No Exit by Taylor Adams 2

Dangerous. She’d acted without thinking and allowed herself
to be ambushed by a door-activated light bulb.
Still, no one had seen it. No harm, no foul, right?
… Right?
The van smelled like stale sweat. It reminded her of a gym
locker room. The leather seat cover was clammy under her
fingers. A model airplane on the dashboard. The floor was a
sea of crumpled yellow Jack in the Box and Taco Bell bags,
slimy and transparent with congealed grease. She groped for
the center console and opened it — more bulging trash. She’d
been hoping for a handgun or something. She wanted to try the
glove box, but she knew there’d be another light bulb in there,
ready to go off like a tripwire. She couldn’t risk that again.
Inside the door panel, she found the interior locks.
CLICK-CLICK.
The Astro’s rear doors were now unlocked. The cab was
separated from the cargo bay with a metal screen, like a
Catholic confessional. So carefully, she scooted back outside,
retrieved her shoelace slipknot, thumbed the lock pin, and
gently shut the driver door with her palms. She could see the
building’s window over the van’s hood. She dreaded seeing
Lars silhouetted behind the glass — investigating the dome
light — but the window was still empty. Just the top of Ed’s
head, and part of Ashley’s shoulder, as Go Fish continued.
So far, so good.
Darby crept back along the van’s left side, retracing her
steps past the stupid cartoon fox, clambering through heaped
snow. She stuffed her shoelace into her jeans pocket; no time
to re-lace her shoe right now. She circled the back of the
Astro, grabbed the left door handle, and tugged it open.
The girl was inside a dog cage. One of those black, wiregrate
ones that can be collapsed for flat storage. This one was
sized for a collie, reinforced with a padlock and dozens of
knotted zip-ties. She was hunched on her knees because there
wasn’t enough room to stand. Her tiny fingers gripped the wire