Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 52447 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52447 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Chapter Thirty-Nine
I enter the foyer of the house with the comfort of my firearm in my hand, scanning all that is visual to find nothing out of sorts, but I can feel evil in the air. I breathe it in like ashes from a fire suffocating my lungs. Whoever this monster is, I am not like him. I am a killer of evil. He is evil.
Stepping left, I eye the dining room area, which is clear. I do a search of the galley kitchen and it too is clear. I return to the foyer where I scan up the stairs, and down a hallway, and when it’s all clear I step under the arch. I have about two seconds to register Cathy tied to a chair, unconscious, before someone slams into me from behind. I fly forward and my damn gun is knocked out of my hand.
Adrenaline surges and the fight and survival mode owns me and my enemy now.
I rotate and push to my feet at the same time, reach for my knife and it’s in my hand when I stand to find the freak in the fucking mask. And no, he’s not tall, not above six feet, at least. He’s maybe five-ten at best. He’s also holding a big-ass hunting knife that makes mine look like a paring blade. The kind of knife hunters use to gut their prey. I’ll happily take that bitch from him.
He laughs with some electronic gadget distorting his voice and then says, “Lilah,” in the same creepy stupid mechanical voice.
“Why don’t you come a little closer and say that?” I urge, motioning him toward me.
And then fuck, he charges at me with that hunting knife, and he means to gut me. I’m a badass, but he’s bigger and faster and I have a damn couch at my back. I back up and go sideways, but he moves with me. I’m going to have to use Miguel for inspiration and put this damn knife in his crotch but I doubt I could do it without damage. I set my feet, ready to act when a loud male scream comes from my left and the freak’s right. He turns for it, and suddenly there’s a body in front of mine, and that hunting knife goes in that body.
It takes me a moment to realize it’s Jack. Jack is not the killer. Jack just took that blade for me. Shit. The blade is still inside Jack and the killer can’t get it out. I have a second to hunt for my firearm before I say fuck it, and just use the knife. Now, Roger is my inspiration. That fucker shoved a knife in Kane’s shoulder, and locked him down, by locking down the muscle. I’ve studied that move because I’ve studied Roger, and all the ways I missed what he was.
I slam the knife into the killer's shoulder with every ounce of force I have in me, adrenaline pumping with the force of a freight train. The killer howls and my knee slams into his groin. He goes down on his knees and then falls to his back. Instinct has me now and I want him dead. I want to know that he’ll never kill again. I straddle him and pull the blade from my boot and I shove it into his upper chest, while he grunts, and grabs me with the arm that still works.
“Bitch.”
I shove the knife into the opposite shoulder in that paralyzing muscle move. I grab yet another blade—yes, I came armed—and it’s about to go in his chest, but I’m somehow aware of Jack behind me, aware that Kit is now standing over me. Aware this is not the right decision, though Kit would never say otherwise. But Jack would know. Jack would know the killer was here. And once again, a killer would just disappear after I got involved.
The killer is paralyzed and I drop the knife in my hand and yank the mask off the asshole. It’s Ted, the waiter, that makes that perfect whipped cream that I will never have again.
“Bitch,” he growls again trying to move but he can’t. Roger knew what he was doing. Roger knew how to paralyze a grown man. I punch Ted in the mouth as hard as I can, to the point that I will probably find out I broke my hand later when the adrenaline runs out, but it will be worth it.
I pull my cuffs—yes, I carry those stupid twisty tie ones—and I toss them to Kit. “Cuff him and call 911. We need two ambulances.” I push off Ted and since Jack is moaning and obviously alive, I go to Cathy, check her pulse, and determine she’s stable.
Only then do I kneel next to Jack, who is awake but in obvious pain. Sirens sound and Jack says, “I sent a text to Rollins,” he groans. “I was here when Scream got here. I hid. I hid and—” He looks down. “Oh fuck. The knife—it’s in me. Take it—out! Take it out!”