Prologue
Fallon
Present day
The Louisiana bayouis legit the armpit of the world.
At least in the middle of July.
The humidity feels like one-hundred-and-eighty percent, and that’s with the windows rolled up and the air conditioning cranked.
I make a mental note to tell March no more jobs in the Deep South unless it’s in December. And even then, the payout better be bank.
I pull into the ghostly looking gas station marked on the GPS. The last thing I need is to be driving circles around the swamp and run out of gas.
I glance at the back seat, checking on my precious cargo. She’s out like a light. Poor thing never knew what hit her. If I ever had a child—and that’s one hell of a massive if—I’m going to make sure I drill the importance of stranger danger into his or her head.
Swiping her was just too easy. A sweet smile, some light conversation, and one roofied drink, and she was mine.
I barely had to put in any effort. Easiest job ever. Until I found out where I was dropping her. The middle of fucking nowhere chock full of bugs and alligators.
Bracing myself to get choked by the thick, wet air, I swing open the door of the Chevy Malibu. Not the most attractive ride, but March is adamant about understated, low-key, and blending in. He’s not wrong. An eyewitness will remember a shiny red Corvette or loud, rumbling Camaro much easier than a run-of-the-mill, midsize sedan. So, I suck it up for the job. It keeps me alive and off the radar.
Leaning against the car perspiring to death, I watch the archaic pump tick away the gallons. It feels like years are being taken off my life. Time can seriously be torture.
I spy the back seat again. Sleeping Beauty is undisturbed.
A couple walks out of the rickety convenience store that looks like it’s about to collapse. They’re young, late teens, early twenties tops. He’s dressed in baggy jeans and a white tank top, similar to mine. She has on a short jean skirt and faded graphic T-shirt. It’s so old I can’t make out the design on her chest. But it’s not the couple themselves that piques my interest; it’s him. And his mannerisms toward the girl. His hostility. The way he grabs her arm and jerks her. The sneer on his face. Her blatant fear of him.
A dry aggression scratches my throat.
I keep my head down but my attention alert. It looks as if they’re going to disappear into the backwoods, but they take a hard left instead and head to the offset wooden outhouse people are supposed to mistake for a bathroom. I’d rather pee on a pile of leaves in the middle of the parking lot than go in that sketchy structure.
I continue to watch, the pump dial reduced to slow motion as the gas tank reaches capacity. Then the nozzle clicks, and the girl cries out. Not in a bloodcurdling scream. More like a frantic whimper.
That dry aggression scratching my throat is now moving down my esophagus, becoming sharper, hotter, a serpent of vehemence.
He drags her into the shabby building, her nails leaving scratches in the putrid blue doorframe.
If I were a smarter woman, I would let this go. I would get in my car and drive away, worrying only about the paycheck in my backseat. But I’m not a smart woman, or a tolerant woman, or a restrained woman.
I act on impulse.
I like trouble. I like to find it, and cause it, and shake it up. Which is exactly what I’m about to do now.
Driving up to the outhouse, I leave the car running outside. I pull a Glock out from under my car seat and holster it in the back of my black, ripped jeans. This should only take a second.
I hear the girl's cries and pleas through the paper-thin door. She’s begging him to stop. Some boyfriend. It should be the other way around, honey. You should be enjoying it, begging for it, telling him how much you love it, not how much it hurts you. My chest inflates with rage right before I kick in the door. They both startle, but there’s no time to react. I have the upper hand. The element of surprise.
The girl is bent over the rust-stained stink, her face streaked with tears, her skirt hiked all the way up around her waist.
“What the fuc–” is about all the guy can blubber before I drag him off her and throw a right hook. It doesn’t stop there. I put a bloody beating on him, relentlessly pounding my fist into his face until his lip is busted open and his eyes are swollen shut. The girl screams behind me, crouching under the sink, no doubt more scared now than she was before.
Finally, I stomp-kick him in the stomach, sending him flying against the wall. He goes splat like a bug, then falls to the ground. When he slumps over, I get a dark sense of satisfaction.
I pull the gun from my waist and bend over so he can hear me clearly. “If you ever stick your dick where it isn’t wanted again, I will hunt you down. Skin you alive and set your rapist ass on fire.”
I pull the trigger and shoot him right in the thigh. He screams like the bitch he is. The girl screams, too. I’m sure traumatized. But I did this for her. I did this because no woman should have to say no more than once. No woman should be forced. No woman should be looked at like she’s less than a human being.
