Page 95 of My Crazy Killers
I turn and see Pete glaring down at Mikhail’s unconscious body, his fists clenched tightly at his side. He glances up at me and asks. “Why did you need protection from the guards, Wren?”
I hesitate to answer, not wanting him to get upset, and he looks over my shoulder at Dimitri. “What did they do?”
“He doesn’t speak English,” I inform him.
At the same time, Dimitri surprises me by answering in English. “They’d shove her into the walls, backhand her if she didn’t listen. These two were about to take her into the showers to do something much worse.”
Without hesitation, Pete pulls a knife from somewhere behind his back and shoves it straight down through the center of Mikhail’s neck. His body twitches for a few seconds, then deflates, as the life drains out of him. My jaw drops open in shock at how quickly he just killed him. He yanks the knife free and wipes it clean on Mikhail’s shirt, returning it to where it was hidden behind his back somewhere.
“Much better,” he says before lifting his head to me, his eyes calming and sparking with that mischievous glint I’ve been missing for the past month. “Ready to go?” he asks, reaching for my hand.
“Be careful,” I tell Dimitri, before taking Pete’s hand and following him quickly down the hall.
As soon as we step into the hall, a guard is standing there. He reaches for me, and I jump back in shock, before I actually look at his face. The moment I do, I gasp in relief. “Sly!”
“Little bird,” he whispers, pulling me in tight for a hug that’s way too short. “Let’s go, the others are waiting.”
When we get to the end of the next hall, Sly stops right before the door and turns to me. “You have to pretend to be sick.” I nod as he scoops me up. “Moan like you’re in pain,” he tells me, and I do as he asks.
Pete throws the door open as they march through like they own the place. I moan and squirm in his arms, like I’m dying. I hear guards shouting questions, but since neither of these two knows any Russian, they don’t answer. But it seems like wearing a guard uniform and walking with purpose can get you just about anywhere.
I glimpse the infirmary door, but Pete turns right before it, closing the door once we’re inside. I realize we’re in the laundry room.
“This is the hard part,” Sly says, looking at me apologetically.
“Harder than taking out those two guards?” I ask as I eye the empty laundry cart.
Pete lifts up a giant empty laundry sack and grimaces. “I’m afraid so.”
My eyes widen in realization. “I need to get in that bag?”
“Can you do it?” Sly asks with worry. “We’ll figure out another way if we have to.”
“But this is the plan you’ve made?” I ask, staring at the bag as my claustrophobia starts to surface.
“Yes, it gives us the best chance of getting you out.”
“Okay, let’s get this over with. How long?” I ask as I gesture for Pete to open it up for me, and I step into the bottom.
“Not long,” Sly says. “Depends on whether we get stopped. Hopefully it’s only twenty minutes.”
I nod, sitting down as Pete lifts the sides of the bag overmy head. “Wait—” Sly says, bending down to kiss me, hard. “Stay strong, we’ll be as fast as we can.”
Nodding Pete lifts the sides and ties the bag shut. Luckily, a bit of light floods in through the material, but then I’m gently lifted and set in what must be the laundry cart. They gently place other bags around me, blocking out most of the light, and I will myself to breathe.
That’s all I have to do. Breathe. This is way better than what I thought was going to happen to me tonight. I can get through this.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
WREN
Ikeep up my internal pep talk as the cart starts moving. I’m not sure if nobody is talking or if I’m just too distracted to hear, but I start to worry that I’m going to be stuck in here forever when the cart suddenly jolts and clangs, as if going over a bump.
I feel the tiniest bit of cool air slip into the bag as hope fills me.Am I outside?Then, just as quickly as I felt it, there’s the sound of a rolling door, and all the light is taken from me.
Shit, shit, shit. Don’t panic. It’s okay. I can survive this.
The bumpy motion and rumble of an engine tells me I’m in a vehicle, and I let that thought try to calm me. If I’m in a truck, I’m leaving that place. This is good.This. Is. Good.
