Page 140 of Before She Disappeared

“What the hell?”

I pound another basketball, followed by a second, third, fourth, fifth. Then, before I can think, before the person can think, I grab a bat and give chase, darting down the hall behind half a dozen bouncing balls and relying on them to mask my footsteps.

It’s Dutch. He has just enough time to look up. To register my form materializing out of the dark. His hand fumbles belatedly at his side.

Then I nail him in the middle with a baseball bat. As he folds over, I swing at the back of his head. I hold nothing back. He collapses and there’s blood. A lot of blood. Maybe I’ve killed him. In my adrenaline-fueled state, I have no idea.

I pause long enough to fumble around the body. I discover a radio clipped to his waist, as well as a handgun tucked in the back of his jeans. I help myself to both. Then I strip his sweatshirt half off his head and tie it up behind him, restricting his arms. Just in case he isn’t dead.

I check the gun long enough to flip the safety off. I’m no good with firearms. Guns are loud and violent. They take me back to places I don’t want to go and memories I don’t want to experience. However, this is no time to be squeamish.

Next, I check the radio. I turn the volume down, then flick it on. As I slowly turn it up, I hear a voice. Frédéric’s.

“Dutch, do you copy? Over.”

I think about it for a second, then start clicking. SOS. Over and over again. Let’s see what Frédéric does with that. I drag Dutch’s incredibly heavy body over to an open classroom, leaving just his feet visible.

Then I find the darkened doorway directly across from it and melt into the shadows.

A full minute passes. I know because I count off the seconds, trying to steady my breathing.

A figure appears. From this distance, I can’t be sure who. But as it draws closer, I can tell it’s not tall enough to be Frédéric. Henchman number two, I decide. I don’t recognize the approximate size and shape as someone I’ve met before, but it hardly matters.

Have baseball bat, will travel.

“Dutch?” the voice whispers. I resume my mental counting. Not yet, not yet...

“Dutch! What the hell?”

Feet spotted. Henchman number two racing toward his fallen comrade.

Not yet...

Now. I spring out the instant the man passes my doorway. A low swing of the bat, directly at the back of the knees and henchman number two is down.

He rolls over surprisingly quick. I have an image of a gun lifting. Hear the crack of it firing. Singe of heat, stinging pain. I swing the bat again and the gun goes flying. I smack the man over and over. Targeting arms, shoulders, chest. I’m breathing hard, a blur of fear and rage.

At the last moment, I halt myself, registering that the evil henchman is no longer moving but groaning low and bubbly. I’ve broken his ribs, I’m sure of it. I have an instant of guilt. Then I remember Livia’s dumped body, Deke’s dying form, and I’m over it.

I search around in the dark again. Find the fallen gun and toss it across the hall into the second classroom. Another radio is clipped around the man’s waist. I take it out. Then, I am once more on the hunt.

—

The dark hallway is quiet as I creep down it. I’m shaking head to toe. More bad guys? Dozens of them? I have no way of knowing. I’m trying to think of what I learned from Deke. A counterfeiting operation for student visas. Requiring one mastermind, followed by enough men to kidnap two teenage girls and force them into servitude. That shouldn’t require too many bodies. I think. I hope.

All criminal enterprises have the incentive to run lean. Fewer people for splitting the profits. Again, I think. I hope.

Assuming Deke was one of the minions, plus Dutch, and broken ribs guy, the operation is now down three. Can’t be that many more to go.

I think. I hope.

Up ahead. I see a light. I hear a voice. It’s not a man’s voice, though, but a girl’s.

“Quick,” she says urgently. “Wake up. Please, Emmanuel. Please!”

And just like that, I’m staring at Angelique Badeau inside a lit room. Her hair is pulled back tight—the image from her Tamara Levesque license. She wears jeans and sweatshirt, but she is covered in smears of red. Blood. From the van, I think. From the kidnapping of her brother.

Which brings me to Emmanuel, whose bound form lies prostrate on the ground. He doesn’t seem to be moving.

---