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Pop!
What remains of the windshield shatters as I hit the dirt so hard air whooshes out of my lungs. Stunned, I roll twice before landing on my back and watching in dazed horror as the truck rams one last time into my Corolla, forcing it off the road and squashing it against a thick tree. With an earsplitting screech of metal crushing metal, the old car crumples, and then, just like in the movies, catches fire. The truck immediately backs up, and some remnant of strength propels me to my feet.
Run, Chloe.
Dragging in a wheezing breath, I lurch toward the trees on legs that feel like broken matches, my knees threatening to buckle with each step I take. My foot catches on a root, and pain shoots through my left ankle—the same ankle I twisted hiding in Mom’s closet—but I just clench my teeth and force my strides to lengthen, ignoring the hot blood dripping down my arm and the dizziness washing over me in waves. I can’t give up, not if I want to live, so I keep going, keep limping forward at a zombie-like half-jog, half-run.
A male voice yells something behind me, and I force myself to pick up speed, ragged sobs sawing between my lips as another bullet whizzes past my ear, splintering a branch in front of me.
“Fucking bitch!”
Some sixth sense makes me duck, and a bullet slams into a tree instead of me as I lurch sideways.
Run, Chloe.
Mom’s voice is clearer than ever, and with a surge of strength I didn’t know I possessed, I launch into a full-scale run. My ankle screams each time my foot strikes the ground, my vision blurring from nausea and waves of pain, but I run with everything I’ve got.
Only it’s not enough.
Not nearly enough.
A truck-like force rams into me, knocking me off my feet, and a massive weight crushes me into the leaf-strewn dirt. I can’t even wheeze as my ribcage flattens out—and then, miraculously, the weight is gone and I’m flipped over onto my back.
When my vision clears, I see a huge dark-haired man straddling me, gun pointed at my face and mouth twisted in a triumphant snarl.
“Gotcha, little bitch,” he says, panting. “And since you made us work for it, you owe us some fun.”
51
Chloe
Air rushes into my oxygen-starved lungs, and I swing my fist blindly, aiming at that smug face. He intercepts it with ease, brutal fingers catching my wrist and pinning it to the ground as he jams the barrel of the gun under my chin.
“Move again, and I blow your fucking head off,” he growls, and I believe him.
I see my death in his flat, dark eyes.
“What the fuck, Arnold?” a second voice exclaims, and another man appears above us. Also armed with a gun, he looks to be some dozen years older than my captor, with receding salt-and-pepper hair and ruddy skin flushed from the exertion of the run. Breathing heavily, he orders, “Put a bullet in her and be done.”
“Not yet,” Arnold mutters, eyes glued to my mouth. “She’s pretty. You ever notice that?”
The other man’s voice turns gruff. “That’s not the way we do things.”
“Who gives a fuck? She’s dead meat anyway. Who cares if we enjoy a bite before we bury it?”
My stomach heaves with a fresh surge of nausea, and only the cold barrel jammed under my chin keeps me from clawing the asshole’s eyes out as he lets go of my wrist and presses a thick, dirty thumb to my tightly clamped lips.
“Just finish the fucking job already.”
The older man’s tone is sharper, more impatient, and for a moment, I’m half-afraid, half-hopeful that Arnold will obey. But he just leans in and drags a wet, jerky-scented tongue over my cheek, like a dog—and as an involuntary cry of disgust escapes my throat, he jams his thumb into my mouth, pushing it so far in I gag.
“That’s nice, bitch,” he whispers, eyes gleaming with lust and feral excitement. “That’s real—”
A sharp crack shatters the silence, and he yanks his hand back. A millisecond later, he’s on his feet above me, gun coming up as he spins around lightning fast—yet still not fast enough.
The second bullet slams him into the tree behind me, and as I scramble backward on my hands and ass, I see the older man already on the ground, mouth slack and skull blown open, brains spilling out like moldy cottage cheese.
52
Nikolai
I’m moving before the sound of my last shot fades, leaping out from behind the cover of the trees to close the distance between me and Chloe. Her gaze jerks up from the dead man at her side, her face streaked with dirt and blood, her brown eyes uncomprehending as she backs away, mouth opening in a silent scream at my approach.
“Shh, it’s okay. It’s me.” Dropping to my knees, I gather her against me, feeling the convulsive trembling of her body—and of mine. I’m shaking with relief and rage and the aftermath of bone-chilling terror, the awful fear that we were too late.
