A horrible thought struck her. What if he just shot the animals instead of setting a fire? The goats had begun wandering out of the gate, tempted by new grass they hadn’t tasted yet. They were such easy targets. She bit down hard on her lip, so sure a gunshot would be next that she could practically hear the retort.
But he didn’t shoot. Maybe he realized it was a waste of bullets and would just make a big mess. Besides, it was completely dark everywhere except the guard shack. He might risk a stampede if he started firing his gun.
She pictured her gun, a tidy Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum nestled into the bottom drawer of her turn-of-the-century mahogany desk, the one she’d inherited from her mother. The challenge was how to get to her office. By now his eyes had probably adjusted to the darkness and if she crossed the open yard, he might spot her. She waited an agonizing few moments until a few goats had ventured into the front yard. Then she went onto her hands and knees. Maybe in the dark she’d look roughly like a goat. Or maybe he’d be looking higher up, for a human shape, and wouldn’t notice her. Barely daring to breathe, she crawled across the open, grassy area to her office.
For every second of that crossing, she expected a bullet to zing past her. It had happened just that way, back then. She’d been half crawling, half running, her legs weak from terror and disuse, her head ringing from the guard’s kick. Gunshots, one after the other, rat-a-tat-tat, had struck the dirt and a clump of dry grass near her. But she’d kept going.
This time, no bullets came as she crawled to the back door of the office. She slipped inside, keeping to her hands and knees, and scrambled to her desk. Her revolver, black and solid, nearly leaped into her hands.
As soon as she held it, the seriousness of the situation seemed to increase a thousand-fold. Could she shoot Lee? Of course she could. When she’d been held captive, she’d kept fighting even when it meant more pain. If she’d had a weapon, she would have used it. What scared her more was the knowledge that she sucked with a gun. What if she missed and hit one of the goats? Or what if she just nicked him and made him angry? Her gun had only six bullets in it. She’d have one chance, maybe two. No, only one, because the retort always threw her off and she never managed to get the second shot anywhere close to the target.
She’d always done a lot better with Krav Maga than with a handgun. But she’d just have to do her best.
She crawled to the window and peered out. It took her a moment to spot him. Then she saw him at the edge of the wooden fence that enclosed the large corral. He held a large, squarish object that he shook slightly as he walked.
Oh my God. It was a gasoline can. He was pouring gas around the corral. With the dry grass, the whole place would light up. They’d all get incinerated, she and the animals. Greta, still shut up in her car. Her hands shook as she pried open a window. She had to shoot him before he set a match to the gas. Even though she’d never hit a target at that distance, she’d have to try.
He was nearing the guard’s bungalow, which was at the farthest point from the office, and then he’d start curving in closer. She decided to wait until he passed the shack and she could get a clear shot.
The slight reprieve gave her a chance to line up her shot. She crouched at the window, her forearms resting on the sill for extra stability, and watched his steady progress along the fence.
Evil. The man was evil. Or so fucked up he was beyond help. In other circumstances, she might feel sympathy for him. But not if he was going to deliberately set a fire aimed at destroying animals. No. He deserves to die, she told herself fiercely. Hurting the innocent was just fucked up.
The vibration of her phone in her pocket startled her so much she let out a tiny shriek. Luckily, the bleating of the goats milling through the yard masked the sound.
Cell phone. God, what was wrong with her? She’d been so focused on getting away from him and grabbing her gun that she hadn’t thought to call for help. Keeping the gun aimed past the guard shack with one hand, she dug in her pocket with the other.
Fred was texting her. Thinking about you. Can we talk?
Fred. Fred. She longed for him, craved him with the sudden intensity of a newborn craving air. If only Fred were here, his open, wonderful, square-jawed smile pouring sunshine into the room.
She quickly texted back. Call 911. Refuge. Kidnapper setting fire. Come quick. I love you. If she never got a chance to tell him in person, at least she’d said it.
Hang tight. Love you. On my way.
She shoved the phone back in her pocket. Did he mean “love you” the way she meant it, or in a generic, calm-down sort of way? That made one more thing the evil kidnapper had stolen—a precious moment between her and the man she loved, one that should have taken place in person, not over a text message.
The man had a lot to answer for.
She resumed her position, arms braced on the windowsill, gun pointed to the right of the bungalow. He must be behind it now, because she couldn’t see him, or any movement from that end of the property. Closer to her, a few goats wandered across the lawn, chomping and occasionally bleating softly. The goats usually slept at night, but this change in their routine must have thrown them for a loop.