Surviving The Storm. Heather Woodhaven
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else to run on a floor without furniture. Except it was in the opposite direction she wanted to go. She’d have to run toward the men instead of away.
There was no other way—take the chance or be caught. She darted to the cleaning closet, twisted the doorknob with her right hand and slipped inside. Darkness enveloped her.
Aria clenched her jaw and tightened her fists in an attempt to stop the trembling. The effort only seemed to increase the shakes. The lack of carpet left a dramatic space between the door and the floor. If she turned on her phone, the light would likely seep under the door and alert the man with the gun. Besides, if she talked to a dispatch officer they would hear.
Her mind flashed to memories of the gun... George... She put her hand over her mouth again to prevent a sob. She couldn’t afford to fall apart. Please let him be okay, Lord. I can’t lose him too, not after my dad... I just can’t go through that again.
Aria took another shuddered breath. George would want her to focus on staying safe. Who knew what atrocities those men were capable of after what she’d just witnessed? Her eyes acclimated to the low light seeping in from underneath the door.
Footsteps echoed. It almost sounded as if they were in the closet with her, which meant one of the men was likely in the room to her left, searching for her.
Aria began the painful process of a slow turn, careful with each step so as not to produce a creak in the floor joist or another wiggle of the bearings in the dusting can. A metal rod to her right held hangers full of linens. Underneath the rod were stacks of comforters. If she arranged it right and the men weren’t looking too hard...
Footsteps pounded—vibrating the entire floor like a miniature earthquake—from the right. She was surrounded and out of time.
“Hey! What are you doing?” a deep voice yelled. “Put the gun down!”
The voice sounded familiar. She bent over and peered out the space underneath the door. The steel-toe brown boots were to the right of the door, and the black wingtips were to her left. Oh, no. The foreman.
Ice-cold dread traveled up her veins. She couldn’t watch another man get shot as if his life didn’t matter.
“Sorry, buddy, you’ve seen my face.”
Shutting her eyes tight, Aria grabbed the doorknob and lunged with all of her bodyweight, flinging the closet door open as hard as she could, directly into the gunman’s body.
A thump confirmed she’d made her target. A sharp crack hurt her ears. The gunshot made contact with the ceiling. She instinctively cowered, her hands over her head. Bits of drywall dropped into her bangs. Strong hands grabbed her right arm. She flinched, but managed to look up at the man she’d just rescued. “David?”
* * *
David McGuire’s mouth dropped. Aria Zimmerman was not only in front of him, in the flesh, after two years without any contact, but she was the one who’d stopped the man from shooting him.
Unbelievable. What was she doing here, and in the closet?
He shook his head. “There’s no time,” he said, half to himself. “Come on!”
He gave her upper arm a tug, and the moment he felt her move within his grasp, he let go. She sprinted alongside him down the hall.
When the closet door hit the gunman, it sounded as if she’d hit him with the strength of a linebacker. He doubted her little form could do that much damage, but he also hoped he was wrong because they needed some time to figure out how to get off the second floor.
He headed right for the housekeeping cart. David squinted. Was there anything on the cart that could be used as a weapon? He jerked to a stop for a half a second at the cleaning cart and grabbed a jug of bleach. Now if he could only find—
“What are you doing?” Aria screeched, sliding to a stop.
He looked over his shoulder. The man was on his knees, groaning, one arm pressed over his nose. No doubt that wouldn’t last long. “Run ahead of me.” Spotting the ammonia, he grabbed it and revised his statement. “Go to the fourth room to the right.” They needed to get to the attic he had been inspecting before the sound of a gunshot had prompted him to investigate.
Instead of running down the hallway, Aria slipped into the nearest room. He smirked, sprinting just a step behind her. “Good call.” It made more sense to run through the connecting rooms. They wouldn’t be as easy to shoot at as they would in the hallway.
“What’s in the fourth room?” she asked, huffing.
“Ladder.”
She reached the destination and spun around. The ladder had fallen to the ground when he jumped off the third rung, in a hurry to see what the gunshot meant.
“It’s not tall enough to get us to the ground if we crawl out the window,” she objected. “It’s meant for indoor use.”
“I know.” He kicked the connecting door behind him shut. Aria reached over his shoulder and flipped the dead bolt.
“Set up the ladder to the attic while I rig up these chemicals.”
Aria gaped. “You want me to do what?”
David shook his head, rushing to the other door. “You heard me.”
“So did I,” a cold voice said. The gunman stood in the hallway. His weapon pointed right at David’s heart.
Aria’s shoulders drooped. Five more seconds and they would’ve had that door closed. It wasn’t as if bullets couldn’t cut through the composite engineered wood, but it would’ve given them a little more time. Of course, she would’ve chosen a more resistant white oak or poplar door, but no one had asked her opinion.
Aria’s and David’s eyes met for the first time in two years. His eyes were the deep sea-green that haunted her dreams. He blinked in acknowledgment. They both turned slowly to face the gunman standing in the doorway. As David twisted, her eyes caught sight of a shiny tool that resembled a giant safety pin. It dangled from the hip pocket of his tool belt—a spark lighter?
Her heart raced. If she could time it right...
“There’s no need for guns.” David lifted his hands, the chemical jugs hanging from his thumbs. He took a few steps toward the man.
Aria followed his lead, right by his side. She needed to stay in reach of that spark lighter. David must have mistaken her move for wanting to be close to him because he gave her a half smile, his eyes downcast as if apologetic or pitying her. She couldn’t decipher which he intended.
“That’s far enough,” the gunman barked, his voice nasal. He leaned against the left side of the doorway, one hand on the gun and the other arm covering his nose.
Aria kept her head bowed down as if she was cowering, hoping the gunman wouldn’t see her as a threat. She peeked up through her bangs.
The man squinted his cold eyes, staring hard at David. “I was going to feel bad having to kill you two, but now not so much.” The gunman dropped his arm away from his face. A bloody nose revealed the damage she’d done when she’d shoved the closet door into him.
She slipped her right hand in the front of her apron. Her index finger found the trigger button on the spray can. It was a serious possibility her plan would backfire and injure or kill them all. But if she didn’t try, she and David were looking at certain death.
The man wrapped the second hand around the butt of the gun to steady his aim.
Aria pulled out the aerosol can. She prayed it had been shaken enough from running through the rooms. “Drop the gun,” she commanded, her voice shaking. She centered her arm toward her target.
The gunman released an ugly laugh.