“Pierdolic!” the Butcher hisses. He jumps behind me, in case the shooter is about to come through the door.
But as we wait, no one walks through. And I know Zajac is torn—on the one hand, he doesn’t want to leave me here alone. On the other, he’s now unprotected himself. He has no idea how many people are storming the warehouse. He doesn’t want to be caught in here if it’s my men who come barging through the door.
As the seconds tick by, and we hear the confusing sounds of shouting, running, and something else smashing, but it’s impossible to tell what’s going on. The Molotov is still burning—in fact, the flames are spreading across the cement floor somehow. Perhaps the paint is burning. It creates clouds of acrid black smoke that make us sweat and cough.
Finally, Zajac curses again. He strides over to the table, seizing a cleaver in one hand and a machete in the other. Then he hurries out through the same side door where his blond lieutenant disappeared.
The moment I’m alone, I start wrenching and working on those ropes. My left arm is almost totally numb now, but I can still move the right one. I pull as hard as I can. My hands, my wrists, my arms, and shoulders are all screaming.
It feels like I’m going to dislocate my thumb. But finally, I twist the right hand free.
Just then, a figure comes sprinting barefoot through the door, jumping over the fallen body of the bouncer who was shot in the shoulder.
It’s Aida. Her dark hair streams behind her like a banner as she flies across the cement. She nimbly avoids the flames and shattered glass, pausing only to grab a knife off the table. She presses it into my palm.
“Cut the rope!” she cries. “It’s too high for me to reach!”
She’s got blood running down the right side of her face. Her left hand is wrapped in a rag.
“Are you okay?” I ask her, reaching overhead to saw at the rope still holding my left hand in place. “Where’re your brothers?”
“I have no idea!” she says. “Those goons took my phone. Took my gun, too—Dante’s gonna be pissed. I’m the only one here!”
“What!” I say. “What the hell was all that noise, then?”
“A diversion!” Aida says gleefully. “Now hurry up, before—”
At that moment the rope parts, and I tumble down on the concrete. My arms feel like they’re not attached to my body. My legs are throbbing, too. Not to mention the puncture on my right side.
“What did they do to you?” Aida asks, her voice shaking.
“I’m fine,” I tell her. “But we’d better—”
At that moment the blond soldier returns, with another of Zajac’s men. They’re both armed, standing in the doorway with their guns pointed right at us.
“Don’t move,” the blond says.
The air is thick with smoke. I’m not sure how well he can actually see us—well enough to shoot us, I’m sure. I grab Aida’s arm and start inching backward.
We’re following the metal grate along the floor, back to the dumping spot where the butchers used to offload the blood and viscera into the river.
“Stop!” The blond shouts, advancing on us through the smoke. He raises his AR, fitting it against his side.
I hear a dull clang as I step on a hinged grate.
Keeping my eye on Zajac’s men, I press the toe of my shoe against the corner of the grate, trying to lift it without using my hands.
It’s heavy, but it starts to move upward, enough that I can get my whole foot under.
“Stay there and keep your hands up,” the blond soldier barks, closing in on us.
I kick the grate all the way open.
Then I wrap my arms around Aida and say, “Take a deep breath.”
I feel her body tense up.
I pick her up bodily and jump down through the grate, down into a pipe four feet wide, that leads god knows where.