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Crashed?
Holding one side of my head, I rose from my crumpled position in the backseat, facing smoke seeping through the vents and an unconscious cabbie.
“Sir?” I asked, reaching for him but wincing when I moved too suddenly.
No response.
I scanned the interior, then the exterior, to find the source of the accident. A biker, pedestrian, other car? NYC was full of random—
It’s not random.
I counted one, two, three men approaching the vehicle. Not to help, which my scrambled brain initially thought, because they were walking too calmly—swaggering—and when they came close enough, I spotted dark, gleeful expressions.
“Shit,” I whisper-screeched, then made to shove open the car door closest to me.
It was slammed back with such force I nearly lost fingers.
“Not so fast, princess.”
Chenko stood on the other side, his grin a macabre sneer against a clean-shaven face. “Allow me,” he said through the window.
I’d scrambled to the other side, but there was another man blocking the door. Chenko lifted the lever and was inside, grabbing for me, in less than a second.
I yelped, kicked, ignored the spears of pain in my skull and the suspicious wetness seeping into the collar of my shirt.
“You fucked up my life,” he said between swipes at my ankle. His smile had turned feral, a sneer of a psychotic off drugs. “It’s time to fuck up yours.”
“Getoff!”
His thick fingers clamped around my foot and pulled. The slippery leather of the seats did nothing to hinder my propulsion into his arms. When he wrestled me out, I scratched, bit and swiped, but his anger gave him fuel that was immune to a screaming victim.
“You really thought I was gonna let you go?” He said into my ear when he got me into a headlock. His forearm pressed against my throat dangerously. Spit hit the sensitive skin around my temple. “Leaving you to the law would’ve been pointless.”
He dragged me to his waiting car, angled in the cut-off position he’d used to derail my cab.
“You know how it works at this point,” he growled, then kicked my legs from under me, growing tired of my efforts. “Days, months of processing. You already knew I was dirty. So, now you know I exact black revenge. Fucking Quentin Sawyer doesn’t know half the shit that goes on to collar gangsters. Or who needs to die.”
“Let—me—” I gagged when his arm tightened.
“You won’t be missed.”
I crashed against his car when he threw me, the road tilting and growing frequency waves. I blinked, desperate to stay conscious.
“No one’s here to save you now, stupid girl.” He hooked my elbow, hard enough to leave bruises, and tossed me into the back of his car. “Your Romeo’s incarcerated.”
“No!” I cried instinctually, even though it would do no good. Chenko couldnottake me to the second location. Everyone knew once that happened, chances of surviving were ridiculously low.
When Chenko’s back flew into the passenger side window so hard it should’ve cracked, I’d been busy calculating my odds of crawling over the console and taking control of the car.
But the roar that sounded, the effervescent bubbling along the surface of my skin, paused everything going on in my mind.
I lifted off the cushions, pressing my hands to the glass to see better, because Chenko had regained balance and charged at whoever smacked him into the car. Punches sounded, grunts, then more men came—the other two who surrounded my cab—and dwarfed the person who’d taken on Chenko.
I grappled for the door, realizing it was on child lock, then crawled to the drivers’ seat to get out. It happened so fast—the bodilythwacksof fighting, the shouts of war—that by the time I got out, I was worried I wouldn’t have a chance to escape. That whoever came to my rescue would be outnumbered and Chenko would be back to trying to kill me.
The men with Chenko, they had to be Gordon’s. No cops would be party to this…
Get out get out get out.
