“Yeah.” He swallowed then nodded toward the wall and a small divot in the metal. “Ricochet.” A one in a million shot had bounced perfectly to hit him.
“Can you walk? Or, um, do you need to ride?” I gestured to the bin with an apologetic wince.
“I can walk,” he insisted. He struggled upright, then swayed, paling.
“No, you can’t.” I seized his right arm and laid it across my shoulders, then grabbed him around the waist. “Pierce, Andrew’s hurt. We need to move.”
Pierce turned toward us, knife in one hand and gun in the other, bloody and badass and looking as far from Pietro as I could possibly imagine without a sex change. His lips pressed together at the sight of Andrew.
“You need your hands free,” he told me. “And he’s safest inside the bin.”
Andrew blanched and started to protest, which I completely understood since I totally got how being crammed into a rolling dumpster with hungry zombies—who probably didn’t like him very much—could be the stuff of nightmares. Unfortunately, his physical state and us getting the hell out of the building took priority over his mental state.
“Sorry, Andy,” I said, “but he’s right.” I flipped the lid up. It was going to be a pretty cozy fit with a fifth person in there, even if one was in a body bag. “Y’all be nice to your guest,” I told the three zombies as they blinked up at me. To my relief Marcus was finally focusing on me, and Brian looked as if he had a little movement back. “I’ll explain it all later,” I added.
Andy continued to babble protests, but I wrestled him in and got the lid closed, then set both hands on the bin, dug my feet in and shoved it forward. Pierce stalked ahead, every inch the predator. I breathed deeply, but there were too many scents of blood and brains and rot for me to tell if there were any humans nearby who still posed a threat. Pierce seemed to be having the same problem to judge by the way he paused every ten feet or so to scent.
We came to a corner and stopped. Pierce listened and sniffed the air before quickly peeking around, then motioned me forward. Twenty feet down the corridor was a set of battered grey metal double doors that I recognized from my first escape from this place. “Déjà fucking vu,” I muttered.
“The warehouse is through there, then the parking garage,” Pierce murmured, but worry creased his forehead.
“Surely Nicole is out of guards by now?”
“There are still a couple of the Special Team I haven’t seen yet,” he said, and I realized he’d probably taken great care to memorize the features of every guard he encountered in the holding area. The dark flare of anger in his expression told me he’d paid especially close attention to any who were particularly cruel.
“Are you okay with me leaving that guy tied up back there?” I asked.
Pierce looked past me as if able to see around the corner to where the guard lay. “I wouldn’t have left him alive if he’d been one of the more memorable ones,” he said. “Though I will say he got off light with the broken nose and a few minutes of terror.”
Relief flickered through me. The whole cold-blooded killer thing weighed heavily enough on what little soul I had left. It would’ve sucked to have my one little mercy taken away. “Is that why you didn’t kill the Braddock lady?”
“Thea Braddock is the head of Saberton security but does no direct work with the Special Team’s duties,” he told me. “She has no final authority over them, and I fully believe she didn’t know what went on behind those closed doors. She’s a decent person who’s on the wrong side.”
Decent. That was a good word.
“Come on,” he said. “I don’t smell anyone out there, but we need to make a move.”
Together we eased forward, extending every sense we had. Yet as soon as we passed through the double doors and into the warehouse, we stopped and exchanged a worried look.
“It wasn’t locked,” I said. “They know we have to come this way. They want us to come this way.”
His expression darkened as he nodded, but he helped me get the dumpster rolling again, and we continued to the exit. At the door he tested the knob, jaw clenching as it turned easily. Unlocked. Shit. He opened the door a crack then scented and listened before pushing it open a foot wider. The van was still there, backed up to the loading dock. The garage was empty and silent, but a sharp edge seemed to vibrate the air.
“It’s too quiet,” I murmured.
“It’s that bitch’s last chance to keep us from escaping,” he growled. “This garage is a deathtrap. A sniper or two with tranq rifles could likely take us both down.” Frustration churned in his eyes as he formed and discarded plans.
I glanced back to make sure no one was sneaking up on us from behind, and something shifted in my pocket as I moved. The phone. Wouldn’t do much good to call for help. We didn’t exactly have a cavalry standing by—
Sucking in a breath, I shot a hand out to grab Pierce’s arm. “Close the door,” I said, quivering in excitement. “I have an idea.”
He complied, eyebrows lowering as I pulled the phone out. “Correction,” I said with a grin. “I have an awesome idea.” With gleeful determination I selected all the naughty pics I could find and texted the lot to Philip with an accompanying message:
I fidgeted until the phone dinged to indicate the pics all went through, then called Nicole a.k.a “CEOILF.” It connected after one ring, but no one spoke on the other end. Didn’t matter. I had puh-lenty to say.
“Nikki!” I cried. “Hang on, sweetums, I have some neat stuff to send you. I know you’re gonna want to take a look at this. Maybe you should have it blown up and framed to hang over the fireplace.” I found and sent my absolute favorite pic of the lot—a truly artistic shot that showed Nicole’s face and her naked nethers. “Turns out Pierce was a real photobug! And, wow, your hooha looks terrific, even after twins! Did you have a C-section? And, I have to know, do you do that anal bleaching stuff?”
Her sharp gasp told me the instant the photo arrived on her screen.