Karmine pulls a second gun from a holster at her hip. “Here.”
I look at it and then at her. “Um, I don’t know—”
She shakes the handle end toward me in a hurry-up motion. “Just point and shoot. No matter what, it’s gonna work better than a chunk of fucking mirror.”
Oh. Right.
I drop the towel-wrapped mirror piece on the steps and take the gun.
Karmine flips a little thing on the side of the gun, exposing a little red dot. “It’s live and loaded. Don’t point it at my back, and follow me.”
I nod and grip the gun tightly.
Karmine spins, and I admire how perfect her braid is as I follow her down the steps.
My feet are sore from running on these stupid hard floors, my butt hurts from the stupid stairs, my face aches, and my scalp is still throbbing, but being here, in the presence of this badass woman, I feel a little badass myself.
Karmine stops at the open entrance to the second level, standing guard, and waves me to go past her down the stairs.
I hurry down the steps on my bare feet and mentally pat myself on the back for taking my socks off. Boots would obviously be better, but I never would have made it to the stairs, to Karmine, if I was sliding all over the place.
I wait on the middle landing for Karmine to pass me, then follow her again.
The noise is louder down here. So loud I can feel the vibrations.
It feels like I’ve been dropped into the middle of an action movie.
The staircase we’re on isn’t a grand one ending in a foyer, but rather one that spits us out in the center of the house, in the middle of that endless hallway.
We’re almost to the main level, and all I can see from here is a knocked-over decorative table next to a closed door and then the hallway disappearing on either side.
I’m right behind Karmine, and I take the last step without seeing the shattered porcelain all over the floor.
Little shards dig into the soles of my feet, but before I can recoil—or cry—the door opposite us flies open.
Karmine shoves me to the side just as bullets slam into the stairs we just descended.
“Go down!” Karmine shouts at me as she flattens herself against the wall, returning fire.
Down?
I look behind me and see that the stairs continue down into the basement.
Oh hell no.
I hesitate for one second, but then a hailstorm of bullets chips away at the steps above and I decide the basement is a perfectly fine place to go.
The first step sends bolts of pain through my feet.
I want so badly to reach down and brush away the pieces that are embedding themselves into my feet, but when Karmine shouts something about backup, I decide to suck it the fuck up and keep going.
Hans ran after me with a bullet hole in his leg. I can walk with some broken pottery in my feet.
I slip on the final step, my soles now slick with blood, but I keep my balance and peer around the edge of the wall.
A gross, prickling feeling covers my body.
This level isn’t like the other ones. Instead of marble and chandeliers, the floors and walls are smooth cement, and the ceiling has recessed lighting, giving off a dim glow. And instead of one long hallway, this one breaks off in three directions. Left, right, or straight. And after a few yards, the halls turn. Like they were designed to be a jagged maze.
This just went from action movie to horror film.
I have to fight against the urge to curl up in the corner and wait for Hans.
He knows I’m here. Karmine knows where I went. Once again, I just need to keep myself intact until Hans can find me.
“Fuck you!” Karmine’s shout echoes down the stairs, and I rock paper scissors in my mind and take off to the left.
I try to shift my weight off the balls of my feet, but pretty much my entire body is sore, so I end up hobbling.
Bracing my left hand on the wall, I hold the gun out ahead of me as I go.
My feet are tracking bloody footprints, so it’s not like it would be hard for someone to follow me, but I want to keep moving. It feels safer.
I try to listen for anyone approaching but can’t hear anything.
I hit the turn in the hallway, and I slowly creep around it.
Still empty.
But I spot a door.
A door with a giant deadbolt on the outside.
Bile rises in my throat, but I push forward through my trepidation.
Nothing good locks from the outside.
Sorrow and rage crash into me.
I know what these men do. I know who Gabriel Marcoux is to Hans.
He’s the man responsible for Freya’s disappearance.
He’s the man responsible for her torture and death.
He’s the man who crushed the soul of a teenage Hans.
He’s the type of man who would keep human beings locked in a basement.
I hurry my steps until I stop in front of the door.
My body starts to tremble, so I press my left hand to my chest.
Just breathe.
I want to yell through the door. Let whoever’s inside know I don’t mean them harm. But I can’t be sure there isn’t a bad guy on the other side.
Admitting to myself that I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing, but that I’m going to do it anyway, I decide to mimic every police reenactment I’ve ever seen in my true crime documentaries.
Quick and low.
Steadying the gun, I use my left hand to flip the dead bolt and shove the door open. Then I rush into the room, crouching low and stepping to the side so my back is against the wall.
When I’m not immediately filled with bullets, I tell myself to take a breath.
The room has the same dim lighting as the hall, but it’s enough.
Enough to see the small table and chairs, the pair of bunk beds, the kitchenette in the corner.
But I can’t look at any of that. Because staring back at me, from the other side of the room, are three women.
