Page 39 of Through Any Fire (Any x #1)

T ime seems to crawl, like watching a pot of water that will never boil.

Nothing can distract me, nothing can pull my attention away from the fact that Callahan is somewhere right now, in the direct line of fire, as he fights to eradicate a poison.

My hands tremble, and I clench them into fists.

The moon shines brightly into the room, reminding me that every minute that passes, the more likely the fight has turned sour.

With a frustrated groan, I shoot to my feet. If I can’t keep my hands busy, I’ll keep my feet busy. Roaming the halls of the Keane residence, I take in the home with fresh eyes. I don’t know when I learned each hallway, but after a few weeks of living here, I don’t get turned around anymore.

It doesn’t help.

I spend over an hour just walking the halls like a ghost, my mind still racing toward Callahan. The only change is that I’m now near the depths of the residence, where I’ve only been once before.

A muffled noise catches me by surprise, and I startle.

Then there’s another groan, and I’m creeping forward, eyes darting around to make sure I’m alone.

The coast is clear, so I press my ear against the first door.

There are no sounds behind it. I move to the next, but again, nothing.

I try the third door, still nothing. Finally, the last door—the fourth and final door.

I creep toward it with my heart pounding in my chest. My face presses against the cool steel of the industrial door, and I strain to hear over my racing heartbeat.

“Ma’am, you shouldn’t be down here.”

My head snaps up to see Tinley’s nervous face.

Her auburn hair is half up in a topknot, the bottom in loose curls that fall just above her shoulder.

Freckles splatter over the ridge of her nose, and her deep red brows pinch together.

Draped over her arm is a blanket. She looks between me and the door, and I straighten, a lie burning the tip of my tongue, but nothing sputters out.

“Right,” I murmur, ducking past her and rushing up the stairs. I feel her eyes burning a hole through my back with each stair I climb. In my crazed mind, did I imagine that noise behind the door?

When I reach the top, I turn. Tinley opens the fourth door with a few taps on the keypad. The door slams shut behind her, and I take it as my cue to leave.

I sigh, a deep unsettling paranoia washing over me. What’s taking so long?

Another hour wasted, and nothing to show for it.

I’m upset that my moment with Cal was cut short, but I understand.

Still, my heart swells with emotion from his earlier confession.

He still loves me. I can only pray that he comes back alive and in one piece.

And if he does, I want to reward him. My pulse quickens, hazy images of pulling him into me sends a wave of need through me .

With a renewed desire to pick up where we left off—and to keep my hands and mind busy—an idea sparks.

I straighten my hair and shave my legs. Then, after rifling through our closet, I slip into a dress I might wear to Abstrakt and put the barest hint of makeup on.

Another glance at my phone. It’s only been forty minutes.

I groan, my eyes rolling so far back into my skull it practically burns.

Then, I fall onto the bed, pulling my top leg up and posing, fluffing my hair over my shoulders.

I feel like I’m in the movies where the woman tries every position to be casually found in.

Unlike the movies, fatigue washes over me. My eyes flutter shut. Just a quick nap.

Minutes or hours later, a chime rings from my phone, and my heart lurches into my throat, and my eyes snap open. I dive for the device, almost losing it in the comforter it in my haste. A text flashes from an unknown number.

Park Ave Motel. Room 324. Twenty minutes. Come alone, and she’ll live.

Then, a photo comes through. Terror spikes through me and my hand flies to my mouth.

Oh, my god. The picture shows Alice tied to a bed.

Tears and old makeup run down her cheeks, and her lip is split.

A dribble of dried blood pools at the corner of her mouth.

Her hair, usually in a messy ponytail, fans around her shoulders, stringy and greasy as if she hasn’t washed it in days.

Her blue eyes plead with the camera, her face contorted in obvious pain.

Dirt and blood stain a once vibrant yellow sweater.

But what’s worse is that the top left corner of the screen has circles showing it’s a live photo.

I press down and hold, and after a moment, the picture comes to life.

Her cries ring through my screen, her lips wobbling as blood and saliva dribble out, shooting me straight through the chest. At the last second of the live photo, the glint of a bloodied knife enters the frame.

My brain fries, and I realize Alice won’t be at the ports.

Cal might be off saving abducted women from their fate, but no one is going to be there for her.

I throw myself out of bed, pausing only to slide into my black athletic slides.

I dash through the residence and pray I don’t run into anyone.

The words ‘come alone’ ring in my head like church bells, and a sense of dread settles like stone in my belly.

As I enter the kitchen, I run into Lex. He freezes mid-swirl as he mixes some sort of brown batter together.

His brows pinch, and he opens his mouth, but before he can ask why I’m up so late, I’m already in the garage.

“Shit.” All the SUVs are taken, leaving the cherry-red Corvette and a sleet-gray Ducati.

I rush around the sports car and throw myself into the driver’s seat.

The keys are in the ignition already, and without a second thought, I twist them.

Fear grips me by the throat, stealing all awareness away from the rumble of the powerful engine under me.

I click open the garage and jerk backward as I step a little too forcefully on the gas.

The Corvette responds to my touch, and it takes me several minutes to get the hang of the drive, lurching forward each time I have to tap the breaks.

Speeding through Roswell, I pray I make it in time.

As the city blurs past, I glance at the clock. Three minutes. Nausea burns in the back of my throat, but I press on the gas harder.

Two and a half minutes later, I screech to a stop in front of the motel. It barely even registers that it’s the closest motel to Abstrakt.

The night is quiet, but my footfalls thunder against the pavement, slides slapping with each stride.

After locating the stairwell, my body drifts around the corner as my arms catch the railing.

I pull myself upward, using my momentum to take each stair two at a time.

By the time I reach the third floor, I’m gasping for breath, but I have no time to spare.

My vision blurs as I run along the walkway, searching for the room my friend is in.

Three-sixteen.

Three-eighteen.

I round the corner and slow. At the end of the walkway, the light in the concrete ceiling flickers ominously.

It’s as if all sound ceases. My vision tunnels.

I know in my gut that it’s the room at the end of the hall.

I gulp in three breaths, trying to calm my racing heart as static fills the silence.

What am I going to do when I get inside? A checklist appears in the front of my mind. First, disarm whoever has her. Then, save Alice. I grimace. Some plan that is.

Each step feels like lead as I march toward uncertainty. Fuck, I hadn’t even told Cal where I went. What if I die here? What if this is it for me? A tear falls down my cheek, but I don’t wipe it away. I reach for my phone, pulling it out only to see the clock. It’s been twenty-one minutes.

Without another thought, I text Cal three simple words. Three words he deserves to know if these are my last moments on this earth. And if by some miracle I make it through tonight—well, I’ll deal with the repercussions then.

When I reach the door, my hand raises to knock, but then I decide on the element of surprise. I reach for the knob, praying it’s unlocked.

Instead, the door whips open, and my hand closes around thin-air as a greasy-faced Peter Agapov grins widely.

He looks worse than when I met him at the Edwards’s residence.

Dark bags shadow his dull eyes, his cheeks hollow and more prominent than before.

Stains darken his white undershirt to where I question if it was even white to begin with.

He wears black jeans with the fly unzipped, and my stomach drops.

He grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Instead, they sparkle with sick, hungry pleasure. “I’m glad you’re smart enough to listen.” He turns sideways, beckoning me inside.

On the bed, Alice lies limp, her chin dangling onto her chest. Her yellow sweater is crusted with both fresh and dried blood, and her fuchsia skirt is bunched around her waist. Bile rises in my throat, and I rush in, but Peter grips my arm as I try to pass.

A long sniff along the column of my neck, then he licks the shell of my ear, whispering, “I like when you’re obedient.” This time, his Russian accent is obvious.

I shiver, unable to answer as I jerk out of his hold and rush to Alice’s bedside. Her eyes flutter as if she’s struggling to open them.

“Alice,” I plead, hands cradling her face. “Alice, open your eyes.” I swipe a gentle hand over her tangled hair, and my eyes burn. Slicing my gaze to Peter, I hiss, “What did you do to her?”

Peter smirks, pure evil shining through the twist of his lips. “Nothing she didn’t ask for.” His words are sinister and confirm my horrible suspicions.

I stand, shielding what I can of her body, and cross my arms. But when I see his eyes drop to my cleavage, I drop them, cursing myself for wanting to be sexy for Callahan. In my rush, I’m still wearing a tiny dress that’s cut low and barely covers my ass.

“What’s it going to take?”

Peter huffs a laugh, rounds the bed, and comes to a stop in front of me. His finger trails over my exposed collarbone and up to my chin, tilting my face to his. Everywhere he touches, an oily burn follows. I grit my teeth, refusing to give in to his mind games.

“What is it going to take? You should know, little bird. Nothing in this life is free.”

With a flick of his finger, he slips the strap of my dress over my shoulder. It falls off, but I’m not exposed yet. Fury courses through my veins.

“I’m not for sale.”

My words are futile. He caresses my shoulder again.

He smiles. “Anyone can be bought. And I just happen to know your price.”