Ice, Pants, and T-Bone meet us at the bottom of the driveway.
The mailbox says “Stannard,” which is apparently the name of Martin Suggs’ uncle.
Please let Z’s hunch be right.
This has to be the place. Otherwise, we’re out of leads.
The five of us slowly creep up the driveway, sticking to the grassy edge. The barest hint of moonlight illuminates our path.
White van.
Jackpot.
“That’s it,” I whisper. The urge to storm up to the house blazes in my veins but I remain calm and focused.
“Thank fuck,” Jiggy mutters.
“Don’t get too excited yet,” Ice cautions.
He’s right—I still want to punch him for saying it out loud.
Slowly, we approach the house, careful not to trigger any possible motion lights or alarms that might be on the property.
But Suggs doesn’t seem concerned about security.
That should be a red flag.
Jigsaw, Pants and I go around the right side of the house. Ice and T-Bone take the left.
Windows appear to be shuttered over. No light spills from behind them.
I count four windows on this side.
No sound.
What if he’s not here? Maybe he dumped the van, grabbed another vehicle, and took off for somewhere else?
What if I’m too late?
At the back of the house we meet up with Ice and T-Bone.
“Nothing,” Ice whispers. He holds up three fingers. “Windows.”
I hold up four fingers and jerk my thumb back in the direction we just came.
Here, there’s a door with a smaller window.
“Kitchen?” Jigsaw asks.
“Maybe.”
Ice takes the crowbar in his hand and points to the lock. “We’ll go in the back. You three go in the front.”
Pants lifts his own crowbar and Jiggy wiggles the bolt cutters.
The three of us creep back to the front of the house.
Jigsaw and I crouch on either side of the door while Pants tests it.
It opens with a soft screech. Pants stops and waits.
Nothing.
He pulls it wider. I slip in first, Jigsaw after me, and Pants last. For such a big guy, he moves with stealth, quietly closing the door behind him.
It’s darker than dark and I hold my arms out in front of me, carefully shuffling my feet, praying I don’t bang into anything that alerts Martin to our arrival.
Another door.
Screen door.
Locked.
I unsheathe my knife and neatly slice the screen, slip my hand through the hole, and flick the latch. Slowly, I thumb the handle and open the door, praying the old metal hinges don’t screech.
From the back of the house, there’s a crash.
“Subtle time is over,” Jigsaw whispers.
I shake my head. “We may need to grab him if he comes running this way.”
Inside, a man screams. Ice’s deep, lethal voice shouts, “Where is she?”
“Fuck.” I twist the knob on the door but it won’t open.
I slam into it with my shoulder while Pants works his crowbar along the seam.
Heavy boots echo over the floor inside and a minute later someone flings the door open.
“We got him.” T-Bone flicks his gaze to the side. “No sign of Shelby, yet.”
She has to be here.
I muscle past T-Bone, turning toward the light, and march down a long hallway. Ice has the doughy guy in a chair at a table with two bowls, two cups, and a can of Sprite on it. A puddle of soup slowly drips from the tabletop to the floor.
My gaze follows the puddle of soup to a glint of silver under the table.
The chairs are secured to the table by a thick silver chain.
All my fury and fear rush through me. I rear back and slam my fist into Martin’s face, sending him sideways. “Where the fuck is she?”
“Who?” Martin screams. “Who are you?”
T-Bone pushes him upright while Ice unrolls some duct tape. The two of them work together to wrap long strips around the guy’s chest, affixing him to the chair for a long, painful night of questioning.
Blood trickles from the corner of Martin’s mouth. The whites of his eyes show as he stares in horror at a bright red drop landing on his shirt.
“Look at me, motherfucker.” I grab his chin and force his head back. “Where is Shelby?”
His gaze fixes somewhere over my shoulder. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Like fuck you don’t.” I grab a fistful of the heavy chain and kick the table on its side. T-Bone jumps to the side as the heavy wood batters the floor. “What’s this? Some shitty decorating choice?”
Martin wriggles under the tape while I unwind the chains from the table legs.
Ice cuffs him on the back of the head. “Settle the fuck down, asshole.”
Cobra fast, I strike again. This time wrapping the metal links around the psycho’s throat. Tight until he’s choking. Using all my weight, I use the chain to shove him and the chair he’s in over the kitchen floor until I slam it into the counter. The move leaves two deep grooves in the flooring.
The man gasps and struggles, desperately trying to dig his fingers between the metal links crushing his windpipe. “No—”