Page 118 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name
She had both knees on the cistern and was preparing to test her theory, hoping there was something soft below to break her fall, when the door behind her crashed open. It slammed against the wall with so much force it shook the entire house.
“Get her back inside,” Terry said.
* * *
“Hold her legs down. This bitch ain’t ever running away again.”
Terry had her pinned down on the kitchen table, his fat fingers around her neck like a vise. Sweat covered her body like cold grease. Something warm and wet running down the side of her face, and she could taste blood in the back of her mouth. When they’d pulled her in through the window, she hit the sill with her cheek. Pain had burst inside her skull like fireworks.
Ponytail did as he was told, grabbing her ankles and gripping them. She tried to kick out but was met with impossible resistance.
Twisting her head to the side, she saw the butt of the rifle a few inches above her left ear. She lifted her arm to reach for it, but Ponytail noticed what she was trying to do and slammed her wrist down.
Milo was pacing back and forth across the kitchen, scraping his hands through his hair and muttering to himself. He seemed to be trapped in his own private nightmare, unaware of what was going on just a few feet away from him.
Jessica’s nightmare was about to get even worse. Right beside her ear came the shrill whine of a circular saw.
Ponytail yelled over it, “She’ll be no use to Sokolov if she’s got bits missing.”
“I don’t give a fuck about Sokolov,” Terry shouted back, lifting the saw so she could see it. “This bitch is done.”
Fear ran through her veins like ice water. The desire to escape was so intense, she felt an overwhelming urge to leave her own body. To just abandon it there on that dirty table and float off up to the ceiling.
Then she saw Terry direct the whirring blade toward her leg, right above the knee. And her mind decided it didn’t want to abandon her body just yet.
Cortisol and adrenaline were pumping into her bloodstream, making everything move slower. She shoved her free hand into the waistband of her skirt, closed her damp fingers around her gun. Pulled it out, worked her finger under the trigger guard. Her fingers were shaking so much it was a miracle she didn’t drop it.
The hot draft from the spinning saw blade brushed the skin of her leg. She felt the first snick of searing pain as it bit into her flesh just as she leveled the gun at Ponytail’s chest.
She heard Ryan’s voice in her head saying,Shoot him where you have to.
She pulled the trigger. The little gun spat its bullet, jerking her hand back. The sound stopped everything. Ponytail lurched backward, like someone had grabbed hold of the collar of his shirt and tugged him backward. He stared at her gun in confusion, as if it had just asked him a complicated question. One that he didn’t have an answer for. Then he stared down at the rapidly growing bloodstain on the front of his chest.
And don’t stop until he goes down.
She pulled the trigger once more, and Ponytail lurched back again, then collapsed onto the floor.
The whole thing had only taken seconds, but Terry had processed the situation much quicker than Ponytail. He’d dropped the saw, still whirring dangerously close to her leg, and had produced a handgun of his own from an unseen holster beneath his jacket. He brought it around to aim between her eyes. She swung her arm in his direction and pulled the trigger three times in quick succession.
The sound of each gunshot was like the crack of a whip. The force of the recoil meant her hand lurched all over the place.
She heard an almighty thud. Terry was no longer looming over her. Instead, he had crashed onto the kitchen floor, his body sprawled in a growing pool of crimson, the metallic scent of blood filling the air.
She didn’t have time to inspect the accuracy of her shots. Milo had emerged from his trance and was looking even more wild-eyed. He sprang forward, suddenly agile, and grabbed for the rifle on the table.
Jessica didn’t think; she just acted. She had one bullet left in the revolver. She couldn’t miss.
It hit him in the neck. He stopped in his tracks and lifted both hands to stem the flow of blood jetting from his jugular like a geyser.
“You…little…bitch…” he hissed, blood and spit spraying from his mouth.
She tossed the gun aside and rolled off the table. She dived for the door, then sprinted down the hallway.
She made it to the front door and yanked it open, the daylight stunning her for a second. Blinking her eyes clear, she threw herself down a short flight of concrete steps.
She turned right, towards a busy road. And she ran.
THIRTY-EIGHT
