by Hazel Grace
Now I’m sitting in the backseat of an SUV with him beside me. No blindfold blocks out my vision as we ride to a destination that I haven’t been told of yet.
Not that I expected to.
My hope of being released has diminished, beaten, and yanked from me because the man to my right, isn’t going to let me loose.
Why would he?
He knows I could run to the police, have a description drawn up of him, to be publicly displayed around the state.
It’s too risky.
And he’s not an idiot.
However, it doesn’t stop my mind from playing out what I would do if I was free from his clutches. I’d leave Connecticut—the country. The apprehension of him finding me just to do this all over again shoots nothing but pure fear within my already established dread.
I’ll never feel safe again. He stole that from me.
“You missed the turn,” Emric barks, tapping away at his cell phone.
“We’re going to go in the back way,” Mills grumbles in the driver’s seat. “That’s where everyone else is waiting.”
Emric doesn’t respond, looking out the window as the sun beams generously outside. Where people are going about their daily activities with no qualms or awareness that I’m zip-tied in this car against my will.
I want to ask him where we’re heading, what his plan is, but I’m too scared to know. He hates me, and all he craves is me dead.
I’ve seen it—it’s the most prominent message that I’ve learned from his eyes. No remorse or regret, not a speck of worry for my well-being or injuries. He just wants answers. Ones that I can’t provide because I’m still clueless with what happened, who Reagan is, and how I’m even linked to any of this.
However, he’s grown tired of me. Made it perfectly clear that it won’t “end well for me”, and I’d have to be a complete idiot to not grasp that concept.
He’s going to kill me.
No matter how much I cry or plead for him to please let me go, he doesn’t believe me. Dead-set on me being behind the atrocities done to this Reagan person.
“We only have twenty minutes,” Mills states. “There is a funeral scheduled for two.”
A funeral…
My eyes widen.
“What are we doing?” I blurt, my body, on cue, trembling in apprehension.
Emric doesn’t turn his head, nor does he acknowledge my question. No longer am I an asset to him and what he needs.
Which means…
My eyes catch Mills’s in the rearview mirror, he looks fatigued and almost...sad? He’s shown me nothing but kindness when Emric has been anything but. He brought me half a cupcake one night when my captor was gone. It was vanilla, my favorite, with white frosting and pink sprinkles. My first thought was that he had children because, why would he randomly have sprinkles? But I didn’t ask, and he never ventured into side conversations. He made sure I was fed, somewhat comfortable with the extra blankets he brought down, which Emric threw a fit about, and hydrated.
“Mills,” I plead. “Can you tell me—” My body is suddenly thrust forward, caught by my seatbelt before I hear the shatter of glass bursting somewhere inside.
The SUV is hit again and, even though my eyes are closed, I feel us spin. A body hits mine, Emric’s, and the screeching of tires permeates through the air until we jerk to a stop.
Then silence.
A groan follows a second later, and I crack my eyelids open, finding shards of glass scattered all over the dashboard and seat. Mills moves, rubbing his head before I hear the opening and closing of doors in the distance.
“Son of a fucking bitch,” Emric gripes before the faded shouts of men follow.
It’s the next sound that seizes my undivided attention—the loud, metallic sound from the hammer of a gun clicks beside me, and I slowly turn in its direction.
It’s aimed at me.
My eyes are wide. My heart—I’m not sure what it’s doing because I can’t focus on anything other than the barrel where a bullet with my possible name on it is going to claim its residence.
“Come any closer to the car,” Emric yells, hazels already directed on me. “And she’s fucking dead.”
I want to follow up with “he means it”, but my voice is lodged down my throat, in the pit of my stomach, and disappearing.
“There’s too many,” Mills immediately voices, elbow propped on the armrest and peeking over his shoulder at his friend.
Nothing comes from Emric as he continues staring at me. He doesn’t bother looking down the sight, confident that he’s not going to miss the deadly shot.
Cold, distant, someone took something from him—Reagan perhaps—and he has zero to lose.
Don’t they say that’s the most dangerous kind of man?
“Bishop,” Mills states urgently, and I’m assuming he’s on his cell. “Code yellow.”
“We just want the girl,” a man’s voice hollers. “We’ll let the rest of you go.”
Emric snorts.
“Two minutes,” Mills conveys before Emric nods.
“Any last words, sweetheart?” I don’t get to respond before the window behind him is smashed in. Another shower of transparent material raining over Emric’s shoulders and head.
He bows forward from the impact before I feel a tight-gripped yank on my left arm, escorted by the close-range of a firearm.
My brain can only register one thing at a time.
The ringing in my ears.
But no new abrasion of pain radiates throughout my body as my butt slides over the black leather of my seat.
The muffled hollers of male voices are whisper-like in my ears, but it’s those damn shots of the guns that always rattle my composure and immediately register. As if on cue, another goes off at close range, jolting my frame back in my spot.
My eyes catch red splatters on the back of Mills’s seat as a cool spring breeze hits the side of my head. My neck cranes to my, now, open door discovering a lanky man in a black tee and jeans face up on the ground—shot in the forehead.
A scream of horror chokes me.
I can’t move.
I’m not able to pry my attention away. A stream of rich, red flows down the edge of his face. His eyes broad from shock.
I can’t do anything but blink. I want to rush outside to freedom. To rid myself of my current predicament.
However, I know what’s behind me. Waiting for me to make that move so that Emric can just act on what he’s always wanted to do. Not that it’d matter because my leg won’t carry me far anyway.
A strangled gurgle sounds from Emric’s spot in the vehicle, but I don’t get a chance to see what’s going on.
Instead, another body—vast and pudgy—stands within my view, his legs on either side of the dead man on the cement.
“Come on, girl. We have to go.” Sausage-like fingers gently wrap around my forearm when he continues, “Now, girl.”
Slowly, I move, taking the opportunity—the only one I have other than staying where I am when my right bicep is jerked back.
Emric.
I hear him grunt, hating that I know his voice like that when he practically rips my arm from my socket. I’m a human tug ‘o war, rocking side to side until Emric’s grip abruptly releases.
“I got you.” My neck snaps back to the chubby man. A thick, pink scar runs from his mouth to his cheek as he scans the area behind the car, keeping a firm hold on me. “This way.”
A mixture of howls, scuffling, chaos of male shouts encases me within the scene.
“I promise I’ll keep you safe.”
He sounds like he means it. That he genuinely wants to do so, but I don’t believe anyone anymore.
I don’t understand how everything led me here. How one night, where I wanted to stay locked in my bedroom, ended up with my being tortured and interrogated like a criminal. Held in the clutches of a man who wouldn’t listen or understand reason. So gung-ho on having me worn down so heavily that this truth he wanted spill
ed would suddenly leave my lips.
Rounding the SUV with the man’s hand on my back, he grunts before his guidance leaves my body. Pivoting around, the chunky man is now in a fistfight with Mills.
I don’t want either of them hurt. I can’t bring myself to want to see Mills injured when he’s been the only gentleness I’ve had since being taken.
Except when his fist flies into my rescuer’s face, sending him back two steps.
He’s loyal to Emric.
As much as I appreciate him, I’m still a no one to him. I’m still Emric’s prisoner that he was just about to dispose of.
For the first time since being pulled out of the vehicle, I quickly take in my surroundings as the chirping of birds encase the violent scene.
We’re on a two-lane road with houses lining the street. They are all pushed back and led to by long driveways, but someone has to see us.
Anyone.
Several guns have gone off, windows have been broken, and tires have squealed in protest. This place doesn’t seem to see or hear a lot of that.
Why is everyone deaf when I need help?
“Let’s go, girl.” My attention hauls to another heavyset man with balding hair and a beer belly gut. With a cigar sticking out of his mouth, he jerks his head to follow him.
My body doesn’t compute because, well...stranger danger.
Granted, he couldn’t make me follow him even if he had a bag of a million dollars and a lollipop in his hand for good measure.
I’ve never seen any of these men before, and I don’t want to leave with anyone.
I want to run off on my own and disappear. I’ve had my fair share of “fun” and adventure for the rest of my life on this excursion. Might develop a few nice scars from it too if you don’t count the mental ones I’m going to suffer from.
“You need a doctor. Come on.”
My thigh instantly reminds me of that fact by screaming in pain, still open from Emric’s blade. There’s been so much blood that’s left my body that I have no clue how I’m still alive.
Before I left the basement, I heard Mills yelling at Emric upstairs to wrap my leg before I died, but Emric never came.
No big surprise there.
The more I suffered, the more he likes it.
“I’ll let you hold my gun if it gets you to budge,” the new man urges, taking a step towards me, but he makes no moves to actually grab one.
I make a quick inventory of my options. I can’t run, what else is there besides screaming?
And even then…
The man’s features try to soften, but with the stress encircling us, it’s hard. We’re all in danger with Emric around.
“We don’t have a lot of time, girl.”
My lips begin to tremble as I start to slowly move forward. “Please...don’t hurt me.”
His thick brows furrow. “I’m not going to touch you. I’m here to get you away from these guys.”
“Who—”
“George,” he replies hastily. “But my friends call me Cuban.” He wiggles the cigar in his mouth. “I like my smokes.”
Taking another step, he mocks my actions languidly so as not to scare me any more than I am. His eyes flick behind me before landing back to my face.
“C’mon, sweetie, we really have to leave now.”
“My leg,” I tell him. “It hurts.”
“Okay.” He’s in my space within half a second. “I’m going to pick you up, got it?” I bob my head, and he leans down to swoop me up. “I’ll try and be gentle.”
I bite my lower lip to keep a broken sob from escaping as a wave of agony shoots up my body.
Quickly and as carefully as he can, Cuban carries me over to another black SUV. Men stand at the driver and back door, staring at me in anticipation to be delivered to them.
My hand grips Cuban’s T-shirt, getting him to halt in his tracks.
“We’re saving your life,” he replies with confidence. “You should’ve never been taken like you were. I’m sorry.”
Cuban turns his body to position me inside the tinted out vehicle before my eyes collide with Emric.
His fist flies into another man’s face before he’s pulled back by two others from behind. Emric attempts to jerk out of their grip but to no avail. And as though he can sense me anywhere, his hazel eyes land on me.
I stiffen.
They’re beautiful, even when they glare upon me with such hatred.
He doesn’t deserve for me to think that about them. He’s my tormentor, enemy, a man who wanted nothing but information from me.
A piece of property.
A blow is abruptly thrown into Emric’s stomach, and he cowers over in response. The two brutes standing behind him, hold him still while another punch is delivered to the side of his face.
But it doesn’t stop him from looking up at me again.
He doesn’t speak—he doesn’t need to because his face says it all.
He and I, we’re not done yet.
I feel as though I’m in a low budget B-rated movie. The acting sucks and the bad guys are a bunch of clowns who were desperate to generate some extra cash or make it somewhere. These assholes who came to rescue Stormi are class-A wannabes.
Mind you, the fucker in front of me can throw a nice right hand.
However, the idiot to my left and the douchebag with way too much cologne on to my right can barely keep me standing when I purposely drop all my weight on them.
The motherfucker holding Stormi in his chunky arms stops before placing her in the backseat of a tinted-out Ford Expedition. And just like a weird moment in a flick, Stormi turns in my direction to meet my witnessing of her emancipation.
She’s not getting free from me.
Not when we have so much unfinished business, and she’s not dead by my hands yet. These stupid fucks just ruined my plan, and my boys work of digging an unmarked grave, especially for her.
Today’s her lucky day.
Scratch that, she’s got a few hours of peace because she won’t be evading me when I break free of the Three Stooges.
This shit...is unbelievable.
Her unyielding cover was blown, yet again, the minute her goons came to liberate her. Because what innocent, normal-as-fuck woman has a dozen or so men at the ready to hunt her down and extract her from a dangerous situation?
Exactly.
My head is suddenly jolted to the side when the Planet Fitness member in front of me slams his fist into my cheekbone—kid you not, it’s what his shirt says. My response is nothing but craning my neck back to Stormi, who is still mirroring the same expression she always wears.
Fear.
My lips quirk, she can stop now. Her facade is over, we can really get to business, and I can’t wait to get my hands on her when I kill every single one of these wannabe heroes.
The screenplay of this scenario can chill with being so cliche. After Planet Fitness, idiot and douchebag thought they were going to beat my ass to a pulp, Mills jumped in—finally—and we ended that unrehearsed scene.
Stormi is being kept in some random, janky motel. The white and green chipped paint alludes that it’s never known a good owner that wanted to take care of it. I’ve noticed two prostitutes waltz out with half their clothes on, and three more enter multiple rooms from the other side.
The place is quiet except for the loud crunching noises coming from Mills, who won’t stop chomping on the bag of Fritos that he has in his hand.
“How many did you count?” Mills asks me, rustling in his bag to grab more chips.
I readjust my jaw and concentrate on being patient and sitting still. I feel like a three-year-old with ants in my pants.
“Two men in the room she’s being kept in and four more next door.” I light my blunt, saving Mills’s life and because there isn’t shit to do yet.
Plus, I need to calm down.
My adrenaline has been injecting wave upon wave throughout my whole anatomy. The pads of my fingers can’t wait to wrap
around her neck.
I haven’t been sleeping well ever since I captured, kidnapped—whatever you want to call it—Stormi from the first night I saw her. It pushes me to be more impatient and a tad bit reckless when it comes down to how I’m letting everything happen.
“When do you want to make a move?”
I exhale my hit. “Now.”
Mills’s head snaps to attention as though he’s surprised. The dummy has only known me for years. “What?”
“Which room do you want?”
“The one where we have backup,” Mills retorts with steel in his tone. “Bishop should be here any—” The squeak of a door halts his disagreement with my plan.
Two men in the room that Stormi isn’t being kept in stride out and jump into one of the SUVs, kicking up dirt and taking off.
“Can’t talk me out of it now,” I finally say when they turn right on the desolate Highway 25. “Let’s hurry up before the rest get back.”
My truck’s door is already open before my feet hit the gravel of the parking lot. Mills is bitching, but I don’t hear the words that leave his mouth.
All I see is the forest-green exit to the room that my blonde is being kept in.
Leg raised, I blow through the cheap lock and watch it swing back, hitting the wall behind it. I’m through the threshold when I met with the lanky idiot I remember seeing from earlier standing at the driver’s door.
My hand is already twisting his white tee while the other is cocked and carrying out its debut to meet his face.
I only got one lucky shot on him before Planet Fitness—he’s alive because Mills apparently forgot to pop a cap in his ass—pulled out a gun.
It only worked to our advantage because when he took off, we followed.
He didn’t speed here or try to lose us by taking several wrong turns.
Again, amateurs.
Eyes on alert for Stormi, I make my own rookie mistake of glancing around the place for her when the skinny fucker throws back his elbow to blow into my ribcage.
Movement out of my peripheral hints that they’re moving Stormi out of the room. Her light blonde hair annoyingly stands out like a beacon to me at this point.
Shoulder down, I ram my opponent into the wall, rattling hung pictures and the dresser resting against it when a female squeak sounds behind me.
