Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 323(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 323(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
I blink back to the present and follow Smith down a set of stairs to some kind of utility room. Smith opens a steel door built into the floor. “There’s an elevator down there. You go. I need to keep watch up here.”
Staring into the narrow passage, I’m stunned this path leads anywhere but a crawl space. If I was looking for an illogical hiding place worthy of my father’s version of deception, I’m right there now. The idea of Alana being forced down this hole guts me. I race down the stairs and waste no time stepping onto the smallest elevator I’ve ever seen, which in and of itself, would have freaked her out. Alana hasn’t tolerated small spaces since the wine cellar, and would never talk to me about it, but per all I’ve read on the topic, and I’ve read plenty, darkness feels like a small space to many people with claustrophobia.
The elevator travels at a rate I can only call a snail’s pace, and by the time it hits bottom, I swear it’s all I can do not to yank the slow-cranking door open. I step off the car, but there’s nothing except a wall to my left. I cut right and find Blake in the center of a concrete-lined room, his MacBook open and sitting on top of a stack of boxes. If the guy they captured is here, I don’t see him, and Alana is all that matters to me right now.
Blake motions to a door a few feet in front of me and says, “She’s in there, but—”
Already, I’m stepping in that direction, halting as Blake curses and yells out, “Wait,” with authority.
I grimace and whirl on him. “I do not want to wait, Blake. I’ve waited long enough.”
“I get it, man. You want to see her, but the door was booby-trapped. I’m working to confirm it was a dead wire, but I’m not ready to go in yet.”
I’m reminded of the man tied to a chair somewhere, refusing to aid our efforts. “Is the prisoner holding the code because he’s afraid it will blow?”
“I think he’s holding the code because he’s a dumbass who wants to get on my bad side. Savage is presently holding a gun to his head and laughing like some sort of crazy person, which it’s clear to all that he is, but the guy still isn’t talking.”
“What about Alana?” I press. “Is she freaking out?”
“She was freaking out when we got here. The lights were off. She was in the dark, and I had to fix that before I even tried to get her out. That’s how over-the-top freaked out she was.”
Anger is acid bubbling in my gut, ignited by my certainty that my father did this to torture her. In fact, it was likely his entire plan from the beginning. “And now?”
“She calmed down when the lights came on, and even more so when I told her you were on your way.”
Guilt rages at me, as brutal as a serial killer, stabbing me over and over. I should not have allowed her to visit her mother alone. I should have gone with her. I keep trying to protect her and failing. “The boobie trap?”
“As I said, I’m not ready to open the door. I’m being extra cautious before I open that door. Just tell her the lock is tricky. Leave the rest out.”
I nod and turn toward the door, closing the space between me and it and between me and the woman I love. “Alana!” I call out when I’m there.
“Damion! Oh my God! Damion! Get me out. Please.”
Just hearing her sweet, feminine voice is about as bittersweet as it gets. She’s alive, but she’s not without damage, and I still can’t touch her. I press my hand to the door, and I know she’s doing the same on the other side. “Not much longer, baby,” I promise, my voice gentle and sure. “Blake is just working on the code.”
“He’s a hacker. What’s taking so long? Is there a problem?”
“It just feels like a long time because you aren’t with me.”
She laughs, but it’s choked and strained. “Same ol’ Damion. Your ego really is quite big.”
“Which is why I need you to check me.” My tone roughens up, emotions stirring around gravel in my throat, and my words choked as I add, “You make me a better man, Alana. I need you.”
“I need you, too,” she whispers, and she’s silent a beat that radiates with torment before she adds, “They turned the lights out on me.”
“I know, baby. I know.” I steel myself for her to share more, to confess abuse in some horrid way, but when she doesn’t speak, I add, “I really should have kissed you that night in the wine cellar. Then you’d never be afraid of the dark again.”