That time, the guard didn't really heed the warning about my head, knocking it into the floor before tossing me back downstairs.
I took my shot when I thought I had one. But it wasn't looking like I would get away on my own unless the guys upstairs got complacent.
So I made do.
We were on day twelve when I had a thought I hadn't entertained before.
Maybe she wasn't looking for me.
My gut twisted tight enough for me to need to fold up off the floor, get up, pace for a few moments.
No.
No, that wasn't even a possibility.
She would look for me.
Hell, she needed me
For her mission.
If nothing else.
Still, I couldn't shake the uneasy feeling as the day went on, so much so that I felt sick at the idea of food when it finally showed up.
I left it on the stairs, going over to my bed area, sliding down the wall, unable to find a single positive thought to lift my clinging mood.
I was rubbing the heels of my hands against my dry eyes when I heard something out of the very ordinary sounds I had come to expect in the evenings--the TV playing some sports game followed by either a show with a lot of fucking, or some straight-up porn, footsteps to and from the kitchen and john, the occasional sneak outside for a smoke.
No.
This was different.
This was the crunching of feet on the stones that lined the sides of the house all along the front and sides. And not just one set of feet.
At least three.
At this point, there were really only two possible explanations, weren't there?
The cops, coming to arrest all of us for counterfeiting cash. A cool twenty years behind bars for each of us.
Or, and I was holding out hope for this, Chris had found the money, had seen the zip code, had tracked me down.
I sat there with bated breath, listening harder than a kid expecting Santa on Christmas Eve.
No battering ram to the door.
No police calling out their presence.
A quiet click in the back where the kitchen was.
Careful footsteps that were likely silent on that floor, but creaked on the ceiling above me.
Then the unmistakable 'pew' sound of guns with silencers.
Two.
Five.
Ten shots.
Then nothing.
A shuffling of feet.
Then, finally, the slide of the lock on the door to the basement.
I sucked in a slow, deep breath, finding my pulse skittering as I waited, as I listened for the slow descent of feet on the stairs.
It wasn't until it was too late, that I realized the slow movements had nothing to do with being worried about other guards.
But because Chris had once been in a basement.
Because this was likely really hard for her.
Because maybe she hadn't ever been back in a basement again, seeing as she lived in a maze of shipping containers, and rarely ever left.
"Heya, princess," I called, voice lighter than I felt. "I knew you would come save me," I added, making her head snap in my direction, seeing through me for a long moment before she pulled herself out of her past. "You look hot in break-in gear, did I ever tell you that?"
Her lips twitched at that, tucking her gun away. "You have, actually."
"Well, good. Because it's true. How you been, dollface?" I asked as she took another couple steps closer, coming under the Edison bulb that made everyone but her look like complete crap.
"Worried," she admitted, looking down at me.
"About little ol' me?" I asked, shooting her a smirk that made the split in my lip ache.
"Yes," she said, squatting down in front of me, her hand reaching outward, snagging my chin, and turning it side to side, inspecting me. "Couldn't keep your mouth shut, could you?"
"Well, you know me," I said, watching as her blue eyes went bright. "You found my clue."
"You're lucky I can't sleep until I figure a puzzle out."
"I'm lucky you'd even give a shit enough about me to look for me."
"Um, if we're done with all the mushy shit," Ferryn's voice broke in from the stairs. "We have to get out of here before anyone finds out we were here."
"Probably smart," I agreed. "Did you bring the giant with you? I am going to need help getting the printer out of here."
"How did they even get it in the basement?" Chris asked, turning to look at it.
"Pieces of wood in the garage," I told them, getting to my feet. Ferryn rushed off to tell the guys, leaving us alone for a short minute. "Hey," I called, getting Chris's attention. "You okay?" I asked.
"I'm pretty sure that's my line," she shot back.
"You know me, I'm always fine, doll."
"I'm okay. But we need to get moving. You guys need to get the press and all the other things upstairs. Ferryn and I are going to bleach this place. I need to know everything you've touched since you've been here."
This was Boss Lady Chris.
Soft and sweet Chris was taking a back seat.
I wanted her back, but I could wait.
She was right; we had to make sure shit didn't come back to me. My prints were everywhere. Including in the system. Eventually, cops would come by. They'd powder the surfaces. Run the prints. And then I would get brought in for triple homicide.
So from there, things went into overdrive.
Equipment was hauled out.
Every surface I had been near was wiped, and a few more for good measure.
"What about the car?" I asked, meaning the one parked at the side of the house.
"Ewan took it to the car wash yesterday. Got it vacuumed out and everything. We should be fine, "Chris told me in a whisper as we made our way to the cars.
"We're going to head back," Ferryn told us as we walked up. "Don't want to be caught down here with all this illegal shit," she added, shrugging.
"I'll hitch a ride back with them," Malcolm added after a long look at Chris and then me.
"We have to return the rental and book a flight," Chris told me. "We will be back sometime before tomorrow afternoon."
"Yep. Have fun," Ferryn called before closing herself into the front seat beside Vance, who had the car running.
For a long moment, Malcolm held my gaze, saying a thousand words in a single look, before climbing into the SUV and closing the door.
"That was weird. Even for him," Chris decided, shaking her head at the car pulling away.
"He was telling me I better not hurt you, dollface," I told her.
"That's ridiculous," she decided, rolling her eyes, then going around the car to the driver's seat.
"Your people love you. That's not ridiculous. So, what kind of fancy-ass place you got booked for us?
I didn't understand her dubious look until we pulled up to the old motel, until we climbed out, until we walked down the hall with its shabby carpet and peeling wallpaper.
"This kinda joint doesn't have a presidential suite, huh?" I asked, moving into her room.
"They don't even have extra towels," she told me, grimacing.
"Where's your canned air? And pillows? Spare sheets?"
"Honestly," she said, dropping down on the corner of the bed, "I forgot about all of that. I was a little obsessed with tracking down this guy I know."