"Shut the hell up, or I swear I'll put a bullet in you," Murray snarled, the last trace of charm peeling away. Then, just as quickly, he grinned—eyes gleaming with something far worse. "Save your breath. You'll be screaming soon enough."
Manila fell silent, her terrified eyes wide and darting now and then toward the corner where she'd claimed to see a bug.
The air inside the store grew heavier by the second. No one cried anymore. No one slumped. Their gazes started moving again—watchful, calculated—but Murray and Narkov didn't seem to notice. Everyone still sat with their hands bound behind them, backs pressed to the wall.
Manila, who now held the scalpel, moved carefully. She was furthest from the center, exposed on the outer end of the row, and Murray hadn't taken his eyes off her since they'd arrived. And why would he? She was young, striking, curvy in all the places that made monsters forget rules. Not like Christine, who, to a predator like him, looked like a scared little girl—not his taste unless his sickness ran even deeper.
"Cough," Manila let out a soft, dry sound. Her voice barely audible.
It was a signal. The rope on her wrists was likely cut through.
But that didn't change their biggest problem. Two armed men stood five or six meters away. Even if everyone was free, they couldn't just jump up and overpower both before someone got shot. Distance was deadly.
Upstairs, footsteps thundered on the stairs as Brook's man rushed to the seventh floor. The door to the street-facing room was open. What he saw inside stopped him cold.
Three women, four men, tangled in a mess of limbs and sweat and flesh. One woman gagged, another crying while moaning under two men at once, the air thick with the stink of sex and something fouler.
"Hey! Hey, you bastards! Brook's pissed! He wants you all downstairs, now!" the young Black man barked from the door, his shotgun hanging in one hand, the other gesturing toward the hallway.
"Tell that bastard to go fuck himself!" the white man on top of the oldest woman growled, slapping her bare flesh with a wet smack. The woman let out a muffled whimper.
Laughter echoed through the room. The other men didn't even pause.
"You keep this up, Marler, he's gonna come up here and put a bullet in your skull," the young man warned. He knew the story—Marler didn't respect Brook but also didn't dare confront him directly. Brook wasn't the biggest, but he was ruthless, quick with a gun, and dangerous. Most of the crew feared him more than they feared death.
"Fine, fine! God, you nag like a wife!" Marler finally grunted, withdrawing. He untied the woman's hands from the bedposts, lifted her like a rag doll, and pushed her against the wall for one final thrust. The wall thudded, again and again, her arms flailing behind him, useless. She'd fought for days. But suddenly she stopped.
She seems gave in.
No one noticed her eyes shift to the nightstand, barely a meter away. On it—two pistols. Marler's guns.
Downstairs in the shop, Liam's eyes moved across the room, catching brief glances from his team. They had no words, just looks. The kind of silent coordination born from shared danger.
He'd planned this out in his head again and again. They needed both men close. Not one—both. Only then could they strike. But how to draw them in without making them suspicious?
And then—gunfire.
Bang!
A sharp crack split the air, followed by more bursts, including the thunder of a shotgun.
Everyone froze.
"Fuck," Liam swore under his breath. He didn't even try to hide his panic. Those shots upstairs would carry. Half a kilometer away—maybe less—an enormous horde of infected roamed. And now they'd heard dinner ring.
They had three minutes. Maybe less.
Three minutes to strike. Three minutes to free themselves. Three minutes to escape.
Brook's men hadn't figured it out yet. But Liam had. And judging by the look Robby shot him across the room, he'd figured it out too. Their eyes met—sharp, silent agreement passing between them.
"Goddamn it!" Brook's voice exploded outside as he dropped from the cab and stormed toward the store. He barked at one of his men to follow him, shouted a half-hearted "Watch them!" as he passed, and bolted for the stairs.
Now only four of them were downstairs. Two outside. Two inside.
Jason saw it. Everyone did.
"I need to piss! Can you take me? Please?" Jason stood slowly, knees wobbling like he really couldn't hold it.
"Piss in your pants," Narkov growled without even looking at him, his shotgun twitching in his grip. "Move again, I'll blow your damn head off."
"Okay, okay…" Jason mumbled, sitting down again.
Liam's thoughts were racing. Time was bleeding away. Upstairs, another gunshot. Whatever was happening there didn't matter anymore. The horde would be coming. Fast.
And they weren't ready.
He clenched his teeth. His fingers flexed behind him. He looked around once more—then stared forward, focused on nothing and everything.
They had to move.
Now.
Or they'd die right here.