“Look away,” he says, and I do, and moments later I hear the sound of shattering glass.
Fire alarms scream to life.
There’s screeching grinding, metal on metal. The whole building rumbles. Heavy steel doors begin to lower from the roof. I look at them, confused.
“Come on,” Pierce huffs, and he tugs me forward again. The doors closing from the ceiling seem like blast-doors. They’re obviously designed not just to keep everything out, but to keep everything in.
It clicks in my head. This is a chemical plant! These are security measures to prevent outside contamination. It’s containment.
“Faster!” he roars, tugging me harder. I run as fast as my feet will take me, but we’re still so far away from the big doors.
“Come on, Pen!” he yells, and I try, but I’m at the edge, and if I attempt to go faster I might just fall.
The blast doors are shutting down fast, and I will myself, force myself to run faster. I was never a quick runner, I was never good at sports, but I push, I push, fuck if I push.
“Yes!” I cry as I clear the doors ducking. Just milliseconds later, and we’d have been crushed at the hip. They slam shut hard, shaking the ground beneath my feet. The whole plant must be in lockdown. Fallon, the Russian mobsters, they’re stuck inside.
I turn to Pierce, look up at him, and that’s when I see his face is completely red. The cut on his head has opened even wider, and it’s just pouring a torrent of blood out.
“Oh no,” I groan, and I want to tell him, but he looks away, tugs me again, and we’re running again, this time toward the collection of parked cars. They’re all expensive, all completely conspicuous.
Mobsters.
“Which one?” I say, breathless.
“They wrecked my car,” Pierce growls. “Take the best one.”
Chapter Thirty Six
Mercedes… BMW… Jaguar… Maserati… it’s a tough choice.
“Come on!” Penny screams. “Who fucking cares which car we take?”
In the distance, red lights flash. No doubt they are fire engines.
“The Jag!” I say, and run to the door. I look inside. “Fuck, no keys.”
“Here!” Penny yells. “This one has keys.” She’s standing by the BMW, and I run to her, climb in. She gets in with me. I start the car, tear out onto the road.
We pass fire trucks that wail past us. They are followed by ambulances and… police cars.
“Why are the police going?” she asks.
“That was an old fight site. They must have been watching it. Fire alarms go off, they think a fight is going down and someone started a fire by accident.”
“We’re lucky they didn’t stop us.”
“Penny, are you hurt?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Check! Those bullets you fired ricocheted.”
She pats down her body, then shakes her head. “No.”
Thank fuck.
Blood is streaming into both of my eyes.
I try to blink it out, but it’s no use. “Pen,” I say. “I have to stop. Hold on.” I pull the car over, and then lift my foot up and tear a small piece of tape from my ankle. It’s still sticky as fuck; the heat from my body has melted the glue.
“Here,” I say, handing her the piece of tape. I lean forward, wishing I could see her more clearly. But she’s just a blurred, red outline.
“You want me to tape your cut?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Wipe the blood away with your sleeve, and then put the tape over the cut.”
“My sleeve is not clean. You might get an infection.”
“I need to stop the bleeding,” I say. “Hurry up.”
She nods, and moments later my forehead is burning as she wipes across the split skin.
“Oh my God,” she says, swallowing. “I think I can see your bone.”
“Tape it!’
She places the tape over the cut, and I whip my head back, lean it on the car seat. I press the tape into the cut as hard as I can with my palm, wincing.
I turn to her, and grin. “Good, because the last mile I drove I couldn’t see shit.”
“You’re pretty messed up.”
I grunt. “Figured out where we are?”
“What?” she cries, putting up her hands. “How would I know, I barely just got to Australia!”
“Alright, alright,” I say, looking around. To the right there’s cliff faces, and no doubt beyond is the sea. It’s flat blackness is unmistakable.
“So?”
“I think we’re a little past Geelong.”
“Where’s that?”
“City nearby Melbourne.”
“Is it far?”
“No,” I say. I turn to her, take her hand. There are deep scratches on her palms. “What happened?”
“I had to cut my hands to cut the zip tie.”
That’s when it happens, that’s when there’s a crack, a breach. It’s not loud, it’s not dramatic, but for a fleeting moment her face is bunched up in a perfect split, simultaneously laughing and crying.
And then it’s over, seconds later, and she’s sobbing into her hands. I grip her, pull her toward me, hold her against me, and smell her hair and kiss her head.
“Fuck you, Pierce,” she cries. “I hate you.”
“I know,” I say.
“I really do!” she says, leaning up and smacking me on my chest. “God damn it. You need a doctor. Where’s the nearest hospital, I’ll drive us there.”
“You don’t have a license here. If we get pulled over in a stolen car, then—”
“Do you have a fucking license on you?” she cries, and gestures at me. I realize I’m just wearing my shorts.
We swap sides, and as she’s about to put the car into gear I say, “No, wait. We can’t go to a hospital. They’ll report us. They have to report these kinds of things.”
“Then where?”
“Hold on.” I look around, spot the car phone, and pick it up. “Yes! We have signal.” I punch in a number, and moments later a familiar voice floods the receiver.
“Ricky,” I say. “It’s Pierce. Don’t talk, just listen. Remember that doc, the one with the big nose? Didn’t he help patch you up? Yeah? What’s his number? Don’t ask me why, just tell me. You sure? Alright, thanks. No, can’t talk about it.”
I hang up, and dial the number.
“Doc, it’s Pierce. I need your help, where can I go? Where’s that, Caroline Springs? Okay. No, it’s close. When I get there, don’t fucking call me ‘son’.”