Within These Walls

Chapter 8

It's amazing how bad situations can bring out the worst in people. Unless this is who she really is, someone so heartless she'd take the chance that a kid will die for a pair of pants.

Not my problem either way. I leave her there to defend her belongings and head to the last room, nearly colliding with Carson as he walks out.

"Got it," he says, holding up a bundle.

We return to the doorway and place everything on the floor. Then we tie the legs of the sweatpants together until they resemble a long, lumpy length of rope.

"What's going on here?" Alec asks as he comes up behind us.

"Rescue mission," Carson replies. "You got any spare sweatpants? Don't think these will be long enough."

"Be right back." Alec disappears.

I glance over my shoulder at Marcus. He stands over me, one shoulder against the wall. When he sees my frown, he laughs. "You're taking this way too seriously. He can make it on his own if he tries instead of just giving up. You're enabling him."

"And you're a jerk." I can't help myself. He's too annoying to ignore.

"Come on, Rose. That the best you can do? I'm sure your overachieving brain can come up with a better insult."

A flush creeps across my face. Next to me, Carson shakes his head. I get what he's saying. Stop reacting to Marcus. Ignore him. But it's not that easy. He has a way of getting under my skin, bringing out my outrage—an impotent emotion I've learned to bury around Sam.

Alec returns and squats down next to us. "Will these do?"

I take the sweatpants from him. "I think so. Thanks."

"That's right, Moneybags," Marcus drawls. "Keep it up and it won't be long before you get into her pants."

"Don't," I say before Alec responds. "Just let it go. Please."

Alec squares his shoulders. When the makeshift rope is ready, he says, "Let me do it. My dad owns a ranch near Fort Mill. I've had some practice with the lasso."

Behind us, Marcus snorts.

"I've had a lot of practice shooting at things, too," he adds, giving Marcus a shark grin. "I can hit a target dummy right between the eyeballs."

"Let's see you do that with a moving target."

"You're not actually encouraging me to kill someone, are you, Fargo?" Alec grabs one end of the rope in his left hand and lets about two feet dangle from the other. Instead of spinning it, he begins to swing the loose end back and forth. He's gauging the distance. Then he takes a step forward and heaves it toward Baxter.

It lands just a foot shy of his mark. "Let's try that again," he says as he pulls the length back through the doorway.

A couple of attempts later, it gets close to Baxter.

"Baxter!" Alec calls. "Grab the rope. We're going to pull you in."

Baxter lifts his head. There's a tight grimace on his face. His fingers inch forward and grasp the rope. He strains and reaches out with his other hand. "Ready," he gasps.

"Good boy," Alec says, his voice light even though Baxter's bracelet is beeping again.

"You need help?" I ask, hovering near him. Ten seconds.

He shakes his head as he braces his weight on his back leg and starts to pull. "I'm good. You're the one coming up with the plans. Least I can do is the heavy lifting."

"Thanks." I'm grateful to him for being so considerate. Not to me—that part still makes me uneasy. But to Baxter. He could've chosen to go Marcus's and Camille's route, but he's not and that speaks volumes about the kind of person he is.

Baxter makes a frustrated sound. "I—I can't hold on."

"You have to try," I say, leaning out as far as I can. "I know it's hard, but put everything you have into it. You can do it, Baxter."

He lifts his head and grits his teeth, pushing through the pain. I hold my breath and urge him on silently. Inch by inch, Alec begins to pull him toward us. It's not enough. His bracelet zaps him again. The rope slips out of his hands, throwing Alec backward.

"It's okay," I say quickly. "We can try again. Toss him the rope, Alec."

Alec doesn't move. He's frozen in place, staring at something just out of my sight. I peer around the doorway and see the three men come up the stairs. They're dressed in black uniforms. They have on black gloves and thick leather boots, and their faces are masked.

I back up a step. They're not here to save us. Everything about them makes that clear. The others have also spotted them. Murmurs sweep over the floor, followed by shouting.

"Get us out of here! Please!"

"Who are you?"

"What do you want from us?"

The three men don't acknowledge us. They head toward Baxter and the other two, their movements swift and purposeful. They bend down and flip the teenagers onto their backs. Then they grab Baxter and the others by the ankles and drag them away.