Free Dangerous Dreams (A Dreamrunners Society Novel) by Aileen Harkwood

about…what?
    Terrorism.
    An evil man lives in that room , Grey Man had said when she’d been in the bedroom with Jack. A terrorist .
    They thought she knew about a terrorist plot.
    “Hello?” She raised her voice, hoping it would carry to anyone beyond the locked door. “Hello?”
    Like the last time she’d tried calling for someone, she was met with silence.
    “Hey!” she shouted. “Someone!”
    Seconds ticked by. The door didn’t open.
    “Please.” Her voice broke. “You have the wrong person. I don’t know anything about terrorists.”
    She listened for any sound beyond the door, but heard nothing.
    “I don’t know where that room is. I’ve never been there before. Listen to me! I don’t know what this is about.”
    Dead silence. For all she knew, no one was on the other side of the door. She remembered the long descent when they’d carried her to the room. They could have left her alone in this weird basement cellar complex knowing she couldn’t possibly get out. They might be done with her. She might never see them again. She might never leave this room.
    This time she couldn’t hold back the hysteria.
    It was like being buried alive, the only difference being the size of the coffin.
    Fear of death shot a speedball of anxiety into her heart. She sat up. Then onto her knees. Used her good hand to push herself to her feet. Her legs shook, too weak to support her well, but she wobbled forward, leaning on the wall as she circumnavigated the room to get to the door.
    When she reached it, she banged on the metal.
    “Help!” she cried as loudly as she could. “Help! Someone help me!”
    She did this until her good hand ached and her skin chaffed from the impact with the rusty, pitted steel. She kept going until her legs wouldn’t hold up any longer and she collapsed to her knees. Even then, she was so frantic she pounded on the door until she couldn’t raise her fist another time. She sagged back to a prone position huddled against the nearest wall, much as she had been when she’d woken.
    It was strange, but even faced with the prospect that she would never be free or see the sun again, she discovered her body could only continue in panic mode so long before it wore itself out and entered a numbing sort of calm.
    Forgotten during the last half hour, the excruciating pain in her hand throbbed in time with the beating of her heart. It made her sick to her stomach. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten, but wouldn’t have been able to swallow food if offered. Had they ever given her water? Her mouth was dry, tongue like a dishtowel someone had wadded up and stuffed in her mouth.
    She pulled her hand close to her chest, cradling it protectively with her other arm while she lay on her side. Had the bandages always been as tight as they felt now?
    She looked down, alarmed by what she saw. Her hand had begun to swell, straining at the tens of layers of cotton gauze. The wrappings acted like a tourniquet for her fingers and thumb, the flesh bloating up and seeking release. Slowly at first, a spot of blood appeared in the cotton covering her palm and then grew, blooming to the size of a rose within minutes. How long until the bandages would be sopping with it? She fumbled at the wrappings, but the fingers on her good hand shook too much. She couldn’t peel away the bandages.
    Soon chills wracked her body, while her cheeks were hot to the touch.
    Fever.
    Her injured hand was infected.
    Quietly, she began to sob. Her eyes remained dry. Perversely, her body was too dehydrated to produce tears. Eventually the sobs died out, as well. She lay still. Hours must have passed, but the fever attacked her ability to reason or think clearly so again, she couldn’t judge how long.
    Lara retreated to fantasy. Jack. She was so happy her imagination had supplied her with a name for him. She visualized her make-believe savior coming to her rescue and smiled to herself when she thought of him in jeans only. She