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into the truck and start the engine, backing out slowly, testing the wheels as I turn around and head down the mountain lane.
He doesn’t know it yet, but this is Sheriff Grayson’s lucky day.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Run, run, run!
Pescoli’s mind screamed at her, pushed her, kept her going to the point that she was out of breath. And freaked.
Her lungs burning, fear sizzling through every inch of her.
Don’t go there. Don’t panic. Do not! God, if she only had her sidearm!
Yeah, right . . . down here? In these friggin’ tunnels? Forcing back the terror that caused the edges of her sanity to fray, she
kept moving, swinging the beam of her flashlight along the narrow tunnels. Her door to freedom had opened to this, a subterranean maze. But she had to keep searching, looking for the other hostages, looking for a way out. Dust was everywhere, spiderwebs abounded, and droppings of vermin littered the tunnel floor as she strove to find a way out of her prison. Pain jabbed her ribs with every breath, her joints throbbed, her
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wrist burned where it was flayed, her legs were still wobbly, and her heart pounding crazily as she strained to listen, squinted to see, hoped beyond hope that she wouldn’t run into the bastard returning down one of these dark corridors. Earlier, with no time to waste, she’d begun opening doors only to discover that she was trapped in some kind of intricate maze. Aside from the main room with the fireplace, big table, and the sicko’s armoire filled with the evidence of his crimes, there were hallways dug into the earth, all angling off in different directions.
An old silver or gold mine.
How in the world would she ever find the other women? Save them?
These hills were riddled with mines from a bygone era; though few of the old shafts and tunnels, she thought, were so intricate and large as this one. There had to be a way out.
She just had to be patient.
Think logically.
While her mind was yelling at her to run. And her mouth was dry with the fear that she was too late to save Elyssa O’Leary or anyone else. You perverted son of a bitch, she thought, her grip tightening on the poker even as her muscles screamed in protest.
Calm down.
Take a deep breath.
Get your damned bearings!
What would Santana do? He, with his military background, backpacking, and river-guide experience. He, who was at home in the most treacherous terrain. Remain calm.
Think logically.
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Lisa Jackson
Remember where you’ve been.
His voice resonated in her ears and in her mind’s eye she saw his visage: his dark eyes, set back well into his head, his bladed cheekbones that hinted at some Native American ancestor, and his lips, thin and hard, but easily teased into a smile. Her heart twisted and she wondered if she would really ever see him again. If she’d ever really touch him.
And the kids.
God, she had to keep going for Bianca and Jeremy. She kept the fading, yellow beam of the flashlight on the darkness ahead. Someone, probably the whack-job himself, had spent lots of time, money, and effort renovating the adjoining rooms for his twisted purposes.