She Has A Broken Thing Where Her Heart Should Be - J.D. Barker Page 0,113

followed his head as he quickly took in his surroundings—a sitting room on his right and a library on his left, both empty.

A vase on the table above him shattered, following the report of another gunshot.

Preacher broke from the table, ran down the central corridor, then rounded the corner for the hallway on the left, which would lead him to the central basement access. He encountered two more guards in white and dispatched both with the shotgun. The second managed to get a shot off from his .45, but it missed Preacher and landed at the center of a painting hanging in the hallway. At the end of this corridor, Preacher made another quick left and came upon the stairs leading to the basement. Three more guards were on their way up. Four quick shots from the Sig sent them scrambling back down for cover.

Reaching into his coat pocket, Preacher pulled one of the grenades, released the spoon, and tossed it down the stairs.

The explosion rumbled deep in the belly of the house, a loud whop! vibrating up the stone foundation, shaking the floor and walls.

Without taking the time to aim, he fired the shotgun toward the top of the staircase, then raced up the steps behind the blast, unloading the remaining bullets from the Sig in the general direction the shots had originated. The wall above chipped and splintered. Chunks of drywall and wood wainscoting blew out to the side. When the gun was empty, he dropped it, raised the shotgun as he reached the top and rounded the corner, and fired two quick blasts, the bright muzzle flash illuminating the hallway. The first left a large hole in the wall, the second left a large hole in the man who had been standing there.

At the top of the stairs, Preacher froze. He closed his eyes. He listened.

From the blueprints, he knew seven bedrooms and five bathrooms occupied the second floor. There was an attic space above running the full length of the house.

Eyes still closed, he reloaded the shotgun.

He needed the third bedroom on the left.

He opened his eyes and started down the hallway, shotgun at the ready.

He expected at least three other guards on this level, but none appeared.

He expected the bedroom door to be locked.

The door wasn’t locked.

Preacher stepped into the room.

He leveled the shotgun at the bedroom’s only occupant.

The girl, grown up now, sat calmly in a chair at the window looking out over the expansive backyard. Without turning to him, she simply said, “There are more coming. You’ll never get out of here.”

He watched as she stripped off her long, black gloves, carefully folding the elegant material and setting them aside on a table.

Smoke drifted up from downstairs.

He heard shouting.

More coming.

23

“What the fuck, Thatch!” Willy shouted as I pushed past him through the door.

Water pooled on the floor behind me, puddled on the worn hardwood. I went to the window, turned, paced back toward the door, turned, back toward the window.

“Jack! Stop!” Willy tried to grab me as I passed him for the third time, but I shrugged his hand off my shoulder.

I barely heard him over the drumming in my ears, the blood swooshing through my veins.

“What the hell happened?”

I tried to talk.

I tried to tell him.

Instead, I just tugged Stella’s letter from my pocket, dropped it on the table, then went to my room, slamming the door behind me.

If he hadn’t taken the bottle of Captain Morgan spiced rum from my dresser, I surely would have drunk it all.

I hated him for finding that bottle.

Log 08/09/1993—

Subject “D” within expected parameters.

Audio/video recording.

“What are all those folders?” Carl said.

“Folders?”

“On the kid’s table.”

Warren shrugged. “Dunno. The doc has been bringing them in all day. She’s probably prepping him for another phone call.”

“They’ve never given him intel before.”

“Times change.”

“Has anyone from corporate been here today?”

“Why do you care?”

“If they’re prepping him for another call, someone from corporate would be overseeing it.”

“Not necessarily.”

“They always do.”

“Times change.”

“You seem awfully relaxed,” Carl pointed out.

“You seem awfully stressed.”

“I don’t like change.”

“Clearly.”

“Maybe we should call somebody.”

“I’m not calling anyone,” Warren replied.

Carl reached over and pressed the microphone button. “Hey, Shitface, what are you reading?”

At his words, Subject “D” looked up from the other side of the observation window. His lips moved. Thirty seconds later, the image of Subject “D” looked up on the video monitor, and his reply came through the speakers. “Come on in and find out, Carl. It’s fascinating stuff. A history of sorts. I’d love to discuss it