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“Where is she?” A thick Russian accent permeated the room.
Uncle Jeb coughed and wheezed. I could hear his struggle. I skirted the corner of the room and hugged the wall, peeking out to see one man towering over my uncle. Another man shoved his foot onto my uncle’s chest, making it harder for him to breathe.
I lifted the barrel of my gun and fired several shots, hitting the men before I took off through the darkened house, hiding from them in the dining room.
Bullets blasted through the farmhouse, tearing into my arm and burning me like lava, scorching my flesh. I winced and bit my tongue to keep my groaning at bay. No one could know where I hid.
It wasn’t my first bullet wound, but it didn’t sting any less. Blood dripped down my arm, making it harder for me to use two hands to aim, and the bastard shot my good arm.
“We’ve got her!” a voice echoed from outside.
I stumbled forward. Why hadn’t she fought back? I didn’t hear so much as a scream pass her lips.
Heavy boots retreated through the house, but not before sending off one last wave of bullets. I dove for cover. A second round slammed into my chest, knocking me to the floor, unable to move.
I tried to stand, to lift myself up from the ground and fight. Inch by inch, I dragged myself across the dining room floor and then into the hallway.
A streak of blood followed me across the wood flooring. I wouldn’t let Hazel be dragged off with Franco.
Car doors slammed, and headlights faded as the sound of tires squealed, and vehicles tore away from the farmhouse.
She was gone, and I was to blame. I hadn’t been able to save her or protect her.
