About to lose her balance, Hilary hopped forward on one foot, moving toward her attacker, and kicked with the leg clutched in his grasp. The kicks weren’t damaging, but it was enough to get him to let go of the ankle. Hilary spun as she tumbled to the floor. Her knees cracked and her wrists ignited in pain when she landed. The glucagon was secured inside the hard plastic case.
The man groaned as he rolled onto his stomach. Hilary clambered back to her feet, ignoring the lingering pain in her wrists and knees, and took off running.
She sped down the hall, fear giving her wings. If El Cortador caught her, he’d climb on top of her. Pin down her arms and legs. Place his grotesque hands over her throat or, more likely, the blade of some knife. He was The Cutter, after all. And then he’d hike up her skirt. In his humiliation and rage, he would take from her something she could never get back.
At the end of the hallway, Hilary gave a quick look before she turned the corner. El Cortador had gotten to his feet and lumbered toward her. He brandished in one hand a meaty knife, big enough to carve a pumpkin. But he was too far back, and it would be impossible to catch her before she reached the stairs. The steps seemed to go on forever.
Breathless when she reached the top landing, Hilary spilled out of the stairwell and tumbled awkwardly into the upstairs corridor. Ahead of her were the double doors to the outside, but those were guarded by one of Fausto’s men, the thin man Andy had called Whippet. He was outside, standing on the steps that overlooked The Quad, but Hilary could see him through the tall picture windows on either side of the door. His attention was elsewhere, scanning the wide expanse of lawn-looking for her, perhaps-and Hilary thought she could get to the auditorium without being noticed.
She crossed the hall and pressed her body against the wall, getting as flat as she could, and began to inch her way to the door.
From the stairwell, she heard a loud bang. A door had slammed shut from below. El Cortador was coming for her. It would have to be a footrace. Who could reach the auditorium first?
Hilary bounded off the wall and began her sprint. As she did, Whippet must have sensed movement inside the school and turned in time to see Hilary making a dash for it. Behind her, the door to the stairwell flew open, and Hilary caught sight of El Cortador as he stumbled out into the hallway. He staggered toward her, dazed and slightly off balance.
The real race was between Whippet and Hilary. Whippet reentered the building and started his charge. It’s fifty-fifty, at best, Hilary thought. Whereas El Cortador moved like a tranquilized rhinoceros, the other one came at her like the wind. She could see the whites of Whippet’s eyes. He never raised his gun, maybe because he had orders not to kill.
Hilary got to the auditorium door a few steps ahead of Whippet. She pushed on the door, but it wouldn’t budge. From somewhere down the hall, El Cortador bellowed, “¡Voy a matar a esa maldita puta!” He was closing in fast.
In her panic, Hilary pushed again. Still, nothing. Whippet was close enough to reach out and grab her. A voice inside Hilary’s head screamed, “Pull, not push!” This time, Hilary gave the door a hard yank and she threw herself inside.
Andy was slumped over in his chair. Is he breathing? Whippet came at her from behind, screaming something she couldn’t understand. He grabbed her by the shoulders and tossed her to the floor. Hilary’s feet left the air as if an invisible rug had been yanked from under her and she landed on her backside.
The auditorium door opened and El Cortador staggered in, grunting. He charged at Hilary. Hilary could hear others shouting as they, too, entered the auditorium. It sounded as if Fausto had sent everyone to look for her.
Whippet’s arm wrapped around Hilary’s throat, and he began to squeeze. She had gotten on her knees, basically kneeling in front of Andy, who was dying as well. Hilary gasped for air as her throat closed. She clawed at Whippet’s arm, to no avail. His grip around her neck only tightened. Hilary felt as though her eyes were going to pop out of the sockets from all the pressure building up.
The faces of her family popped into Hilary’s head-Mom, Dad, her sisters-right before her world went black. But somewhere on a vast, endless horizon, Hilary heard a scream, more like a war cry. In the very next moment, the breath returned to her, the pressure fell from her eyes, and air flooded her lungs. Hilary fell to the floor, gasping, rubbing at her throat. Whippet spun around in erratic circles. It took a moment for Hilary to understand what had happened.
Pixie had climbed on Whippet’s back and held on with one arm secured around the man’s neck. Pixie bit at Whippet’s head and neck like a blood-starved vampire, while using his free hand to claw at the man’s face. El Cortador rushed over to help, when a loud, piercing whistle that came from the stage told him to stop. Standing center stage, Fausto bellowed with laughter as he watched Pixie and Whippet do battle.
Despite the pain and burning in her throat, Hilary took advantage of the tumult to crawl over to Andy. She fished out the glucagon kit from her pocket. From the stage, Fausto yelled, “The little one is kicking your ass, Inigo.” He unleashed another roll of laughter.
Andy looked as sick as could be: pale, listless, drenched in sweat, his whole body shaking. Blocking out the noises in the room, Fausto’s hoots, Pixie’s war cries, Whippet’s rage, Hilary glanced at the instructions adhered to the inside cover of the emergency kit. Put the needle into the vial. Give it a shake. Fill the plunger. Stick into exposed flesh. Hilary’s hands trembled as she filled the syringe with glucagon.
Then she pushed the needle into Andy’s upper arm and depressed the plunger. She held the syringe in place and counted to ten. Only then did Hilary check her surroundings, fearful that El Cortador might come for her, or Whippet, or one of the others. Nobody was moving. Everyone’s eyes were on Whippet and Pixie. From the stage, Fausto shouted insults in Spanish. He laughed and whistled with delight, more animated than Hilary had ever seen.
Pixie grunted as he gouged Whippet’s face with his clawed hand. Whippet spun and twirled like a rodeo bull, but could not dislodge the boy, who continued to hold on with one arm wrapped around Whippet’s throat.
Hilary did not know how long it would take for the medicine to kick in or if it would.
Three loud bangs cut short Hilary’s thoughts. The air reeked of gunpowder. Fausto held his pistol above his head. Whippet stopped swirling and Pixie leapt off the man’s back. El Cortador turned to face Fausto. The auditorium fell into a heavy silence.
Hilary sat down beside Andy, put her arm around him, and pulled him close. David and Rafa, both battered and bruised, huddled on the stage floor next to Solomon. Those three were flanked by Armando and Efren. Three other armed men were on the stage standing behind Fausto and his smoking gun.
Eight cartel men.
Six kids.
Fausto said, “Everyone, get back in your seats, right now! I want the kids in the front row. The games, this fun, it is all over. I am going to tell you now why nobody is coming to your rescue. And why you are all about to die.”
CHAPTER 37
Jake couldn’t think, couldn’t move. Hidden below the stage, he listened, in agony, and tried to visualize what might be happening inside the auditorium. Andy was slipping into a diabetic coma. His son was dying. Pixie’s words replayed over and over in Jake’s mind.
“Wake up, Andy! Wake up!”
Jake felt utterly helpless, paralyzed by his choices. He had the glucagon. Conceivably, he could spring up through the trapdoor in the stage like some jack-in-the-box, guns blazing, and maybe get some of the hostage takers, or maybe not. More likely, they would kill some of the kids, or all, and then kill Jake, and then it would be over.