“No!” I screamed into Emmett’s ear.
The gun fired twice as Mac dove toward Christian. Both shots landed. The first grazed Holly’s rib cage. The second embedded itself in Mac’s thigh.
Holly, eyes wide, clapped a hand to her side. Blood, the same rusty red color as her Belle Dame varsity fastpitch T-shirt, welled up and trickled through the spaces between her fingers. She looked down at her drenched hand, silent, then glanced behind her, where the bullet had lodged itself in the cinderblock wall. Time slowed. It was like the car accident all over again, only this time I was too far from Holly to protect her.
“Bridget?” she said, her voice several octaves higher than normal. “I think I got a little bit shot.”
Before I could reply, her head lolled, and she was unconscious again. Emmett reached over his shoulder, seized the back of my shirt, and tossed me forward, effectively dislodging my grip from around his neck. As he loomed over me, I curled my knees up and kicked out, landing my heels against his stomach, and rolled free of his immediate reach. Across the room, Mac and Christian fought in a pool of blood. Mac, her expression twisted with pain, dug her fingers into the fracture of Christian’s arm. As he screamed, she pried the Glock free from his other hand. He flipped over, pinning Mac to the concrete, and pressed his knee against the gunshot wound in her thigh. Her hands disappeared beneath his massive torso.
“Stupid bitch,” he snarled in her face.
Another gunshot ripped through the basement.
“Who’s stupid now?” Mac challenged, and she heaved Christian’s body off of her. She rolled over, leveling the Glock at Emmett. “Don’t move!”
But Emmett was never particularly talented at obeying instructions. He stepped over me toward Holly. Mac fired and missed, the bullet whizzing by Emmett’s calf. When I realized what he was doing, I made a wild grab for his jeans, linking my fingers through his belt loops. Without hesitation, he grabbed a handful of my hair and slammed my head against the concrete. The basement spun as pain radiated through my neck. Which way was up?
“Mac!” I yelled hoarsely. “Shoot him!”
“I can’t! Not without hurting Holly!”
She was fading anyway, her eyes shifting in and out of focus as the blood drained from the wound in her leg. Even if she did have a clear shot at Emmett, her aim would be off.
Emmett hauled Holly up from the ground, cradling her in his arms with a perversely gentle touch. He shouldered open the door to the side yard and stepped out into the starlit night.
“Holly!”
My head throbbed as I lurched to my feet and staggered after Emmett. The full moon shone down on the grass, too serene and sleepy for the situation at hand. In the driveway, Emmett loaded Holly into the back seat of his truck. My feet would not cooperate. They plodded across the landscaping when they should have been sprinting. Emmett slammed the door shut, trapping my little sister inside, and leaped into the driver’s seat. The engine turned over, filling my head with a resounding roar. I cleared the hedge that bordered the driveway, but it was too late. Emmett threw the truck in reverse, backed out onto the neighborhood street, and sped off down the road, taking Holly with him.
“No!” I howled, sinking to my knees at the edge of the driveway. A stench rose from the concrete. The burnt rubber from Emmett’s tires.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Someone must have called in the gunshots. Did it matter? Holly was gone again. I’d let her slip through my fingers. She was hurt, bleeding, sick, and under the care of a deranged man. Would I ever see her alive again?
A ringtone tinkled in the night air, and a screen lit up in the grass near the driveway. I dove toward it. It was Emmett’s phone. He must have dropped it in his haste to get Holly into the truck. It buzzed impatiently. Someone was calling him from an unknown number. I pressed accept and lifted the phone to my ear.
“Well?” a voice said. “Is it done? Do you have Bridget in hand?”
Shock descended on me like a dark, heavy blanket. I knew that voice. It belonged to a dead man. The one that I had murdered in Paris three years ago.
“Hello?” the voice demanded. “Are you there, buffoon? Do you have the woman?”
My breath whooshed out against the mouthpiece. The voice paused.
“Ah,” it said with a sudden note of understanding. “Is that you, Bridget? I suppose the idiot failed in his task then. And left his phone behind! Merde, is it so impossible to find an American man with an ounce of common sense?”
The sirens grew louder. Red and blue lights appeared at the end of the street, but I couldn’t move. The voice held me frozen in place.
“My dear girl,” it went on. “Do you remember what I told you when you asked why I chose the name that I did?”
My heart pounded. My lips parted. I clutched the phone like a lifeline.
“Because you can never catch a Fox.”
Many thanks to everyone who read my story!
Writing is the best way I know to express myself, and I’m so glad that you all have rewarded me with the opportunity to share my imagination with you. As an author, I learn and evolve from the input of others, so if you have a spare moment and you enjoyed the story, please leave a short, spoiler-free review of the book. As readers, your personal opinions are often the best references for a writer. Your commentary allows me to further provide you all with fun, engaging material.
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All the best,
Alexandria Clarke
The Mystery continues with Little Girl Lost Book 2- Click Here
After nearly rescuing her little sister from devious hands, Bridget Dubois loses Holly once more to an unexpected person from her past. To get ahead, Bridget dives into a dangerous world of impersonation, federal investigations, and another unsolved kidnapping case. But one thing haunts her above the rest. The man who once held her captive is still alive, and he wants Bridget back for himself.
The Mystery continues with Little Girl Lost Book 2- Click Here
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Little Girl Lost: A Riveting Kidnapping Mystery- Book 1 Page 15
