Page 17 of Ride with the Devil

I’d hope that the same cheapskate didn’t bother with actual chains. Most people who get nabbed by the mafia would probably be contained by garbage chains and toy handcuffs; it’s more their own fears that would keep them captive than anything their abductors used to keep them trapped.

But Kylie Ferguson isn’tmostpeople. Contrary by nature—and more than a little prone to amuse and challenge myself however I can—if whoever stole me wants me on the bed, I’m getting up, one way or another.

The handcuffs were easy. The length of chain?

Not so much.

The shackle is stuck. The heavy chains are unbreakable. I nearly bend my earring, trying to see if I can pick the lock on the shackle before giving up on that and replacing the earring in my ear.

That doesn’t stop me, though. There has to be a way to break free of the chains, and I’m going to find it. If I have to break the leg on the cot that it’s attached to, or?—

Hang on. Crawling to the bottom of the cot so that I can get a better look at the chains, I feel like an idiot that I focused on the shackled end of the chains for as long as I did. The other side has to be connected to something else to keep me on the bed, and I snort under my breath when I realize just how tiny the metal loop is that keeps the chains connected to the bot by one of its legs.

I kick it. I know I’m risking the noise traveling upstairs, catching the attention of my captor, but I don’t care. Using the boots I’m still wearing, I kick and I kick, and when the metal loop starts to buckle under the force of my strike, I kick again until it completely breaks away from its weak solder.

I’m still wearing a shackle. The length of chain trails behind it like a snake. Doesn’t matter. I can get up and walk around now with nothing stopping me.

Once I’m on my feet, I do a quick rundown on myself.

Boots? Check. Leather jacket? Check. The curls in my ponytail is smashed flat—from my time in that fucking trunk, or how I was lying passed out on the cot—but apart from the lingering nasty taste in my mouth and the fuzzy headache that’s still kicking my ass, I’m okay.

Well. Okay-ish.

I don’t have my knife, but I already knew that. Whatever shit he gave me, I had enough brains to ditch the knife before they could use it on me. Same thing with the bluish hummingbird crystal I kept in my pocket. I planned to leave it behind with the body if I managed to off my target, but when that all went to hell, I didn’t want to get caught with my signature crystal on me.

Fucking Springfield. I don’t know if the one I left behind at the tattoo shop was ever found or, if it was, they managed to link the arson to an assassin attempt made by the infamous Hummingbird, but it was bad enough I got snagged by Devil and his henchman. Having my cover blown at the same time would be like rubbing salt inside a wound.

Patting my jacket, I snort when I feel the lip gloss-shaped lump. I have no illusion that whoever put me here wouldn’t have gone through my pockets before they trussed me up like that. Just as I expected, they completely disregarded the lip gloss as something a silly girl kept in her pocket.

Good. I can use that.

And if necessary, I can use the strychnine, too.

That perks me up. Someone went to a lot of trouble to keep me alive. They want me as their prisoner for some reason, and if I acquiesced as easily as I did earlier tonight, that’s only because I didn’t plan on being their prisoner for long.

I still don’t, but with this in my pocket, it’s my ace in the hole—and a way to get out of this before I really do become the next victim.

Do I think I will? Not really. I’m here for a reason, but now that I’m awake, I’m not going to sit down here and wait to find out what it is. That’s not my style, and if someone else is here with me, I’d much prefer to throw them off-guard by being like nothing they suspect.

I always do.

Another sweep, looking for something that I can use as a weapon if necessary. The closest thing I have is the chain rattling against the floor with every step I take. Dropping low, I grab the end of it. It’s not really long enough to really hurt someone, but if I have to hear the scrap as I head up the stairs, I’ll lose it.

Because the stairs? That’s exactly where I’m going.

My plan is to bang on the door so that, if someone is up there, they know they have a conscious, cranky captive on their hands. Despite the cuff and chains being overkill for little ol’ me, I honestly expected that the door at the top would be locked.

It isn’t.

Huh.

The doorknob turns easily under my hand. I man, I had to check, and I blink a few times in rapid succession when it opens. I ease the door out as slowly as possible, waiting for a gun or a knife or a scarred brawler with a scowl and dark cruel eyes to appear in the gap.

Am I being held by the Devil of Springfield? I don’t know, but after how he glowered at me, I’d take my chances with anyone else.

Is this my bid to escape? Not really. Call me a glutton for punishment, but this is the most excitement I’ve had in months. Witnessing a murder that I didn’t perform? Being tossed in atrunk? Tied up in what I’m more and more sure is a basement only God knows where?

I’m having a blast now that I’m not dead!

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