I back up several steps and retrace the line.
I have to do this 3 times before I realize they must’ve taken him inside. There’s an old steel structure with an older rusted door that looks like it’s never been opened. It looks like it hasn’t been used in years. I don’t see any other options.
I wiggle the handle. It’s locked.
I shift my entire weight into breaking it open, slamming it open, but I’ve only managed to bruise my body. I could shoot it down like I’ve seen Adam do, but I’m not certain of my aim nor my skill with this gun, and I’m not sure I can afford the noise. I can’t make my presence known.
There has to be another way into this building.
There is no other way into this building.
My frustration is escalating. My desperation is crippling. My hysteria is threatening to break me and I want to scream until my lungs collapse. Adam is in this building. He has to be in this building.
I’m standing right outside this building and I can’t get inside.
This can’t be happening.
I clench my fists, try to beat back the maddening futility enveloping me in its embrace but I feel crazed. Wild. Insane. The adrenaline is slipping away, my focus is slipping away, the sun is setting on the horizon and I remember James and Kenji and Adam Adam Adam and Warner’s hands on my body and his lips on my mouth and his tongue tasting my neck and all the blood
everywhere
everywhere
everywhere
and I do something stupid.
I punch the door.
In one instant my mind catches up to my muscle and I brace myself for the impact of steel on skin, ready to feel the agony of shattering every bone in my right arm. But my fist flies through 12 inches of steel like it’s made of butter. I’m stunned. I harness the same volatile energy and kick my foot through the door. I use my hands to rip the steel to shreds, clawing my way through the metal like a wild animal.
It’s incredible. Exhilarating. Completely feral.
This must be how I broke through the concrete in Warner’s torture chamber. Which means I still have no idea how I broke through the concrete in Warner’s torture chamber.
I climb through the hole I’ve created and slip into the shadows. It’s not hard. The entire place is cloaked in darkness. There are no lights, no sounds of machines or electricity. Just another abandoned warehouse left to the elements.
I check the floors but there’s no sign of blood. My heart soars and plummets at the same time. I need him to be okay. I need him to be alive. Adam is not dead. He can’t be.
Adam promised James he’d come back for him.
He’d never break that promise.
I move slowly at first, wary, worried that there might be soldiers around, but it doesn’t take long for me to realize there’s no sound of life in this building. I decide to run.
I tuck caution in my pocket and hope I can reach for it if I need to. I’m flying through doors, spinning around turns, drinking in every detail. This building wasn’t just a warehouse. It was a factory.
Old machines clutter the walls, conveyor belts are frozen in place, thousands of boxes of inventory stacked precariously in tall heaps. I hear a small breath, a stifled cough.
I’m bolting through a set of swinging double doors, searching out the feeble sound, fighting to focus on the tiniest details. I strain my ears and hear it again.
Heavy, labored breathing.
The closer I get, the more clearly I can hear him. It has to be him. My gun is up and aimed to fire, my eyes careful now, anticipating attackers. My legs move swiftly, easily, silently. I nearly shoot a shadow the boxes have cast on the floor. I take a steadying breath. Round another corner.
And nearly collapse.
Adam is hanging from bound wrists, shirtless, bloodied and bruised everywhere. His head is bent, his neck limp, his left leg drenched in blood despite the tourniquet wrapped around his thigh. I don’t know how long the weight of his entire body has been hanging from his wrists. I’m surprised he hasn’t dislocated his shoulders. He must still be fighting to hold on.
The rope wrapped around his wrists is attached to some kind of metal rod running across the ceiling. I look more closely and realize the rod is a part of a conveyor belt. That Adam is on a conveyor belt.
That this isn’t just a factory.
It’s a slaughterhouse.
I’m too poor to afford the luxury of hysteria right now.
I need to find a way to get him down, but I’m afraid to approach. My eyes search the space, certain that there are guards around here somewhere, soldiers prepared for this kind of ambush. But then it occurs to me that perhaps I was never really considered a threat. Not if Warner managed to drag me away.
No one would expect to find me here.
I climb onto the conveyor belt and Adam tries to lift his head. I have to be careful not to look too closely at his wounds, not to let my imagination cripple me. Not here. Not now.
“Adam . . . ?”
His head snaps up with a sudden burst of energy. His eyes find me. His face is almost unscathed; there are only minor cuts and bruises to account for. Focusing on the familiar gives me a modicum of calm.
“Juliette—?”
“I need to cut you down—”
“Jesus, Juliette—how did you find me?” He coughs. Wheezes. Takes a tight breath.
“Later.” I reach up to touch his face. “I’ll tell you everything later. First, I need to find a knife.”
“My pants—”
“What?”