Stirred

Oh, no.

Lucy fought the urge to run in the other direction. But she couldn’t allow D to face that maniac alone. She followed the voices until she could make out the words.

“The gun in your pants. Take it out, slowly, and throw it into the water. Now.”

There was a faint splashing sound.

“Now put down the saw and step away from Jack.”

A clang of the bow saw being dropped on concrete.

Lucy crept closer.

“Where’s the girl?”

“Go to hell.”

A gunshot, followed by Donaldson crying out.

“I’ve got seven more bullets in this magazine. You think your leg hurts? I can do knees next. Or balls.”

“You already cut off my balls, you son of a bitch.”

Lucy turned the corner, until she was spying on them through the door, ten feet away. Her legs felt ready to buckle.

“Sorry. I forgot. We did have some fun times together, didn’t we, Donaldson? I’m sure you aren’t anxious to relive those times. Tell me where Lucy is, and I’ll kill you fast. One in the head.”

“I have no idea where she went. We split up when we escaped.”

“Liar.”

Another shot. Another scream. Lucy watched as Donaldson fell over and clutched his bleeding knee.

“Six bullets left. Then, when those are finished, I use the saw. Where is she?”

Donaldson spoke through clenched teeth. “She went to Canada. Heard it was beautiful this time of year.”

Two more shots, in the same leg. Lucy flinched, and then peed herself.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

Not like this.

She forced herself to take a step, to reveal her location. She couldn’t bear to watch Donaldson suffer anymore.

Then she saw it. Though there was no way D could see her in the darkness, for the briefest moment he seemed to stare right at her. Deep into her eyes.

And he gave his head a slight shake.

Telling her not to come any closer.

Then, somehow, he struggled back up onto his feet.

“I saw the two of you on my cameras. I know she’s here. I’ve put too much effort, too much money, into this production, and I can’t have you two amateurs ru

“Amateurs?” Donaldson barked out a pained laugh. “Let me tell you something, Luther. Me and Lucy forgot more about killing than you’ll ever know. She told me all about you. You’re not the real deal. You’re a wa

Another shot, this one in the right arm.

Donaldson groaned, but he stayed on his feet.

Lucy’s eye welled up with tears. She watched Luther approach her friend.

“You love her, don’t you? I watched you both, walking hand in hand.”

Lucy held her breath. She had no idea how D would answer, but all of the sudden it became very important to her.

“Yeah,” D said. “I love her.”

Lucy stifled a moan, her whole body shaking.

“Tell me, Donaldson. How does it feel?”

“You want to know how it feels?”

“Yes.”

Donaldson laughed. It wasn’t forced. It was genuine, a belly laugh, loud and long.

“I’ve spent my whole life on my own,” Donaldson said. “Which is why it feels so good to have someone to watch my back. She’s going to get you, you bastard. My Lucy is going to mess you up so bad—”

The shot sent a vibration through Donaldson.

When Luther stepped away, Lucy saw a dark swatch of blood expanding through the fabric around D’s stomach, which he clutched in both hands.

Luther raised his right leg and kicked Donaldson in the chest, sending the man stumbling back into the water.

Donaldson’s feet entangled, spun him around, and he plunged facedown into the murk, and slowly sank.

Lucy had to bite her wrist to keep from crying out.

Come up.

Please come up, D.

Please…

He didn’t come up.

Lucy made her legs move, back into the dark halls.

The pain slammed into her, worse than anything physical.

Lucy’s very soul hurt.

She needed to find a weapon.

She needed to kill that son of a bitch.

To make Donaldson’s last words come true.

Donaldson.

The only man she’d ever loved.

When he opened his eyes, he was bound to a chair.

He hurt all over, but the worst was a pain in his right side. Felt like a broken rib.

He blinked, squinting in the dim room, and saw McGlade tied to another chair. It was made of steel and leather, built solid, high legs.

A bar stool. Not the horrible torture devices they’d been previously strapped to.

Phin didn’t see any rope around Harry. He looked down at his own hands and saw his wrists were attached to the chair arms with plastic zip ties. His hands were bright pink and swollen. He tried to move his feet, realized that his ankles were similarly bound.

Phin pulled against the zip ties, testing their strength.

They were strong.

He tried to jerk against the chair, but it was strong, too.

Steel. Heavy, unyielding.

Then he twisted his wrists, seeing if there was any give.

None at all.

And if they weren’t loosened soon, his hands would completely lose circulation and die. He already had that pins-and-needles sensation from the lack of blood flow.

“Harry! Wake up!”

McGlade grunted, and then his eyes fluttered open. “Tell me we got drunk and this is some lesbian hooker bondage thing.”

“You used that joke already.”

“Joke? Don’t rain on my dreams, man. How you feeling?”

“Like fried shit. You?”

“I’m shocked. Heh heh. Get it?”

Phin looked around.

Unlike the dungeon atmosphere of the previous room, this one resembled an abandoned office. Desks, a few scattered chairs, and a lot of dust. Weak light filtered in through the open doorway, ten feet to his left.

“Your artificial hand is strong, right?” Phin asked. “Can you break your bonds?”

“It isn’t working. That goddamn electric chair shorted out my battery. Also, I think my curlies burned off.”

“Your curlies?”

“My pubes. My sack sweater. My dick fro. I can smell the burnt hair.”

“Nice.”

“On the plus side, I didn’t wet my pants. Maybe I should have. It would have doused the briar patch flames.”

Phin tried to rock forward on the bar chair. It scooted several inches across the tile floor, the chair’s base wide enough so it didn’t tip over.

“How about you?” Harry asked.

“Me?”

“Did you have a brush fire at the big dick corral?”

“Can we talk about something else?”

Phin jerked his body forward again, harder this time.

The bar stool moved forward almost a foot but then began to teeter. He shifted his weight back, balancing the chair out. Tipping over would be bad. He wouldn’t be able to get back up.

“I shouldn’t have talked about peeing,” Harry said. “Now I gotta pee.”

“Think of something else.”

“I can’t. I close my eyes and I picture Buckingham Fountain. Except all the water is yellow.”

Phin tried to ignore him. He scooted forward once more, gaining another half foot. His destination was the open door.

“My bladder is ready to burst. It feels like a basketball filled with urine.”

Phin continued to slide across the floor, until one of his chair legs hit a snag. He looked down, saw a tile was missing, leaving an indent. He scooted backward, intending to go around.

“Where are you going?” Harry asked. “The bathroom?”

“I’m going through the door.”

“Is there a bathroom through the door?”

“I don’t know. But maybe there’s something we can use.”