Page 116 of The Gift
The other guard snickered as Morgan’s gaze went lethal. “I said I’ve got them,” he ground out between his teeth.
The guards exchanged a look, shrugged, and headed out to investigate the alarms.
Morgan turned to her and Lauren, a gun leveled at them. “I don’t want any trouble out of you two.” He waved the muzzle toward the stairs. “Get going.”
The last of the daylight seeped through the high basement window, turning the staircase a murky gray. Lauren stumbled on the first step and grabbed the railing.
Morgan muttered something unflattering under his breath.
Halfway down, Lauren tripped again. “I can’t see anything,” she snapped. “Pretty useless hostage if I break my neck, don’t you think?”
Morgan cursed, reached past her shoulder, and searched for the switch.
That was the moment Erica had been waiting for. She slammed her elbow into his gut. Caught off guard, he grunted, doubled over, and staggered on the narrow tread, windmilling for balance.
“What the—”
She drove her heel into his knee, targeting the joint. The knee gave with a sickening crack. He lurched sideways, starting to go down.
“Lauren, watch out!” she shouted, shoving Morgan with everything she had.
He missed the railing and tumbled, limbs striking wood. His strangled cry echoed off the walls, then he landed with a heavy thud below.
She peered through the gloom toward Morgan’s motionless form. “Is he dead?” she whispered, torn between hope and dread.
Lauren, who was closer, squinted too. “He’s still breathing. I think.”
His slow, agonized moan confirmed it.
Suddenly, she spun and raced up the stairs. “Run,” she urged as she passed.
Their bare feet slapped the floor as they sprinted down the hallway in the opposite direction from the guards. In seconds, they burst into a large living room. It was dark, no lights on, the last of dusk fading through the tall windows.
“This way,” Lauren whispered urgently, tugging her arm.
Having never been here before, she didn’t argue.
Lauren stopped at a door, fumbling with the lock. It stuck.
Erica brushed her hands aside. For one terrible second, the bolt refused to move. Then it slid free.
Heavy, damp night air rushed in as the door flew open, thick with the scent of rain. They were across the porch and down the steps in an instant, bare feet slipping on loose gravel.
Low clouds and drifting mist made visibility worse in the dark. It was eerily quiet, then a too-familiar pop cracked through the night.
Beside her, Lauren startled. “What was that?”
She knew it was gunfire but didn’t want to say. “It doesn’t matter. We need to get out of here. Which way?”
Lauren shook her head as she glanced around the yard. “I don’t know,” she said, voice quivering. “They never let me outside.”
More gunfire answered from deeper in the mist. Then shouting. Not Russian. English.
Something had changed, but she couldn’t afford to take the time to figure out what.
She grabbed Lauren’s hand. “Into the trees!”
They ran again. Rocks and twigs dug into their unprotected feet. Branches whipped their arms.
