Free Music Box (The Dollhouse Books, #4) by Anya Allyn

in this desolate place—cardboard and wall plaster maybe. Gina shakes out the dust and mouse droppings.
    Nance trains her gun on me while Gina strips to her underwear and waits for me on the bed, shivering with the sudden exposure to the cold.
    I take off my coat and shirt.
    Gina grins at the sight of my chest. “Nice.” Her gaze travels to the knife scars on my neck and under my ribs. “You’ve been bad—real bad—haven’t you?”
    Gina’s no longer got her gun—it’s in her jean pocket on the floor. Now there’s just one of them with a gun. I glance back at the door. It has a thick bolt on the outside—probably used at one point in the factory’s history to keep the drug addict employees out when the attendant was away. A single light bulb hangs from a cord in the ruined ceiling. A cheap-looking desk holds abandoned files and scattered papers. The room is small, without much room to move.
    “What about you?” I say to Nance.
    “Nope,” she says. “One at a time.”
    I widen my eyes. “It’s not kids you’re after, is it? Just saw one.”
    Nance turns in a single, sharp movement. I jump on top of the desk then leap to the light cord, and swing out hard. My boots crash into Nance’s shoulder. She falls, her eyes like bulging blue marbles as she hits her head on the door frame. Gina yells out in anger. Rushing out the door, I slam it behind me and pull the bolt across—then leap to the side. Gunfire rains through the door.
    I cry out, pretending one of their bullets got me. Another frenzied round of gunfire follows. I hope they’ve exhausted enough of their bullets now not to be able to shoot out the lock.

8. Rebels
    ––––––––
    E THAN
    As I race back to the lockers, I see the end locker hanging open. Cursing, I search the factory floor.
    A soft scraping sounds from the other side of a large conveyer belt. Two pairs of small shoes pull in as I run over. Peering over the top of the belt, I see them—two boys huddled together, the whites of their eyes large against brown skin.
    “It’s okay,” I tell them, “they’re gone.”
    “You shot them?” says the biggest.
    “No. They tried to shoot me .”
    “You’re bad, too.”
    “I’m not one of them. But if we don’t head off, they’ll figure a way out of the room I locked them in, or someone else will come looking for them.”
    The eldest boy’s eyes dart about. I know he’s preparing to run.
    “Look, I knew exactly where you were before—did I rat you out?”
    The youngest one shakes his head.
    “Well then cut me some slack. I’m trying to help you.”
    “Why would you help us?” the eldest demands.
    “Because I hate them too.” My voice is harsh—I can’t keep the bitterness out of it. But I must have convinced them because they slide out of their hiding hole.
    I exhale slowly. I don’t have a plan. I don’t have the barest clue what I’m going to do with these kids. “What are your names?”
    “Sam and Tommy,” says the eldest, pointing to himself and his brother.
    “Okay, Sam and Tommy, stay close to me.”
    We make our way down the factory stairs. I stop to pick up a small metal pipe just near the exit.
    Outside, Rory stands with his back to me—his shoulders slumped. Something forms in my mind—a hazy idea.
    Indicating to the kids to stay behind and stay quiet, I steal up behind Rory and press the pipe into his back.
    “You come with me,” I say close to his ear.
    “Who’s that?” His voice is tight, as though he spoke without moving his teeth.
    “You don’t need to know that. Just walk.”
    His back feels spongy, even through the thick layers of clothing. I poke him harder, and he starts moving. “Over there. To the left and into the blue door.”
    “What’s going to happen in there?”
    “Don’t ask questions.”
    I prod him in the direction I want him to go.
    Inside the bakery, Jack and Deandra have their kids in hand, about to leave.
    They stare at me like I’m a monster. Deandra