Page 2 of Destroy (Deadly Hearts 2)

I feel the motion of him thrusting, but that is all. From far away I hear a soft grunt, followed by a few sharp pants and then a louder grunt.

I don’t want to open my eyes when I hear a zipper. I don’t want to know what’s coming next. I just want to fade into the oblivion that Boomer has injected into me and die there.

I send out a silent apology to my men for giving up and not trying to fight harder, but then there is nothing.

* * *

Unfortunately, my eyes open sometime later. I groan with disappointment, hating the fact that I wished for death and didn’t get it. Who knows what more I have to endure at the hands of this psycho? I’m all about the psycho, don’t get me wrong, but this guy has seriously lost the plot. I move my head and then realize that the rest of my body is mobile too. I lift my head, the eerie silence of this cold, dark room settling around me. I’m back in position in the middle of the table, my ankles retied, the knife still stuck in my gut.

I choke back a cough and flinch when it sends rockets of pain shooting through me. Yeah, whatever Boomer gave me has worn off. He has wadded a cloth up around the knife to staunch the bleeding. I have no idea how much blood I’ve lost, but I can smell it. I can smell my sweat and fear and the stench of this place all around me.

But one thing is very clear to me.

I’m alone.

Boomer isn’t here.

Frantically, I start to work my right hand, trying to loosen the rope around it. A small ray of hope lights up in front of me and I do my best to ignore it. I try to convince myself that this is too good to be true.

But still, I wiggle and turn my wrist, trying to get free. The rope burns me, cutting into my skin, but I don’t let it stop me.

Eventually, with a soft cry of pain, I squeeze my hand free from the rope. I freeze, expecting Boomer to come out of the shadows and tell me how I’m never leaving here, but there is nothing.

I swallow, the sweat forming on my upper lip from the effort I’ve put in to release my right arm. But it is free. I now have my other wrist and two ankles to get free.

Quickly.

There is only one way that is going to happen, and it makes all the blood rush straight to my head when I think about it. With grim determination, I grip the handle of the knife sticking out of me. Biting down on my bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood, I pull it out of my stomach with a loud gasp. The blood bubbles up and gushes out of the wound. I can’t let it stop me. I have to ignore it and carry on. I move the bloodied cloth over the wound and reach up with the knife in my loose grip to slice the rope free from my left wrist. It takes longer than I’d hoped. I’m as weak as a kitten and about to drop the knife.

I tighten my hold on it and once the rope is cut loose, I force myself to sit up with a low growl of agony. I press the cloth to the hole in my gut with my right hand, while my left works at the rope around my ankles. Boomer really didn’t do his research on me. He should’ve removed the knife if nothing else. He clearly didn’t bank on me pulling it out of myself to get free.

The seconds tick by.

Left ankle free.

Swap hands.

Set to work on the right.

Soon, with sweat dripping down my forehead and into my eyes, my hair stuck to my head and every cell in my body screaming with pain, I slide off the table and stumble in the direction of where I know the door is.

I’m no fool.

I know it’s going to be locked from the outside, but I’m armed and fucking dangerous. My brain is just about functioning enough to formulate a plan of action. I press my back against the wall on the opening side of the door. I inhale deeply and check the wound. The cloth is soaked in my blood, but I can’t let it get to me. I have to ignore it. I grip the knife in my right hand and wait.

How long?

Who knows?

Time has lost all meaning in this room.

My knees wobble and my head swims, but still I stand there, trying not think about what happened to me.

Suddenly, I hear the locks being opened on the other side of the door, making my heart thump.

“You’ve got this, Rubes,” I murmur to myself, tightening my hold on the knife as much as I can. My fingers feel like overcooked spaghetti, but there is no way I’ve made it this far to fail. I may have wanted to die on that table, but I’m not on the table anymore. I’m on my feet with a few centimeters of steel between me and freedom.

The door opens, making me squint from the light pouring in.

---