AllFreeNovel
Share Us
How many am I dealing with?
My fist squeezes around my key fob, my house key jutting out between my fingers as I try to punch over my shoulder with it, but one hard retaliatory smack to my hand and the keyring goes sailing out of my hold.
My arms and legs automatically start moving. Elbows fly, feet kick this way and that. I hear a couple grunts from my blows to the person at my back, but no words being exchanged. I don’t know if it’s because these assholes aren’t talking or because the alarm is that loud. My ears continue to ring as I’m tossed into the backseat of a car. I scramble backward, all the way to the other side before getting dragged right back. Judging by the width, it’s larger than a sedan. Possibly a truck or an SUV.
I throw my hands over the back of the seat but don’t feel a window.
SUV.
An SUV doesn’t tell me much.
Someone binds my feet together before moving on to my wrists. Whoever does it isn’t nearly as callous as my first captors were. The ties are tight, but not circulation-severing.
Because I don’t believe in true altruism, I still kick at them, both feet connecting with a solid stomach.
A grunt as the only reaction turns my blood cold. Colder than if they’d retaliated or threatened me. They’re professionals. My first time being kidnapped was when I was seventeen and the men were complete amateurs, acting on all bravado and no brains. Well-acquainted with warehouses, especially sneaking in and out of them unnoticed, I managed to escape the one they were holding me prisoner in. And like a true Stockholm syndrome victim, I ran straight back to Cyrus, the entire reason I was taken to begin with. If it wasn’t for the monstrosities he commits, people wouldn’t have it out for him and anyone close to him.
Assuming I make it out of this alive, I won’t be running to anybody because Cyrus was not my savior then any more than he’d be now. And Kordin… Kordin’s just as big of a captor as Cyrus was.
With all the motion, my robe practically drapes off me, so it’s incredibly noticeable when two warm hands slowly glide down my bare thighs. I wait until they get to my knees before clenching them together, effectively trapping both hands.
“I don’t need my hands to crush every bone in yours,” I tell them. “Don’t touch me again.”
I squeeze my knees as tightly as I can, earning myself a shove to the breastbone, presumably from the person’s head, sending me backward and causing my legs to fall open again. I inhale through my nose before the wind gets knocked out of me, but don’t smell any identifiable scents other than gasoline. Even without my breath, I bring my knees up, catching a chin before I’m shoved roughly to the side so the door can close, the childproof locks already engaged as I try the handle above my head.
A second later my car’s alarm goes silent, allowing me to train my ears on every movement inside this vehicle.
The driver’s door opens and closes, then we’re on the move, the tires squealing against the asphalt as the driver takes off.
Using the passenger headrest to pull myself up, I stretch my fingers out, but don’t feel anyone’s head.
One person? That’s all they sent?
That’s…insulting actually.
I’ll just have to use it. If there’s only one person, then my best chance of escaping is while they’re busy driving.
I pay close attention to each movement the vehicle makes. One left out of the parking lot, one right on the same road I came in on, then two pregnant pauses at what must be stop signs. The resort was forty minutes off the nearest highway, so after ten minutes of straight, quiet driving, I know we’re still on a backroad with speed limits ranging between thirty-five and forty-five miles an hour. Fast enough to hurt; slow enough toprobablysurvive.
I just need to get off the road and into the woods as quickly as possible. Having memorized the path so far, Ishouldbe able to make it back to the resort as long as I keep to the side of the road.
Probably.
Should.
They’re still better odds than anything I’ll face if I stay put.
Throwing myself sideways and on to my back again, I hug my knees to my chest, then kick at the window, the glass making a loudthud, but no cracking or breaking. Shit.
I repeat the motion, kicking harder.
“What thefuck?” I hear from the front, but ignore it to continue my efforts.
I lost my slippers somewhere between being grabbed from behind and thrown into the car, so each time my bare feet strike the glass, pain not only shoots up my ankles but also burns my soles.
Ithurts. Pain is only temporary, while death…is not.
The car swerves before coming to a complete stop.No.This was my best shot. Possibly my only shot.
