Page 87 of Sheltering You

A hand clamped on her mouth, and a man leaned in, his thick arm wrapping around her waist. He pulled her from the car.

She grabbed the door handle and hung on, kicking behind her, aiming for something, anything to make the man loosen his hold. She whipped her head back and forth, desperate to free her mouth. To breathe. To scream.

“Let go!” He spoke Arabic, his words a growl in her ear. “Yasamin! Let it go.”

Her name in his mouth only made her hold onto the car tighter.

His hand loosened from her mouth.

She gasped.

But a sharp jab to her midsection cut off her scream.

Her grip slipped, and the man dragged her away.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The small and slightly dingy store was empty—not even an employee in sight. Derrick found a display of trucker hats and snatched a couple at random. He glanced at the many snack options but decided to let Jasmine and Rabie use the bathroom first and then pick out what they wanted.

Approaching the register, he called, “Hello?”

“Be right with ya.” A woman came in from the back hauling a cardboard box twice as wide as she was. “Sorry ’bout the wait. Workin’ on stockin’ the shelves.” With her deep Southern accent, she made shelves a two-syllable word.

After dumping the box at the end of an aisle, she moved behind the counter. She seemed barely old enough to have a job. What was she doing working the all-night shift at a place like this? All alone, it seemed.

She rang up the hats, and he handed her cash. “The bathrooms are unlocked? My family’s in the car.”

“Help yourself. You need a sack for your things?”

“No, thanks.” He took his change, pushed out the door, and rounded the building.

He froze at the corner. It took a half second to get a read on the situation.

A man was dragging Jasmine away from the car, one hand over her mouth, the other around her waist. She was fighting, dragging her feet, trying everything to keep him from taking her.

Another guy nearly had Rabie to an SUV half-hidden behind the store. But he’d stopped to watch the other man wrangle Jasmine. Maybe he thought it was funny, the way she struggled. Maybe he thought his thug-buddy would need help.

Rabie was pummeling the man’s back with his fists, but the guy wore a thick jacket, and the kid’s punches were having no effect.

Derrick didn’t think. Didn’t say a word.

He dropped the hats, yanked the handgun from the holster, aimed at the thigh of the man holding the boy, and fired.

The guy went down, dumping Rabie on the concrete.

Derrick aimed at the other thug, who’d let up his grip on Jasmine to reach for a weapon.

She ducked away, and Derrick fired, hitting him in the chest.

He staggered backward and fell, his gun bouncing beside him.

Jasmine hurried toward Rabie.

“Get in the car!” Derrick started toward the boy as Jasmine ran to the sedan.

The first thug turned over, handgun raised.

An instant before he got a shot off, Derrick ducked behind a trash can against the building, bumping against something sharp. He ignored the pain in his side and squeezed the trigger. His bullet missed. Crouching, he set his feet, peeked around the can. The guy was aiming elsewhere—toward Jasmine? Rabie? Their car?