I Work at a Celebrity Rehab, and Someone's Killing Our Patients
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I stand in my crisp white uniform, lined up inside the entryway with all the other on-duty staff members. There are two lines of us, five on each side. We all wear identical uniforms, like fancy scrubs and spotless white tennis shoes. On the breast of each uniform shirt is the embroidered name of the drug rehab facility: Serenity. Directly across from me,

Jonah smirks. He's the same age as me, 22, and we both have the same job. The official title is "Guest Support Specialist," but we're really just errand boys. We have no special training in substance abuse or medicine. Our job is to cater to the whims of our famous clientele.

we can get them whatever they desire, within reason of course. If a guest asks me to score some cocaine, which has happened, I have to politely decline and offer something else, like ice cream or a relaxing few hours at the in-house spa. Jonah has had it out for me since I first started. He was hired two weeks before me, but I quickly became a favorite, probably because I do more than just the bare minimum, which is what he does.

His pale green eyes bore into me. I can't help but drop my gaze, but in doing so, I catch a tiny red splotch on Jonah's right toe. It looks like blood. "Everyone, get ready now," Emma says from the end of the corridor. We're waiting to greet the newcomer. Emma is the facility's director, so what she says goes. "Remember, no eye contact." Our guests have strange requests, and this one prefers not to have the staff look in her face.

I don't understand. There'd be less eye contact if she hadn't made another request to have us all line up. But here we are. Celebrities are weird. But it's not any weirder than other celebrities we've hosted. Just strangely contradictory. It put me on edge. Heart thumping in my chest. In my periphery, I see movement coming up the stairs toward the front doors. There's someone with her. Following along behind with a large bag over her shoulder.

It's so hard not to look. My eyes buzz in their sockets, wanting to slide that way. But I focus on the strange splotch on Jonas' shoe, glancing at his face again. His smirk is gone now, replaced by a blank expression. The door opens, and Emma's shoes approach the newcomers. "Welcome to Serenity, Darla," Emma says. "We're here to make your stay as pleasant and productive as possible."

Darla, pop star, actress and model, passes me. I've had a crush on her since I was 15. I let her move through my line of sight, drinking in her beauty in stolen seconds before blinking and averting my gaze. "Thank you all for having me," Darla says. Her voice is like heaven. Her assistant, a middle-aged woman with curly auburn hair, follows close behind.

"If you need anything at all, just alert a staff member, and we'll get your needs taken care of," Emma says. "Now, let me show you to your suite." As they turn to go, Emma calls to me. "Shane, please follow us. Jonah, retrieve her bags from the limo." My eyes go wide. I thought Jonah would be assigned to Darla's care.

Across from me, Jonah's face clouds with rage. I throw in my own smirk and step out of line, my sneakers barely making a sound as I hurry to catch up with the procession. I feel nauseated, but it's the good kind. We move past the reception desk and down to the elevators. We step into the elevator and I inhale Darla's scent, keeping my eyes fixed on the floor and making sure the protein bar I ate earlier stays in my stomach.

"This is Shane, our very best guest support specialist," Emma says. My cheeks flush red as Darla's eyes land on me. "He will get you anything you want, or retrieve someone who can. Every suite has an electronic device that you can press. It will buzz Shane's device, and he will come immediately. Nice to meet you," I say meekly, still staring at the floor. "You can look at me, Shane," Darla says in her sultry voice.

I look up into her deep brown eyes and the world disappears. I've never seen anyone so beautiful. Somehow, she's even more radiant and gorgeous in person. "Oh, you're cute," Darla says with a wicked smile. "I'm going to like my stay here." I manage a weak smile, now seriously worried I might upchuck. Then the elevator stops on the third floor. The door opens and Darla's depthless eyes shift.

releasing me from the trance. We file off, Emma leading the way and me taking up the rear. Serenity has three floors, and each one features three rooms. The resort's exclusivity is also a major draw. We only have room for nine guests, and a month's stay costs $150,000. Only the richest of the rich can afford to get clean here.

Back before the place became a drug rehab center, it was a boutique mountain retreat hotel with 12 rooms on each floor. Those rooms have been revamped and conjoined to make much larger ones, like the room Emma opens at the end of the hall. Darla steps into the lavishly appointed suite, her silent assistant trailing along. I take up the rear and post myself by the door, training taking over.

Immediately inside the door is a seating area with an L-shaped couch and a square glass coffee table with two gift baskets. Some basket items were requested by Darla's people, and Serenity's research team provided the rest. Darla glances at the gift baskets, but soon her attention moves to the opposite wall and the view from the floor-to-ceiling windows. There's a patio outside that looks over a lush green valley, unspoiled by man-made structures.

As the sun sets, it paints the clouds in pastel shades of purple and pink. Serenity sits on a mountain bluff and is only accessible by one road. The valley it overlooks is pure wilderness for miles and miles. The view is one reason people travel here from Los Angeles, even though there are other resorts or luxury rehab centers closer. Serenity's reputation is the best.

"The pictures don't do it justice," Darla says, staring out the windows. Emma directs Darla and her assistant toward the bedroom, giving them the tour and the rundown of how things work. I stay by the entrance, ready if I'm needed. After a few minutes, someone knocks softly at the door. I open it and see Jonah there with a luggage caddy stacked with bags. "I'm not gonna forget about this asshole," Jonah whispers. "She was supposed to be mine."

I shrug. "What am I doing? I just do what the boss says." "Yeah, right. You're such an ass-kisser." Jonah and I load the bags into the room. As he goes to leave, I glance down at his shoe, only to find that the little red splotch is gone. "The hell are you looking at?" he asks. "Nothing," I say. He clearly doesn't believe me, glaring angrily as he leaves the room.

After about ten minutes, Emma and I leave after confirming that Darla's assistant, whose name I don't know, will leave after getting all of Darla's bags unpacked. It's a rule at Serenity. No assistants, managers, friends, or partners allowed. As we move back toward the elevator, Emma's radio crackles to life. One nurse, a woman named Patty, sounds frantic. She says, Emma pales, glancing at me.

My radio didn't make a peep because Emma, the supervisors, and the security staff are all on a different channel than the rest of us. "Did she say code 10?" I ask. I memorized the code list, but I've never heard it used. Never heard rumors of it used. Emma raises the radio to her mouth. "Can you repeat that? Did you just say code 10?" "Yes," Patty says. "Get down here!" We don't waste time with the elevator.

Instead, we rush down the staircase to reach the Palisade's suite. Emma knocks gently on the door, which opens immediately. Patty looks out at us, skin unnaturally stretched and gray with stress. She ushers us inside. "I don't know if you want him here," Patty says, gesturing at me. "He's already heard the code 10," Emma says. "Besides, he's one of the good ones. Now what's the problem?" "In the bathroom," Patty says.

Emma marches that way through the bedroom. I follow behind, stopping just outside the bathroom door, my jaw falling open. The white tile of the enormous bathroom is splashed with blood. It's everywhere, all over the countertop, the mirror, and the floor, but most is concentrated around the jacuzzi tub, where two legs jut over the rim. "Is it him?" I ask. "Who the hell else would it be?" Emma says.

"Oh Jesus, someone killed Ryan Raelans. Jesus fucking Christ, I'm so fucked." I step over the threshold into the bathroom. Emma grabs my shoulder. "What are you doing? That's a crime scene. We need to see if it's really him." I say, drawn to the gory mess. My heart thuds in my ears, making me lightheaded. I ease into the bathroom, avoiding the blood, until I can clearly examine the corpse.

Sure enough, it's Ryan Raelans. His chest showed multiple stab wounds, a violent amount, and his throat was slashed open. Even dead, with half his body a mess, he's still hotter than most guys. I back out and nod at Emma. "It's him. Time to call the police." "Wait," Emma says. "Let me think." "Think about what?" I ask. "Someone killed him. He sure as hell didn't do that to himself."

Just shut up, goddammit! Emma flashes a palm in front of my face, her gaze fixed on the bloody bathroom floor. There's a murderer here, I say, remembering that red splotch on Jonah's shoe. And I might know who it is. Emma lifts her head. Who? Serenity's security officers are all ex-cops with experience in protection. Some have even moonlighted as celebrity bodyguards before. Their office is down in the hotel basement, near the laundry facilities.

The secluded nature of the facility necessitated its own security detail, and the four on-site officers provide that extra peace of mind that Hollywood superstars and Silicon Valley weirdos crave. They work in 12-hour shifts, two on shift at a time. Since Serenity isn't open in the winter, it makes for a long eight months of constant work, but then everyone gets four months off while the mountain has snowed in. This adds to the place's mystique.

Emma has tasked me with getting both on-shift security officers. One to detain Jonah, and one to check the pile of shit that landed in our laps. Emma warned me to stay off radio about this, so I'm doing it in person. The only people allowed to have phones on the premises are Emma and the security guys, so one of them has to call the cops. The rest of us can only access our phones when we're off-shift at our cabins, set far from the main building.

I rush down into the basement. The gray cement and bare walls are stark compared to the opulence in the guest areas. Reaching the security office, I knock rapidly. "You up?" A man's voice says from the room. "Come in." I step inside. Two men dressed in suits watch multiple monitors mounted above a long desk. One stands behind a desk chair, half turned toward me. He's a graying, olive-skinned man named Shaw.

The other one, who sits in the other desk chair studying the monitors, is a guy named Morton. He has a mustache and a shaved head and a considerable belly. Emma's philosophy about the security officers is that they are our last resort. The entire medical staff, from nurses to our two on-site doctors, are trained in de-escalation tactics. Addicts can get crazy when they don't get their drugs, but no one has been trained for something like this.

"We were at the Code 10," Shaw says. "But no one called for us. What's going on?" "Did you see anything on the second floor? On the cameras?" "When?" Morton asks, turning his office chair to glance at me. "Before Darla arrived. Maybe Jonah going into one of the rooms?" Shaw narrows his eyes. "What happened?" "Ryan Raelands is dead. Most likely murdered. And I saw a little blood on Jonah's shoe earlier." Shaw and Morton exchange a look as Morton heaves himself out of the chair.

"I'll get Jonah," Shaw says. "You go up to the suite and check it out," Warden nods, adjusting the gun on his hip and then buttoning his jacket. Both men move past me, and I glance at the security monitors before following them out. As the men split up, I follow Shaw. He quickly notices. "What are you doing? Helping you find Jonah?" I say. "No, go check on the other guests. Make sure they don't know what happened. Isn't dinner coming up?"

"Emma told me to help you find Jonah." I lie. "I know where he hangs out. I know where everyone hangs out." Shaw says as we head toward the employees area on the first floor. We pass through the lobby, and I glance out the front doors, seeing that there's only a faint blue glow left from the setting sun. Darla's assistant must have already left, since the limo is gone. "Right. Cameras everywhere." I say. "But you didn't notice anyone going into the Palisade suite before Darla arrived?"

"If it was an employee, it wouldn't have raised any alarm bells," Shaw says, a little defensively. We duck into the break room as two nurses look up at us, oblivious to the drama playing out around them. "Everything okay?" a male nurse named Henson asks. "Everything's fine," Shaw says, ducking back out and heading down the hall toward the back door. Jonah is a smoker, and there's only one place we're allowed to smoke on the property.

A secluded spot up a trail out back, surrounded by trees. Shaw removes a small flashlight from his pocket as we move outside. He places his other hand on his gun, but doesn't remove it from the holster. That simple gesture cements how serious this is. So far, it all felt like a game, or a movie.

"Would he be at his cabin?" Shaw asks.

"He shouldn't be," I say. "He's still on shift." "Yeah, but if he's the killer, he wouldn't be worried about getting in trouble. Let's go check the cabins." We move back down from the smoking area and head through the woods toward the employee cabins. There are four cabins which we share. They're set in a ragged line and a clearing about a hundred yards from the facility. The porch lights cast yellow-orange pools, cutting into the night.

As we approach the last cabin in line, the one I share with Jonah and the other two employees, the lights blink out. Shaw and I freeze, looking around. I peer back over my shoulder and see that the facility is also dark. "The power's out!" I whisper. "Someone got the fucking power," Shaw says. "How? From the basement, near the security office." I swallow. Without electric lights, the wilderness is pitch black. "Stay here," Shaw says.

This time, I do what I'm told, staying at the front of the porch as Shaw moves into the cabin with his pistol drawn and flashlight up. I pull my radio out and press the transmit button. "Emma, is everything okay?" "The power's out," she says. "Warton is heading downstairs to check Y, find Jonah." "The power's out at the cabins too," I say. "We're looking for him." "Damn it, he can't have gone far." I lower the radio and look around, searching for a figure in all white out in the woods.

I see nothing but darkness. After a few minutes, Shaw comes out. "Empty. Let's get back to the facility." I stick close to Shaw, who moves with the fluidity of a much younger man, as we head back to the main building. "Watch our six," Shaw says as we cross the road, taking the direct route to the front door. "Huh? Just keep an eye out behind us," he says, sweeping his gun and flashlight ahead as he moves with quick steps, knees bent.

I keep my head on a swivel as we go, peering left toward the bluff and right toward the woods. The main road snakes through the forest, staying parallel to the bluff for about a half mile, where it turns just outside a heavy, remote-controlled gate. We're about 30 yards from the front doors when I see someone in a white uniform dash through the woods to our right.

"Over there!" I hiss. Shaw whips his flashlight over. "Where?" I point into the tree line. He shines the light there. Of course, the person is gone. "What was it?" he asks. Before I can answer, the white-clad figure dashes through the woods again, this time going the other way. He's only visible for a moment between a gap in the trees, but it's enough for me to think it's Jonah. But it's strange. I swear I didn't see his legs moving, just floating.

Did you see that? I ask, even though Jonah went directly through his flashlight beam. Of course, Shaw says, looking around. Something's not right about this. No shit, I think, but stay quiet. A moment later, Jonah swings through the gap, this time traveling the other way. It's like he's running back and forth. Jesus Christ, Shaw says, easing toward the gap. What? What is it?

"He's hanging from something," Shaw says, moving quicker, sweeping his pistol and flashlight left and right as one. I move along with him, staying close. We haven't gone far when I see Jonah come through the gap again. Shaw is right. He isn't running at all. He's swinging, by the neck. As we approach, Jonah has slowed considerably. "Grab him," Shaw says. "What about fingerprints and stuff?" I ask. "Just grab him. We need to see if he's dead or not."

Stepping forward, I reach out and grab Jonah as he swings back toward me. I stop his movement, confirming there's no way he's still alive. His swollen tongue sticks out like a dead slug, and his eyes bulge out from a badly discolored face, head lolling over at an unnatural angle. Around his neck is a metal cable from the ropes course we have about a quarter mile away through the woods. It's one amenity we offer at least once a week to the patients.

Not only does it let them get out and in nature, but it gets them exercise and helps them refocus on something besides drugs or alcohol. Whoever strung Jonah up must have grabbed the cable from the ropes course and fastened it to a tree branch. Seems like a lot of trouble just to kill someone. Shaw moves in a tight circle around me and the body, stabbing his flashlight beam into the dark trees, looking for the culprit.

The sound of glass shattering pulls our attention toward the main building. A woman's scream pierces the night as the tinkling fades. "Move!" Shaw says, turning and running toward the building. I follow along, legs pumping, making a bee line for the front door. Shaw runs up the stone steps, two strides ahead. I'm looking up at the building, trying to see inside through the glass doors, and I misstep, landing on my hands and knees.

As I look up, Shaw glances back at me. But beyond Shaw, in the dark lobby, I glimpse a tall man in all white sinking back into the shadows. And I swear, as my mind tries to process the information, that the man is Ryan Raelans. Seeing that I'm okay, Shaw resumes his flight up the stairs, determined to help whoever is in trouble. "Wait!" I say, lunging to my feet. But it's too late.

Shaw shoves through the first set of doors before I even have my feet under me again. Then he goes through the second set of doors. The tall man in white darts out of the darkness and attacks Shaw. The security officer's flashlight goes flying, and he fires off two bullets as they struggle, but the man in white moves fast with powerful limbs. He jabs at Shaw's stomach several times before spinning him around and wrapping a hand around his throat.

They both face me now, and in the backsplash from the slowly rolling flashlight, I get a good glimpse at the attacker. It is Raelyns, only there's something wrong with his face. It's puffy, swollen, and expressionless as he drags the blade in one hand across Shaw's throat. I reach the set of outer doors and push through, mouth dropping open. Raelyns shoves Shaw toward the doors and then disappears again into the recesses of the lobby. I push through the second set of doors and catch Shaw as he stumbles.

I feel his blood soak into my uniform as he tries to compress the wound with his hands. He writhes as I guide him to the floor. He's hot, his muscles stiff. Soon, he goes limp and I can feel his heat fade. Coming to my senses, I realize I'm an easy target, sitting here on the floor with a dead man in my lap. I get up and look for Shaw's gun, nearly slipping on the spreading pool of blood as I move away from the body. I don't see the weapon anywhere. The killer must have taken it.

Raylan's. This makes no sense. I saw Raylan's dead body upstairs. How is he running around killing people? Grabbing the flashlight from the floor, I shine it around briefly, seeing no sign of the killer. I need to get around other people. So I pull out my radio and whisper into it, "Emma, where are you?" There's no answer, only static. After trying two more times, I head up to the Palisade Suite, hoping Emma and Morton are still there.

On my way up the stairs to the second floor, I turned off the flashlight. I feel like a small bug under a big microscope with the light on, so I shut it off and let my eyes adjust. The door to the suite is open, prompting me to approach it with caution. Now, as I move toward the Palisade suite, I hold the small device in my hand, thumb on the button in case I can blind someone. Somehow, the smell of blood has intensified.

I'm unable to ignore the metallic odor as I push the door open and ease inside. As I move toward the bedroom and attached bathroom, I see nothing of interest. Nothing changed from the last time I was in here. But as soon as I step into the bedroom, I see Morton, the security officer, on the floor. I click the flashlight on and rush over to him, but as soon as the light hits him, I know he's dead. He has an arrow sticking through his throat, the tip protruding from the front. Someone shot him from the back.

The arrow is from the archery and crossbow range we have near the ropes course. It's a shorter arrow, a bolt, designed for crossbows. Standing, I swing the flashlight around the room, looking for any sign of Emma. When I don't see any other bodies in the bedroom, I move to the bathroom, immediately seeing that Ryan Raelands is still exactly as I left him, in the tub, dead as can be. Two arms snatch me from behind, and I scream as the powerful limbs take hold.

One wraps around my neck and squeezes, while the other pins my arms against my body. In the struggle, I drop the flashlight, and it rolls through the coagulating blood on the bathroom floor. My attacker drags me backward as I fight feebly against him, kicking my legs and writhing to get my arms free, struggling to stay conscious. Soon enough, I pass out.

How about this, asshole? How much will you pay me not to cut his fucking nose off? Gasping, I sit up at the sound of a man's voice, looking around, confused and bleary-eyed. My hands are bound behind my back, my ankles fastened together, and I'm propped up on a couch. The room is bright, and I immediately recognize it as the royal suite, the one Darla is staying in.

Looking to my left, I see Emma and most of the other employees sitting on the couch, ankles and wrists bound just like mine. The only difference between us is the gags. I don't have a gag, but everyone else does. As I move, something tugs, and I notice that we're all fastened together, the ties around our wrists attached to keep us from running.

Across from the couch, sitting against the black marble wall under the television, are all but two of the celebrities and bigwigs currently staying with us. Darla is shaking, makeup running, as she sits next to famed character actor James Lader.

Next to them are five other guests, from a famous baking show host to a pro wrestler turned actor. Even a YouTuber who got big by saying the most outrageous crap for engagement. Launching his fledgling comedy career into the stratosphere as reactionary internet brained weirdos flocked to him. They've all been bound together at the legs with large zip ties. Standing over the YouTuber, holding a phone in one hand and a knife in the other, is a man wearing a bloodstained Serenity uniform.

Despite the surgical mask covering the lower half of his face, I can tell he isn't an employee. I've never seen him before. His hair is shaved to the scalp, and he has a nasty scar across his forehead. The masked man, who I've already come to think of as Scar, repeats his question to his phone. "I'm not seeing enough money coming through. Do you want me to cut Landon Peter's nose off or not?"

If I see $10,000 in Bitcoin come through in the next 5 minutes, I'll spare him. I realize with shock why this is happening at all. It's about money. The guy is doing some kind of livestream, using these famous people as collateral. He's preying on their fans to get rich. I sense someone standing behind the couch, twisting. I look and see the Ryan Raelans lookalike standing between two bright portable work lights shining on the captured celebrities.

He looks at me, his face still emotionless. And I now see why. It's not his real face. He's had plastic surgery to look like Raylan's. And while it's passable at a distance, up close, it's clearly a botched surgery.

Another man stands nearby, this one wearing the makeup that Darla made famous during her Harlequin tour. White clown makeup covering the entire face, with red, stylized tears under the eyes, and a black grin painted over the mouth. He wears a black suit with a red tie and a white shirt, and his eyes fixed and unwavering on Darla. So one of them is in it for the money, the other two are psychotic superfans. Great.

look-alike as a knife in one hand, still stained with what I assume is Shaw's blood. Harlequin holds a loaded crossbow. "Come on!" Scar shouts into the phone. "Come on, come on! You want me to repeat what happened to this asshole?" He moves swiftly over to the floor to ceiling balcony windows and stands over a slumped figure lying amid a mess of broken glass. Even though I can't see his face, I can tell by process of elimination that it's the controversial director, Josh Weldon.

As I look closer, there's a pool of blood underneath him. I'm guessing he's dead, although I can't see any wounds from here. Scar reaches down with his knife and stabs the dead director several times, catching the action on camera. "Come on, you pigs! Pay up!" He rushes back over to the YouTuber. "You're only at four grand." "Do they still think it's fake?" Harlequin asks. "Half of them do," Scar says. "But we can show them it's not. Get over here."

Harlequin comes around from the back of the couch, swooping down on Darla like a hawk. "No!" Scar says. "Not yet. We'll save her for last. By then, the chat will be completely full and we can make bank. Come over here and hold this idiot's head still." Harlequin hesitates, hungry eyes on Darla. Then his shoulders slump and he moves over to the YouTuber, sets his crossbow down, and grabs hold of Landon Peters' head.

The blond man shouts into his gag, trying to yank his head free. It's no use. "This is what happens when you don't pay up!" Scar says, pointing the phone camera at the YouTuber's face. He jams the tip of the knife into Landon Peter's nose. Blood pours out as he hacks away, slicing off the tip. When he's done, he stands up. "Now they're getting it!" he says. "Now they understand this isn't some fucking publicity stunt!"

What did I just say? Let me just touch her. I wanna touch her! Fine. But don't hurt her. Not yet. For whatever reason, they didn't gag me. Maybe they forgot. It doesn't matter. I have to use it while I can.

"Wait!" I shout. "Don't touch her! You can make more money with me!" The two psychos turn toward me. The only sound now Landon Peters' muffled cries. "Why isn't he gagged?" Scar asks. "Gag him? You can take me hostage," I say. "I'm Leslie Darren's son." My mother's name causes every pair of eyes in the room to focus on me. Even Emma, who knows my secret, looks at me aghast. Probably thinks I'm nuts.

Bullshit! Scar says after a moment. No, I'm serious. I'm her son. Her only son. Leslie Darin? Scar asks. THE Leslie Darin? The woman who divorced Jeff Brazos and came away with the cool ten billion? That's right. I say. From her first marriage.

"Bullshit," Scar says again. "What the hell would Leslie Deren, son, be doing working here? Shouldn't you be off doing coke and killing hookers and using mommy's money to cover it up?" "Look it up," I say. "Look it up right now. My mom kept me out of the spotlight as a kid, but there are some articles with pictures of me. You can take me and you'll get more from my mom than you could ever dream of. And mom will pay. I guarantee she will."

Scar considers this for a moment before clamping his knife in one armpit and searching on his phone. His thumbs stop moving, and his eyes go wide as he looks from his phone to me and then back again. "Holy shit! It really is him!" The soundtrack to this conversation has been Landon Peter, still screaming and crying. Scar retrieves his knife from his armpit and stalks over to him. "Shut the hell up!" he says, stabbing Peter in the neck three times.

The other celebrities scream into their gags and squirm away from the blood gushing out of the YouTuber's neck. But they can't. They're still tied together. "Grab him," Scar says, pointing his knife at me. "The game's changed. Let's get the hell out of here." "No fucking way!" Harlequin whines. "Darla is the only fucking reason I agreed to do this shit. At least let me take her with us."

"No way," I say. "You leave everyone else alone. That's the deal. Otherwise, I won't make this an easy trade." "You fucked up, kid. This doesn't have to be easy," Scar says sarcastically before turning to Harlequin. "Cut her loose. You can break her too." Lookalike comes over and cuts me loose, leaving only my hands bound behind my back.

He drags me to my feet and directs me toward the door, while Harlequin does the same with Darla. My mind races as I think about what kind of leverage I have. I've overplayed my hand. Meanwhile, Scar moves over behind the couch and leans down to grab something. When he comes back up, he has a submachine gun.

With Darla and I out of the way by the door, he steps over and points the weapon at the line of celebrities, now struggling and panicking. "Fuck you all very much," Scar says before pulling the trigger and sweeping the gun across them. Bullets punch through flesh and bone. Blood splatters the walls. Brains leak out of ruined heads.

Then he spins around and aims at my coworkers. "No!" I scream, yanking my arm out of lookalike's grip and running towards Scar just as he fires. My hands are still bound behind my back, so I smash into him with my shoulder. We both go crashing into the glass coffee table, sending gift baskets flying. But Scar hits first. The table shatters, and I end up tangled with Scar inside the square-shaped metal frame of the table.

Knowing I have little time before Scar recovers, I grab a piece of glass with my mouth and shift around, thinking I'll stab him in the face with it. But as I turn to him, I see that he's already bleeding profusely from his face and neck.

Spitting out the shard, I twist again, searching for the machine gun, glass cutting into me with every movement. Lookalike is rushing over, but I glance up to see Harlequin dragging Darla out of the room. As I twist around, still trying to find the submachine gun in all the mess, I ran out of time. Lookalike looms over me with his knife ready to go, but just as he's reaching down toward me, my co-workers lurch up from the couch as one and hop toward him, throwing themselves at him.

With him occupied and scar bleeding out, I grab a piece of glass and saw at the zip ties around my wrists. After heavy, long seconds, the ties break and I rocket off the floor, rifling through the debris for the gun. Got it! I lurch to my feet, stepping out from the metal table frame. My coworkers have piled onto Lookalike, doing their best to hold him down, even tied up with no arms. I step over, pressing the barrel against Lookalike's head and pull the trigger. He jolts once and goes still.

I quickly yank the knife from his now limp hand and move to free Emma, stopping short as I notice the bullet holes across her body. Scar must have shot her right before I tackled him, and the others had no choice but to drag her body along as they swarmed look-alike. I can't wallow though, there's no time. I cut Henson loose, handing him the knife with instructions to free the others. Then I take the submachine gun and head after Darla and Harlequin, noting the missing crossbow. That means Harlequin is armed, but so am I.

I step outside, expecting to see a vehicle driving off. One of the company SUVs maybe, but there's no vehicle and no sign of Darla. Pausing, I peer around, letting my eyes adjust after being in the bright, portable lights upstairs. A faint scream comes from off in the woods. I run that way, gun in hand, ignoring all the cuts across my body.

Was the scream from the ropes course? I make my best guess, and I take the trail that way, huffing as I move through the woods. I slow as I approach the course, feeling exposed. Harlequin could be lying in wait with his crossbow, or maybe even a gun. But as soon as I see Darla, everything else goes out the window. She's draped awkwardly across a small platform about 40 feet off the ground. The platform is part of the ropes course, so it's not exactly stable.

It's held up by four wires that flex with every movement she makes. Her arms and legs are bound again. She can't move to safety. But now the gag is out of her mouth. This feels like a trap. "Help me!" she calls. "Where did he go?" I call back, hiding behind a tree. "I don't know. He just made me climb up here and then put zip ties on again. Then he climbed back down." "Shit!" I whisper, looking around, seeing no sign of the man.

Please, I can't stop shaking. I'm going to fall. I run to the start of the rope's course and look for the harnesses in the little hut. But of course, they're gone. I have no choice, so I climb the rope ladder to the first platform, which is 20 feet off the ground. I start toward Darla, carrying the gun in one hand. The hanging platforms take me up another 20 feet. A fall from this height would surely result in broken bones, if not death.

The platform sways, and without a safety harness, my chances of making this trip alive drop. Darla watches me intensely, but she's also shaking the platform with her trembling. When I'm still four platforms away, she screams, "Behind you!" Harlequin pokes out from behind a tree. He fires the crossbow. The bolt sinks into my left thigh. I cry out and fire the submachine gun at him, but he ducks behind the tree again. A wave of sickness takes hold as pain shoots out from the bolt.

I nearly fall off the swaying platform, catching myself at the last moment. I keep my gaze, and the gun, fixed on the tree. But Darla cries from behind me. "I'm slipping!" She's sliding off the tiny platform, the weight of her upper body dragging her down.

Turning to go to her, I try stepping across the empty space to the next platform, but my left leg gives out and I fall. Pulling myself backward at the last moment, I grab onto one rope attached to the hanging platform, keeping myself from falling to the ground. Now, I'm hanging by one hand, gun in the other, feet dangling over the ground about 40 feet below. "Help!" Darla screams. In her desperation, she jerks, trying to pull herself back onto the platform. It's the worst thing she could have done.

I watch in shock as she falls, tumbling headfirst toward the ground. Her body makes a sickening crunch thump as she hits. "No!" Harlequin shouts, running out from behind his tree. "You let her die!" He fires another bolt at me. This one pierces the meat of my left arm. The one I'm hanging with.

Knowing I won't be able to hang on much longer, I aim the submachine gun at him and squeeze the trigger. The gun fires wildly, but before it clicks empty, several of the bullets punch through the man's body. He falls to the ground before even getting close to Darla. I drop the empty gun and reach my right hand up, gripping the platform to pull myself up. It's no use. I'm too weak. Pretty soon, my arms are stretched out, and the pain becomes too great.

My sweaty fingers slide on the wooden platform. I can't hang on any longer. My fingers finally slip, and I fall.