Page 258 of Fury
Russell openedanother door that led farther into the bowels of the basement. With every step she took, it felt like she was moving farther and farther away from safety. But the need to help these women was too strong to ignore, so she walked through the door.
He flipped on the light.
The room was deep-freeze cold. Within seconds, she could see her breath.
A small prison cell sat to her left. To her relief, it was empty. Across the room, a black, plastic tarp hung like a shower curtain suspended from a rod.
He pulled back the curtain, and she gasped.
Ohmygod, it’s a death chamber.
All seven victims were seated at a round table, their frozen bodies staring with lifeless eyes. They were all wearing brightly-colored dresses.
A combination of bile and fury rose inside her from a dark place long buried. From her short time on the street, she’d seen and experienced things that most people never do. She had lived through hell, but these poor victims were frozen in theirs.
This was the dark hour of her soul.
If she didn’t take his life, he would take hers.
After he had taken his victims, he had killed them, then positioned them like they were at a tea party. Seven friends around a table, their tea cups filled with a murky-looking, icy liquid. Small biscuits had been placed on dessert dishes. Biscuits that they would never have a chance to eat.
Turning to face him, she stared into the eyes of the devil. Rage filled her soul, determination had her fingers twitching. She needed to be swift, and she needed to be exact.
“You are one sick fuck,” she said.
He threw his head back and laughed.
She dropped, pulled up her pant leg, unsheathed her switchblade. As she pushed off the cement floor, she lunged.
BANG!
The bullet ripped into her, but she did not stop.
She plunged the knife into his chest as hard as she could, not stopping until the blade disappeared inside him.
“That’s from me,” she said.
She twisted the knife. “And that’s for them.”
Carrera
Carrera heardthe muffled bang as he shot out the front door lock. He threw open the door, strode into the house, clearing the living room and kitchen at breakneck speed.
“Slash!” he screamed. “Slash, where are you?”
He rushed down the hall, stopping in front of a bolted door. After throwing back the lock, he ripped open the door, flipped the switch, flew down the stairs.
His Glock at the ready. His senses on ultra-high alert.
The next door was also locked.
BANG!
He shoved open that door, eyed the wall of monitors of strippers dancing on stage. His attention jumped to the bulletin board and the mannequin in the corner. He strode to the next door, turned the handle.
Unlocked.
He flung open the door, swept the room.
