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I force myself not to finish that thought.
“What are you planning on doing?” I ask. My head is pounding so hard I can barely get my mouth to form the words. “No one will come after you as long as you just let me go. You… can even just leave me here. You’ve made your point. I’ll leave town.” I take a few panting breaths, pushing back against the pain. “I’ll leave the area. I’ll go back to Indiana, not come back.”
“Not good enough.” Wrecker’s old lady gives me a look filled with hate and pulls an object out of the pocket of her skin-tight jeans. There’s a click, and a blade shoots out. A switchblade.
“You’re gonna pay.”
She steps closer. Before I realize what’s happening, she lashes out with the blade toward my face. I flinch and try to pull away, but she’s faster than I am. For a split-second, I have no idea what’s happened. Then, there’s a a sharp pain followed by a numbness on my left cheek.
Next to her, Sassy’s eyes widen. “Oh, shit!” she laughs. “You cut her!”
“That’s gonna leave a mark,” one of the men quips with a leer.
“When we’re done with you, you’re gonna be so ugly no man will ever look at you twice again,” Wrecker’s old lady taunts. “You won’t be able to stand lookin’ in the mirror. And every time you do, you’ll remember you fucked with the wrong person.”
She nods at the men. “Tie her hands and her feet up and toss her back in the trunk.”
“Shit,” the other man spits, turning to the horizon. “Car coming. Get her in there.”
I struggle and scream as the one holding my arms starts to muscle me toward the trunk. I kick out with my good leg, but my bad one buckles under me. The pain is blinding, but all I can think of is staying out of the trunk long enough for the approaching car to see me.
“Help!” I shout. “Help me!”
A crack of gunfire splits the air.
“Holy fuck!” the man holding me yells. He lets go of me and drops to the ground, and I collapse onto the pavement next to him. Another shot rings out. Flinging my arms over my head, I risk a look toward the approaching car, which is actually a truck. There’s someone leaning out the passenger window. Aiming a gun. They’re shooting at us.
A third shot. The women are shrieking behind the car, where they’ve taken cover. Sassy shouts at the men to shoot back. I’m in the middle of a war zone.
Trying to stay as low as possible, I start to drag myself to the side of the road. Any second I’m expecting a bullet to hit me. I inch toward the shoulder, helpless cries emitting from my throat like it belongs to someone else. Eventually, once I feel gravel, I heave myself onto my side and start to roll my body into a shallow ditch that I hope is deep enough to hide me.
Please don’t see me, please don’t see me,I pray.
As I come to a rolling rest in the shallow trench, the pickup comes to a stop with a squeal of tires. There’s shouting, words I can’t make out at first, and then:
“Rory!”
It’s Brody.
“Rory!” The agony in his voice is unmistakable.
“I’m here!” I shout back. “In the ditch!”
“Stay where you are!”
More gunfire. A man screams. I keep my eyes squeezed shut, sobbing and praying. Angry shouts. A scuffle. A woman — I think Wrecker’s old lady — starts to plead and cry, then abruptly stops.
“Rory!”
Brody’s voice again, closer now. I’m being lifted. The world tilts, and my stomach lurches. I lean over, dry heave.
“Shit! Rory!”
“I’m okay!” I gasp, still sobbing.
“No you’re not!” I open my eyes to see him staring at me, fear and worry clear in his eyes. “You’re hurt! Where are you hurt?”
“My leg,” I manage. “And I… I hit my head…”
