Page 74 of Striker

I’m tired of the same rooms, the same endless days with no answers.

Today I’m going to find out why we’re here and what they plan. There’s a reason they took us, and I am determined to find out. So, today I’m going to break into the rooms on the top floor. I know that’s where they sleep. It has to be.

Gripping the cold railing, I lean over the staircase and peer down at the first floor, making sure Cora isn’t watching. Then I twist my body to glance up at the two floors above. The open staircase reveals a ceiling adorned with an elaborate mural, its colors faded with time. I can make out flowers and maybe naked cherubs, but the paint’s flaked off in places. Taking a shaky step, my heart in my throat, I begin to climb.

A few days ago, I finally gathered up enough courage to go to the third floor, but all the doors along the hall were locked. When no one came flying up the stairs to reprimand me, I figured there were no cameras up here.

Right now I really hope so.

By the time I’ve reached the fourth floor, I’m slightly out of breath and my nerves feel frayed. The hall is like the others, with ornate wall sconces positioned between each door lining the wall, ending in a massive window and a door leading to a balcony.

The first door in the long, dark hall is locked, but I move further down and stop at the last one on the left. Casting a quick glance over my shoulder, I pull the knife from my boot and ram it between the knob and the frame. It pops easily. Looking over my shoulder, just to make sure Viper or Striker aren’t looming behind me, I tap the door. It slowly swings open with a creak, like something in a horror movie, sending tingles to my fingers and toes.

I slip in and shut the door behind me.

I was right. It’s one of their rooms.

It’s neat and like my room, furnished with just a bed, a dresser, and a large wingback chair. The bed’s made, blanket perfectly smooth and tucked at the ends with a military perfection. When I see a row of masks on the chair with the slash over the eye, I know I’m in Striker’s room.

Other than the masks, I don’t see anything in the room that is remotely personal until my eyes land on a small figurine on the dresser. Walking forward, my boots tap on the rough wood floors, sending my nerves higher, so I slow my movements, trying not to make a sound. I stop in front of the dresser, catching my reflection in the mirror. Besides my tense jaw and flushed cheeks, I look surprisingly well rested for someone being held hostage.

A familiar vibrating sound makes my heart leap into my throat. Thebuzz, buzz of a text notification, vibrates again. Placing the knife on the dresser, I grip the handle on the top drawer and pull. A sleek black phone sits all alone in the center. Without thinking, I pick it up and slide my thumb over the screen. An image of five men all wearing the familiar skull masks and all-black uniforms appears on the lock screen.

It’s them. But there’s five instead of four, the fifth one’s mask much like Breakers, but stitched around the edge like Reaper’s.

I swipe the screen again. The lock screen disappears and the thumbprint request pops up. Knowing I don’t have any chance of breaking into the phone, I hold the power button down long enough that the icons to power off the phone or make an emergency call pop up.

My thumb hovers over the red icon, but I stop.

Shaking my head, I lower my thumb, but…

My pulse quickens, yet I can’t seem to figure out why I’m not hitting the screen and calling for help.

Maybe it’s because I know, deep in my gut, the only authorities my father may have contacted are the ones on his payroll. So if I call, it would be on record.

But, if I call, my father will know I’m alive.

Clenching my teeth, I squeeze the phone, but still hesitate.

If I hit to call the police, tell them we’d been taken, they will eventually swarm this place. Guns will be drawn. Clyde will gather a fuckingarmyand these men will never, never just hand us over. They will never let themselves get caught, either. The four took so many risks to take Cora and me, and they have a reason. Reaper says revenge, but it has to be something more. Something that would be worth all of this.

Taking us.

Keeping us warm and fed and dressed.

Your father isn’t a good man.

Everything they’ve said spins in my mind. I know he’s bad. But what could he have done to warrant all thiseffort?

My eyes slide over to the figurine, and I pick it up, examining the dark wood. It’s a crude carving of a wolf, but the wood is smooth, like someone’s rubbed away all the rough edges.

When I hear the door open, my breath seizes in my lungs. I spin, clutching the two items to my chest. I catch a glimpse of full lips, high cheekbones, and a delicate nose before I hear growling, and he yanks his mask down.

Striker.

He stalks forward with such malice in his eyes that I drop the phone and say in a rush, “I’m sorry.”

His hand darts out, snatching the wolf, brutally yanking it away.

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