Page 4 of Love What's Left
She could be in neither of those locations. We could be heading in the entirely wrong direction, deliberately led astray.
“We only have one chopper on standby. We can have another meet us, but it’ll take longer. Which team flies?” Kurt asks.
I don’t know, dammit.
“The warehouse,” I say.
3
Sydney
Thwunk-Thwunk-Thwunk-Thwunk. The chop of helicopter blades cuts through the howl of wind and drags me from sleep. I feel the sound in my soul.
The clang of metal. I don’t hear or smell rain, but something like thunder rattles the walls of my new prison—an unused office in an abandoned warehouse, I think. Don’t remember how I got here.
The man who torments me stands with his back to the wall beside the gray metal door and glares at me.
“He’s too early. I was supposed to be gone,” he snarls.
The fluorescent tubes overhead flicker in the otherwise dark space. I strain to sit up, but collapse within seconds, my muscles spaghetti. Too much of the drug he gives me. Too many bumps and bruises to think or move.
The human cockroach scuttles closer.
Squatting behind me, he hooks his elbow under my armpit and shoves something hard against my temple. “Stand up. We’re walking out of here. You’ll be my shield.”
When I remain as floppy as a rag doll, he drops me. The drugs muddle the pain of my head cracking against concrete.Float. Float. Float.
The storm grows closer. It stomps and pounds with heavy boots. Kicked-in doors in the distance. Oddly distorted voices. My name.
“. . . Sydney . . .”
This is bad. Not safe. “He’ll kill you . . .”
The steel door explodes inward, metal shrieking as it ricochets against the wall.Don’t move. Stay still.A silhouette fills the doorway, backlit. Weapon in both hands.
I close my eyes.Don’t make a sound. Don’t breathe.He can’t see me.
“Hands in the air.” A man with a voice like a blade.
I don’t listen to orders.My name is Sydney Walsh McRae.
“She can die the same way McRae killed my mother,” Asshole shrieks.
Boots scuff. Weight crashes down on top of me. Slams into me. Curls over me.
Time slows. My eyes fly open. The big man looks down at me, but all I see is a warped version of myself reflected in the visor of his black helmet.
The stranger wraps one arm around my head and pushes my face into the rough fabric of his shoulder. I still haven’t managed to inhale.
Time speeds back up with the crack of fireworks. The body on top of me jolts with an “OOF” hard enough to shove both of us into a roll across the floor. He holds on to me. Forces me back onto the bottom, grunts, twists, and stretches out his arm. He jerks with aBOOMso loud it steals every other sound and leaves ringing in my ears. Another noise from across the room. I barely hear it, but I feel it shake the air.
A man’s shout, impossible to understand through muffled ears. The copper-penny odor of blood.
The pressure eases off me. My vision doubles. More thudding feet.
I close my eyes, trying to be invisible.I’m not here.
The rustle of fabric. The man explores my neck and head. Pats down my body. Fingers on the pulse at my wrist.
