them!” someone shouts in the distance, but closer, much closer, too close for my liking.

“You wanted a painkiller?” Phil asks in a threatening voice I know only from when he’s drunk.

My eyes snap open and search for the syringe on the ground—I must’ve dropped it when this asshole hit me.

“I’ll give you a painkiller,” Phil growls.

My eyes dart to his hand, raised in the air, the familiar syringe now pointing at me.

“No,” I gasp. “No-no-no-no-no.” I back up, limping. I can’t have what’s in that capsule. “Phil, listen to me.”

But before I come up with a good ploy, he lunges at me, and I squeal from the sharp pain of the needle in my neck.

I want to protest, but it’s too late. Horror paralyzes me. I try to think of the antidote, though there’s none besides an immediate IV. My body suddenly feels numb, making me sag against the fence and onto the ground. My chest tightens, making it hard to breathe.

Two figures come running—Julien and the gardener.

The gardener tackles Phil while Julien stands over me, his head cocked in amusement.

“What’s wrong with him?” he asks.

“His painkiller,” Phil says, panting against the grass as the gardener straddles him, tying him up.

“Painkiller, huh?”

I have a feeling Julien knows that it’s not.

“It’s not,” I try to say, but my words sound like a senseless rasp.

I don’t know what Julien has against me, but he’s the only one who’s ever figured me out.

I try to move, but I know how this works—my body is slowly going into paralysis.

“You finally got a taste of your own medicine,” Julien says with a smirk, his features blurry.

You asshole is my final thought before the world goes dark.