Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

rifle lies on the ground, three feet away. Even if I get away and run, he’ll shoot me in the back.
    I glance up, my eyes seeking the bulb. It’s too far away for me to reach. But the cord is right above me. I upend the shovel, stab the cord as hard as I can. Sparks fly as the blade severs it. Electricity cracks and darkness descends. Working blind, I drive the shovel’s spade in the direction where I last saw Mast, hear it make purchase. He releases my ankle. But I feel him grapple for the shovel. I thrust it at him but lose my grip as I stumble away. The blade grazes my hip. He’s swinging it at me, trying to hit me.
    And then I’m running, completely blind, arms outstretched, feeling my way along the walls. I planned to exit the tunnel the same way I’d entered, but Mast is blocking my way. I think I’m heading in the general direction of the house, which is sixty yards from the slaughter shed.
    I’ve gone only a few strides when my shoulder brushes the wall. The impact spins me around. Barely maintaining my balance, I re orient myself and keep going. Dirt crumbles beneath my fingertips. Cobwebs stick to my hands. I want to try my phone, but I don’t dare take the time. Mast has my flashlight and my .38. Not to mention the rifle. There’s no doubt in my mind he’ll fire blind to stop me.
    Light flashes in my peripheral vision. I glance over my shoulder, see the flashlight beam behind me, and I know Mast is closing in. My foot strikes something solid. I stumble, land on my hands and knees, but in an instant, I’m back on my feet,
    Keeping my left arm extended in front of me, I reach for my cell with my right, flip it open. Relief flits through me when two tiny bars glint up at me, and I hit the speed dial button for Tomasetti.
    He picks up on the first ring. “Kate.”
    I can tell by his tone that he’s been trying to reach me. He knows something’s wrong. “I’m in trouble.” My voice is breathless and high.
    “Where are you?”
    “Mast farm. There are underground tunnels. Mast is armed.”
    No response.
    “Tomasetti?”
    Nothing.
    “Damn it.” I look down and see that the call has been dropped. Cursing, I snap the phone onto my belt.
    My shoulder scrapes the wall, knocking me to one side. I slow to a walk, reach out with both hands, and touch the walls to orient myself. I hear Mast behind me, his footfalls heavy on the ground. He’s breathing hard, muttering words I can’t make out. I jerk my head around, see a misty beam of yellow light. He’s just yards away.
    “ Shit. ” A hot burst of adrenaline catapults me back into a run. I stumble over a step, nearly lose my footing, somehow manage to stay on my feet. I don’t know how far I’ve traveled or how far I have yet to go. I’m not even sure where I’m going or if I’ll be able to escape when I get there. But I have no choice but to continue and pray for an exit. If Mast catches me, he’ll kill me.
    The tunnel veers left. I hear a sound behind me, but I don’t dare turn to look. That’s when I spot the small square of light a dozen yards ahead. The outline of a door, I realize. A hatch.
    I barrel toward it, running as fast as I can. Definitely a hatch. Closed. But I can see the frame of light slanting through at the seams.
    I’m a few feet from the stairs when a gunshot rings out.

 
CHAPTER 22
     
    The bullet ricochets off a brick a foot from my head. Fragments of brick sting my face. I throw myself onto the steps, clamber up them, using my hands. At the top, I ram the hatch with my shoulder hard enough to jar my spine. The double wooden doors fly open. I scramble up the remaining steps, look around wildly. I’m in a basement or cellar with a dirt floor and stone walls. I see shelves filled with canning jars. Gardening tools. Wood steps twenty feet away.
    Another shot rings out. Bending, I slam the doors closed. They’re heavy, fabricated of ancient wood planks with old-fashioned handles on the outside. There’s no lock, and I have scant seconds before Mast climbs the steps and jams that rifle in my face.
    Spotting a sickle hanging on the wall, I rush to it, yank it down, and dash back to the hatch. I jam the blade through both handles.
    An instant later, the doors rattle as Mast tries to pound his way out. I back away, praying the sickle will hold, and grapple for my cell. Relief flits through me when I see four bars. I hit 911 as I dart toward the stairs.
    “Nine one one. What’s your emergency?”
    Quickly, I