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On the ride back to the house, I had stayed calm. Something inside me shifted but I was curious about how he found me. Since I didn’t even know where I was going when I left, and I’ve had no contact with anyone back home, it was a mystery.
Enter one social media post made by a well-meaning reporter, which tagged my name, the city of Bowling Green, my high school because I won a photography award, included a couple photos, and bam.
Even a moron like Orwell could find me.
“Wow,” I manage, shaking my head. “That smarts. But, you know, there are major flaws in your plan. Because the Badlands…well…” I give them each a look, then shrug. “It’s not Bowling Green. There are things here you might not understand. And for sure, at least one of those things is going to be coming for you. Very soon. Probably more than one, to tell the truth. If I were you…” I grin. “Never mind. You’ll find out.”
“What the fuck?” D spins around, throwing his arms up. “You said you had a handle on this bitch. She’ll do whatever I tell her, you said. Now look! We’ve got two days to come up with two hundred thousand dollars, or there’s some very aggressive Albanians that are coming looking for us.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Orwell spits back, moving his hand to the butt of his gun on his hip. “If it’s not here, we’ll take her with us. In the morning, she’ll be in a more cooperative mood, I’m sure. If the cash isn’t here, we’ll drive her fat ass back to Bowling Green and she’ll make another withdrawal. Won’t you, Wynter?” Orwell pulls his gun out and presses it to my lips. “Open wide. You may have gone all ice princess on me when it came to my dick before, but this time…” He shakes his head, biting into his bottom lip before fisting his crotch. “I’m taking your money and you will be sucking my cock.”
The cold metal pushes my lips against my teeth as I clench but he releases his cock and digs his fingers into my neck around my wind pipe, making me gasp, and the acrid taste of the metal spreads over my tongue.
“Good girl. My dick is way bigger than this gun, just so ya know. Here’s how this is going to go down—”
His he-man-alpha-hole monologue is cut short by a crashing sound from the back of the house. Through the kitchen, I see the flying splinters of wood from what I assume used to be my back door as all three of the stooges spin around to see what’s happening.
I know who it is even before I hear the first growl.
“I told you…” I chime as my heart speeds and I prepare for what’s next.
Chaos erupts as Ragnar’s bear comes roaring into the living room. The three stooges scramble toward the front door as the grizzly charges, drool streaming from the corners of his mouth and I bolt up, knocking the chair over as I step back to the sound of screams from all three of them, huddled together, trying to work the door knob. But even with three pea brains between them, they are in far too much of a panic to twist the deadbolt open.
I stumble back toward the kitchen when my calm, subdued amusement morphs into a new fear.
Raymond throws himself over the sofa, coming around to the back of Ragnar’s bear, reaching into the back of his pants and pulling out his own gun.
In front of me, Orwell does the same, coming back and putting the gun to my head and then shoving me forward like a sacrifice.
I fall into the grizzly’s butt and he turns on a roar to see it’s me, giving D just enough time to squeeze by and trip over the coffee table, leaving him flat on his back with Ragnar’s grizzly bearing down.
“Shoot it!”
“Get out of the way!” Raymond yells at me as the grizzly comes from behind me, but they are too stupid and too slow to see what’s coming next.
Ragnar’s grizzly leaps forward, taking D and Orwell down with each of his massive front paws as I back up, my heart racing as blood flows from both of them as they fall to the floor and start to crawl on gurgling screams in different directions.
The grizzly turns his head for a moment toward me, and I see the flash of Ragnar in its eyes as he growls and jerks his head toward the front door.
I spin, knowing in my heart he’s telling me to get out, and as much as I want to stay and watch the show, sometimes doing what Ragnar says is probably the right move.
I get one hand on the knob, the other on the deadbolt key, and turn, hearing the clunk of the lock as it opens. I start to turn the handle, but as I do there’s a deafening series of what sounds like loud fireworks.
