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till gasping to catch her breath.
“You think you’re so fucking smart, huh? Leavin’ me, changin’ to your middle name and droppin’ mine? Not usin’ any banks or computers or nothin’?”
She could see him pacing in front of the couch. Those damn cowboy boots of his going back and forth, his Texas drawl getting more and more pronounced the more agitated he became. Quinn stifled a sniffle, hoping Travis didn’t hear it. He always used to get off on her cries for help. Every muffled sound he drew from her would make him more excited, would cause him to hit her harder or for longer. Sometimes he’d even choke her until she passed out.
“Answer me, Annie!” Travis boomed, grabbing her face and wrenching her head up until she looked at him. Nauseated, she squeezed her eyes shut tight, not wanting to ever see him again or give him the satisfaction of meeting his cold, evil gaze.
A hand whistled through the air, making contact with her cheek. White-hot pain exploded in Quinn’s face, snapping her head sideways. Without the use of her hands, she couldn’t stop her body from tipping over on the couch, landing on her bruised ribs.
Not completely broken yet, Eyes still closed, Quinn grit her teeth, the metallic tang of blood filling her mouth. “Don’t. Call. Me. Annie.”
I’m not broken yet, you asshole. You may have me, but you don’t own me.
“Look at me, bitch! I’ll call you whatever I want!”
Defiantly, Quinn opened her eyes. Without letting out a single cry of pain, she struggled back into a sitting position. Once there, she met Travis’ hostile, maniacal stare— and spit a mouthful of blood all over his face.
“Fuck you, Travis!” she hissed.
Travis backhanded her cheek again, this time, so hard that Quinn’s ears were ringing and her vision went fuzzy.
He snarled in frustration, using the hem of his denim shirt to wipe off his face. Quinn stared up at him, her eyelids drooping, and a trickle of blood running down her chin. She took a good look at what she had done over a year ago to his previously handsome appearance and smirked.
“Looking good, Trav.” Giddy and nearly delirious from exhaustion and endorphins, Quinn giggled.
He roared with rage. The last thing she saw before blacking out was his hands spreading open to clench around her throat.
Chapter 2
“Come on, Clint! It’s been hours already!” Rick barked from his seat in Mission Control, Tucker on one side, Clint on the other. Sweat had soaked through another one of Rick’s shirts, a physical reminder of the extreme anxiety he was experiencing. Fuck, he would have to go to the locker room to change again.
Clint swiveled his chair to face his friend. “Rick, keep it together, man. There’s dozens of hotels around the airport, hundreds if you count the entire metro Atlanta area. We’re all working on it.” The big man eyed his distressed friend cautiously before returning to his computer screen. Rick’s fuse was so short he was wired to blow at any moment.
“Jesus Christ. Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Rick roared, yanking off his Bluetooth headset and hurling it across the room. “That sick asshole has probably already—” he forced down a sob. The thought of Quinn at the mercy of a man so horribly cruel that she left without money or a means of support made him physically ill. How anyone could harm such a gentle, tiny thing like Quinn? Rick ground his teeth against the nausea. “We’re never going to find her like this!”
He was just about to leave to get sick in the restroom— again— when Tucker’s excited shout made him jump.
“I got something!”
Rick scrambled over to Tucker’s workstation, grabbing the back of the man’s chair. “What? What do you have?” Hope shot through him, his heart clenching in his chest.
“Here,” he pointed at one of the computer screens, “the sedan getting on Georgia 400 at Lenox Road.” Tucker twisted his head around to face Rick. “Headed north.”
“North?” Clint asked, his brow furrowed. “So not towards the airport. We’ve been looking in the wrong direction? All this fucking time!” Clint’s voice began to rise in anger.
Rick rubbed his eyes, the brief moment of hope shattered. Fear bled its way back in, coating every surface of his body, inside and out. Hardy could be headed anywhere—fuck —he could be in North Carolina or Tennessee by now.
“So what next?” he asked Tucker.
“Now, we check every camera we can find going north on 400 to see where he got off.” Tucker’s fingers flew over his keypad. The images on various screens flicking by at warp speed.
Rick pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Are there anymore traffic cameras up that way?”
“Not until the junction with 285,” Tucker said unemotionally. Then he grinned, his wide, mischievous, I’m going to break the law now grin. “Not publically accessible cameras, that is.”
Clint smiled, thumping Tucker on the back proudly. He turned to Rick. “We’re gonna get her, Ricochet. Just have faith.”
“Yeah,” Rick scowled, “faith.” That wasn’t something Rick had a lot of. Today, he needed to find some, and fast.
