Page 88 of Lock ’N’ Load

Matt. Even though dogs were his first love, she didn’t doubt he’d either keep Poofy at his place or find him a good home. That was one regret she didn’t have. The other was that she’d fallen in love with Matt and told him how she felt. Given her dire circumstances, that one thought gave her some measure of comfort.

Trista choked down another sob. She loved him too much to spend one more night under the same roof with him, but right now, she was sorely regretting that decision. He’d been right. Matt might not be capable of loving her, but he’d always kept her safe. Now it was up to her to save her own ass.

She missed what the sign on the edge of the road said, but as soon as they’d passed it, the car slowed and turned onto another road. The vehicle lurched as it traversed the rutted pavement. In the glow of the headlights, she glimpsed an enormous wrought iron gate. They stopped in front, and the doors’ locks clicked open. Thug Two got out of the car.

This is it. Her only possible chance of escape. Glancing sideways at Lukashin, she saw his attention was focused forward on his man now struggling to open the gate. Her heart raced as she clasped the metal door handle, cranked it open, then jumped from the car and took off running toward the trees.

Shouts came from behind her. She’d never been much for working out, preferring to spend her time sitting in front of a computer screen, but she’d never run faster in her life.

Tree limbs smacked her in the face and arms, and she nearly stumbled over the uneven terrain. It was pitch black, with no moon to light her way. Her heart pounded, and her breath came in quick gasps.

As she ran, she held her arms in front of her face to bat away the constant assault from all the low-hanging foliage. She tripped and fell to her hands and knees. Get up! Go, go, go!

A second later, she was on her feet, pounding through the trees. She had no idea where she was going, and it didn’t matter. Behind her was death. In front of her was her only possible avenue of escape.

She slammed into something solid—something that spun her, jerking her off her feet. She screamed, twisting in his arms, clawing at his face, but it was no good. One of the thugs had her solidly in a bear hug.

He threw her over his shoulder and began walking. She pounded on his back with her fists, but he ignored her. Blood rushed to her head, and she nearly passed out. Suddenly, she was exhausted and let her arms dangle uselessly. She wanted to cry but couldn’t.

What good would it do?

A few minutes later, she was thrown onto the back seat of the car like a sack of potatoes. The door slammed shut behind her, and she cowered against the side, pulling her legs up to rest her head on her knees.

“I admire your tenacity, but it is a waste of time and energy.” The car rolled through the open gates. “There is no escaping what’s coming next.”

“And what exactly is that?” Although the interior of the car was dark, she looked in the direction of his voice, noting that his accent was still there, though not as thick as that of his thugs, and his English was impeccable, no doubt from living in the U.S. for so long.

“You and I need to have a little chat.” The sound of wrinkling plastic came to her ears. “Peppermint?”

She sensed he was holding something in front of her face, but she ignored it. The scent of mint filled the car’s interior as they continued along the darkened road.

The car’s headlights illuminated the unkempt grass and weeds. They continued on for at least another mile before the first building came into view, a large three-story stucco structure with at least thirty windows on the side facing the road.

They passed building after building, similar to the first one. After forty such structures, she lost count.

Finally, Thug One drove up to one of the buildings, continuing to the side, where he jumped the curb, then pulled around back and parked on the grass. The walls of the structure were completely covered with meandering vines. Wherever they were, she guessed the place had been abandoned for years.

This is not good. Even if I scream, no one will hear me. I am in deep shit. Funny how after a lifetime of not cursing, that word was now her go-to fave.

The engine turned off, and she was hauled outside and through a rusty door. Thug Two turned on a flashlight, illuminating a long corridor with tall, multipaned arched windows covered with dust, grime, and cobwebs. The floor was covered with dingy brown-and-black checkerboard tile and littered with debris and green paint chips from the peeling walls. A damp, musty smell permeated the building, probably from the occasional fuzzy gray patches of mold on the walls.

They passed door after door, each one dark brown and with a single square viewing window. On one of the walls, someone had hand-painted a mural of an American flag with the words One Flag, One Country.

As they propelled her farther down the hallway, she glanced up and around, searching for something—anything—that could help her out of this mess. An open door. A discarded knife. But there was nothing. Nothing but paint chips, an occasional ratty leather shoe, and a filthy stuffed animal.

“Where are we?” Not that it mattered. Wherever it was, they were in the middle of nowhere.

“This is an old psychiatric facility,” Lukashin said. “One of the largest in the country. It was built in the 1920s. There are over six hundred acres and nearly a hundred buildings with nine thousand beds. It was built during a time when mental patients were considered outcasts, separated from society. Hence the remote location. Out of sight, out of mind.”

As they walked, the glow from the flashlight partially illuminated some of the rooms they passed. In one of them, she glimpsed old mattresses piled high.

“The surrounding community experienced an exceedingly high murder rate, a statistic attributed to occasional escapees. Anyone recaptured was…rehabilitated.” He chuckled, a creepy sound that sent fear up her spine. “This facility was at the forefront of shock therapy, lobotomy, and research into many varieties of antipsychotic drugs.”

Speaking of psychotic…

At the end of the hallway, they guided her into a room and flipped on an overhead fluorescent light that flickered and buzzed. At one end of the large space were six chairs in a row that looked like they belonged in a dentist’s office…except for the leather straps attached to the arms, legs, and padded headrests. Beside one of them stood a rusty metal tray on wheels. At the sight of what was on the tray, her blood ran cold.

Syringes. Lots of them.