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JACOB
Rebecca puts up a hell of a fight when the SUV finally comes to rest on the median. She’s injured, her left arm broken at a horrible angle and glass embedded in her cheek, but she still manages to fire her pistol at me three times. Her screech is ear-splitting before I lunge through the wreckage and grab her head.
“Never should have touched my girl, Rebecca. You know better.”
“Fuck you,” she grunts and fires another round.
I twist her neck until I hear the familiar, gruesome snap.
She goes limp, and I go to work. I strip her knives away, then take her gun. I only have the rest of the magazine. If she has another, it’s somewhere in the grass or in the mess of crushed metal around us.
I run my fingers across my temple. They come away bloody. I don’t feel anything, though. No pain or fear. No, there’s only one emotion running through my veins. Vengeance.
I stow the weapons, then kick out what’s left of the front windshield and crawl from the wreck. Jogging to the road, I stop and get my bearings. We only got a few miles from the cabin when I dislocated my arm to slip from the rope and attack Rebecca. I roll that shoulder. Sore but functioning.
Waiting to carjack someone isn’t going to work. Not out here.
Fuck. Each second Margaret is in that asshole Greg’s custody is one second too many. I have to get to her. And there’s no time to waste.
I know where I need to go. Taking off, I run down the road, pacing myself as I head toward the only person in these woods who’ll help me, no questions asked.
I don’t get half a mile before I see her car up ahead, the old beater with the rusty paint job rolling toward me.
Mrs. Winston pulls up, and I jump in.
“I heard a commotion. Then gunshots.” She raises a gray brow at me. “Trouble?”
“They took her.” I point down the road.
“Then let’s go get her.” She smiles, and I realize she ran out without her dentures. “Now who took that girl you love?” She floors the pedal, her old Gremlin coughing and wheezing but picking up speed. “Some sort of terrorists? Maybe a foreign government?” She gasps. “Was it aliens?”
“Worse,” I grate out as we barrel down the highway.
“Heh?” she asks.
The whine and rumble of the engine makes talking difficult, so I point ahead and yell. “Keep the pedal down. Then when I start up the trouble, keep your head down. There’s going to be blood.” I flex my fists. “A lot of it.”
She cackles and shifts gears, the car giving a little more push as she takes a curve at high speed. “That’s all I needed to know. It’s been too long since I was in the thick of it, but I’m ready. Why, me and your grandad used to moonlight with the Chicago mafia. Did he tell you that?” She cackles again. “Oh, I miss wet work. I sure do.”
We hurtle down the road until it finally meets the freeway. Each mile takes me closer to my woman, and when I find her, I will punish everyone responsible for this. They will pay, and if she wishes it, I will bring their heads to my Margaret.
* * *
The moonless night is quiet and windy as we pull up in front of Baines International’s high rise in the city. Margaret’s in there. I can feel it.
I reach for the door handle.
“I can cover you.” Mrs. Winston hitches a thumb at the rifle she’s stowed in the back window.
“I can’t risk you.” I meet her eyes and take her hand, the skin wrinkled and soft. “Thank you for this.”
“Anytime.” She squeezes my fingers, her grip still strong. “One request—could you maybe bring me a scalp so I can relive the good ol’ days and—oh, never mind.” She shakes her head. “My collection is plenty big from that time I took down a terrorist cell in Bosnia.”
I would’ve said yes. But I suppose it’s a good thing she changed her mind—only because Margaret doesn’t care for the sight of blood.
“Go get that girl and kiss the tar out of her.” She releases my hand and shifts into neutral. “I’ll be waiting for your quick getaway.” She guns the sputtering engine.
“Again. Thank you.”
