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I’m still staring at the barn when a skinny man is shoved out the side door. He stumbles and falls face first into the grass.
What if it’s him?
I take off running, ignoring Bishop’s barked order to wait for him to call for backup. All that matters is getting to Trevor. If it’s not Trevor, there’s a kid out there who needs help. My back immediately starts to ache from the exertion, but adrenaline keeps me from slowing. I run through the yard where a couple of months ago I was shot and into the field. The skinny man climbs to his feet and starts waving at me.
It’s him.
As I draw in, I recognize his build and shaggy hair. He’s much skinnier than when I last saw him and bruises mar every inch of exposed flesh. Anger explodes inside me. These motherfuckers hurt my nephew.
Trevor is shaking his head and rasping out words I can’t seem to make out. I nearly tackle him when I reach him.
“Honey, Aunt Sloane is here. You’re okay.”
He lets out a pained sob and rasps out, “Run!”
Run?
I turn to look for Bishop, ready to yell for him to get back up here now, when a large shadow casts over me. The scent of whiskey and body odor permeates the air. Before I can whirl around to face the person coming up to me, something slams into the back of my head.
The crack echoes in my skull and I black out before my body hits the ground.
Sloane
Ow.
The first thing I notice as I start to regain consciousness is that my head is throbbing inside my skull. Something warm trickles down the back of my neck. Has to be blood. What the hell did I get hit with?
I blink away a wave of dizziness, attempting to make sense of my location. It’s musty and smells of mildewed hay. I must be inside the barn. It’s dark aside from a few slivers of daylight shining in through the cracks of the worn building. When I go to touch the back of my head, I realize I’ve been cuffed to a pipe with my own handcuffs.
Naturally, I’ve been divested of my weapon, keys, phone, and anything else that could’ve been useful in my predicament.
A surge of panic swells up inside me as my fragmented thoughts begin to piece together.
Trevor!
Where is he?
“Trevor?” I croak, scanning my eyes across every viewable surface in my line of vision.
Nothing but dust and hay.
“Trevor,” I say louder, forcing my voice to project beyond my near vicinity. “Are you okay?”
Nothing.
I’m dizzy and slightly nauseous, probably sporting a nasty concussion, too. It’ll be okay, though. Bishop saw what happened. He’ll call for backup. This place’ll be crawling with cops in no time.
Breathe in, breathe out.
I attempt to keep the storm of fury and terror from overwhelming me. Running my palm across the dusty floor, I search for anything I could use for a weapon. A rusty nail would be great. Unfortunately, all I have to use in defense is hay and my free fist.
Voices can be heard just outside, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. Then there’s a squeak of a door that floods daylight into the barn. I squint against the harsh light that exacerbates my headache.
Who hit me?
What do they want?
A shadowed silhouette saunters my way. Is it the Prez guy? One of his goons? The figure stops a few feet in front of me and then squats.
