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stainless-steel prep table that spanned the center of the kitchen, he shoved her down onto the floor and tied her securely to one of its legs. He reached down to cup between her legs. She pushed her thighs together. Laughing, he kneed her legs apart and pushed harder. “I can do anything I want to you. There ain’t nothing you can do about it.”
    Amanda recoiled as pain radiated through her center.
    He straightened and rubbed his own crotch. “Soon, baby. Soon.”
    Amanda took a few deep breaths to settle her stomach and slow her runaway heart. The table weighed a ton. Amanda wasn’t going to be able to budge it. She began to twist the twine. It was a natural fiber. She might be able to stretch it a little. She moved her hands, shifting the position of her wrists to apply tension on the string, but it refused to yield.
    Carl surveyed the room and nodded, seemingly satisfied that everything was under control. He set his shotgun down and picked up his coffee. With a grimace, he dumped the contents into the sink and poured fresh. Satisfaction crossed his face as he sipped the steaming liquid.
    “What about Grandpa?” Win asked, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.
    Carl chuckled. “I don’t think he’s much of a threat now, but you have a point.”
    Amanda tracked his line of sight to Glenn, his body curled in a fetal position on the floor a few feet away. Open-eyed, he lay still, his body stiff as if afraid—or unable—to move. Air wheezed in and out of his mouth in hollow, shallow breaths. How badly was he injured? Broken ribs? Internal injuries?
    Carl grabbed the twine and tied Glenn’s wrists and ankles. Glenn groaned as the gunman forced his body into position. Carl went back to his coffee.
    The room went silent, except for Glenn’s rough breathing and an occasional soft sob from the redhead. Amanda squinted at the gunshot man, trying to assess his rate of bleeding, but her vision kept tunneling, darkness encroaching from all sides. Not a good sign.
    She tallied the score. Four gunmen, zero injuries. Four, no, five hostages. She kept forgetting the black-haired clerk, paralyzed with shock in the corner of the room.
    Anyway, of the five prisoners, they now sported one gunshot wound, likely broken ribs, and a probable concussion. Of the two physically sound hostages, the clerk was too traumatized to be of much use, and the redhead was busy trying to keep her husband from bleeding to death. It didn’t look like she was having much luck. The stack of bloody dishtowels was growing into a Jenga tower.
    Carl set down his mug and lifted a towel off a basket of fresh scones. “Want some?”
    “Sure, but where the fuck is Uncle Dennis?” Win caught the pastry Carl tossed to him. The back door opened, but it wasn’t Dennis, the man who’d gone after Mia. It was the fourth man who’d been outside checking the grounds.
    His bald head gleamed with moisture. “What’s going on?”
    “Where’ve you been, Lincoln?” Carl asked.
    Lincoln grabbed a scone from the basket. “Checking the outbuildings.”
    “The kid got away. Dennis went after her,” Win said. “He should be back any minute.”
    “How long’s he been gone? I know he’s out of shape, but how long can it take to catch a little kid?” Carl stopped midchew and stared at Amanda. “And where is her husband?”
    “Shit. With all the commotion, I forgot about him,” Win said.
    Carl washed his mouthful down with a swig of coffee. “You searched his room, right?”
    “Yeah, no sign of him.” Win broke off a chunk of biscuit.
    “When Dennis gets back here with the kid, we have to find him.” Carl refilled his mug from the coffeepot. “We can’t have any loose ends.”
    Win walked to the window. “We should take that sweet SUV out there.”
    “That was my thinking,” Carl agreed. He glanced back toward Amanda. “Which one of you owns it?”
    There was no point lying. It would only make them angry.
    “The SUV is ours,” she said.
    “The keys