by Skye Warren
“What’s going on?”
“I told you, baby. Trouble.”
Her eyes flicker with disbelief, and I know there’s some irony there. I’m trouble. But I don’t want her going down with me. It’s important. She’s important.
The car is still back there, a little close for comfort. I jerk the wheel and pull over, slam onto the gravel and stop. The car passes me, then skids to a stop in the middle of the street up ahead.
So they were following me. Game on.
I do a U-turn and scream down the road the other way. The Suburban has shit for pickup, and the blue car is on me.
Abby pops her head up, peeking over the seat, right as a shot blasts out.
“Jesus!” I swerve the car to throw them off.
She’s back down, huddling in the seat. I run my hand over her hair to reassure myself. They didn’t hit us, didn’t hit her, but now I’m pissed. Nobody shoots at Abby.
There’s another shot, and my tire blows out. And then another and something breaks; the steering’s out. I slam on the brakes and go into a spin. I’m reaching out and grabbing her to keep her safe, keep her from smashing her head, trying to control this piece-of-shit ride. There’s a bone-shattering jolt, and everything comes to a stop. The world comes to a stop.
The nose of the car is smashed sideways into a tree.
“You okay?”
She looks at me, dazed. Her eyes are wide. Scared. How did she get mixed up in all this? But that’s life—it’ll drag you down no matter how sweet and innocent you start out. I grab my piece. I see the blue sedan in a ditch on the other side of the road.
I jump out. Everything’s quiet.
A shot explodes the silence. I duck behind our vehicle. He’s behind his, behind the engine block. Only one of us will be getting reinforcements soon, and it’s not me. Things are only going to go downhill for me from here, so I charge his car, right across the road, shooting. Shoot your way out. It’s desperate and ballsy. It’s something he won’t expect.
I run right up, one boot crashing onto the middle of the hood, and I’m landing right on him, feet first. He gets a shot off, but he’s moving—he expected me from a side. So the shot goes wild. I’ve got him under me now like a stomped sack of potatoes. I grab his head and ram the hard plate of my forehead into the delicate structure of his nose, a vicious head butt that breaks his face and knocks him right out.
He slumps onto the dirt. I wipe his blood from my eyes.
Our truck is fucked up now, so I get into his car, making a U-turn and screaming up right next to the Suburban. I get out and clamber in the still-open driver’s side door. She’s there, cringing against the passenger-side door. She didn’t run like I told her to. In shock, maybe.
“Let’s go,” I say.
The way she looks at me, I’m guessing my face is pretty bloody. She fumbles her door open. I reach for her wrist, but she’s too nimble. She takes off down the road.
Now she runs.
I’ve got a functioning car. I could get us out. But the governor’s guys are on their way. If they catch her up and she tells them her story, it’s not just Stone and Nate in trouble. They’ll figure out she means something to me, considering I didn’t kill her, considering I fucked her. And before long her fingers will be showing up places where I’m most likely to hear about them.
I look at the barren landscape that will soon be crawling with the governor’s vehicles and the cars of dirty cops. I go back to strategy, because it doesn’t fail me. What’s the best thing to do? The smartest thing? Shoot her.
I tear out after her instead, down this road barely wider than a single lane, a straightaway for as far as the eye can see. Catching up to her is not a problem. Hours upon hours of physical exercise in the yard and in my cell means I’m on top of my game. But dragging a fighting girl back to the car, all before the governor’s guys show up? I’m sweating that.
A shiny town car comes tearing up the road from far ahead. She’s running, waving her arms for help.
“No, Abby!”
She keeps on going, and I keep after her even though it’s crazy. I could still make it back to the blue sedan.
“No!” I shout. “Don’t trust them. Abby!”
She speeds up, thinking she has safety in sight.
Fuck. It’s just the opposite.
The car pulls over some ten yards ahead.
The guy’s in a suit. I recognize his red buzz cut and pinkish complexion from the last time the governor’s guys cornered me. I don’t know his name, but it doesn’t fucking matter. History is repeating itself, and the scariest part is that Abby’s here for it. He takes cover behind his car door, piece flashing in the sun.
“Get away from here!” I yell. She could still get away. It’s me he wants to kill.
Shots ping around my feet. I dive for the ditch and roll, shoot back. He ducks behind his door.
She’s like a deer, frozen at the side of the road, not quite between us but too close for comfort. “Abby! Get to the blue car and take off—I’ll cover you. Come on, you want to be free, right? Drive out of here. I’ll deal with him.” I’m revealing her value to Red Crew Cut, but he’ll figure it out anyway. “Go!”
She just stands there, probably more shocked by the sound of me begging than the gunfire.
Hell, I should turn around and head back to the sedan myself. I could still do that while Abby’s out there creating confusion. It’s a good plan. “Get out of here!” I yell.
It’s then, I suppose, that he catches on. “It’s a trick, Abby,” he says. When he says her name, it feels like spikes in my spine. “I’ll keep you safe.”
“Abby,” I yell. She looks back at me, eyes full of regret.
There’s fear too, because some part of her knows it’s not normal for a guy in a suit to stop his car and start shooting. He didn’t announce himself as a police officer because he’s not one. Her survival instinct is telling her she isn’t safe, but her mind is overriding that. Because of me. What I did to her.
“We’ll put Grayson back where he belongs,” the governor’s man says, voice smooth with authority. “Come on back here where you’ll be safe.”
“He’s lying, Abby!” I picture her relief when they take her into custody. She’ll think it’s over. And then her horror when they start hurting her.
“You shouldn’t have done it,” she says, backing toward the town car, voice cracking. She takes another step toward him. Then another. She’s five feet away from the car.
This is my punishment. That’s all I can think about. Her soft flesh sucking me in. Her moans filling the air like goddamn music. I took what wasn’t mine, and this is my punishment: watching her get destroyed.
“Abby,” I plead, voice hoarse.
“You would have to kill me eventually,” she says, so damn sadly that my chest aches. The tears on her cheek flash white in the sun. “In the end, that’s how it would be.”
Helplessly I watch her turn and run to the town car, to the open door that’s shielding the man in the buzz cut. He pops up and grabs her by the neck, shoving the nose of the gun into her cheek so hard it distorts her pretty features. Rage stabs through me, and it’s all I can do not to barrel out of the ditch.
She coughs and struggles as the coward marches her out, using her to cover him.
Strategy. Shoot her.
Her cry is hoarse. “Grayson!” Her terror blinds me. It’s all I can see—he’s hurting her, choking her.
Shoot them both. Mow them down.
If this had been a trick to draw him out, it would’ve been brilliant. Because there he is, out in the open with only her for cover.
She’s clawing at his hands. He’s choking her, and the fucked-up thing is that I can barely breathe now, and my pulse pounds so loud I can’t think.
Red speaks. “Throw the weapons and come out, hands knit on your head. Then I’ll let the girl go.”
He won’t let her go. He’ll kill her for the same reason I should’ve. But the pain
of him choking her out slowly is too much to bear.
“Help me!” she gasps, and I’m powerless to resist.
Twenty-Nine
~Abigail~
I’m pulling at his fingers, trying to get air, scratching his arms and hands, but he doesn’t care, he just squeezes tighter until it feels like my tendons are separating from bone. Even dragging me around the woods, even fucking me, Grayson didn’t hurt me like this.
The tip of his gun is grinding so hard into my cheek that my mouth tastes of blood.
“Grayson!” My cry is a whisper in the wind.
Come on back here where you’ll be safe, the man said. A lie. For once Grayson was telling the truth. But then, he was telling the truth all along.
Through my tears I see something flash in the sun out in the weedy ditch where Grayson took cover. I watch the gun slide onto the road with a loud clatter and come to rest a few feet over the painted white line.
“The other.” The guy in the suit shakes me like it’s nothing. He’s a big guy, almost as big as Grayson, so I guess it is nothing.
My brain feels scrambled when he tightens his hand again. I can’t get enough air. I gasp and claw at his fingers. Another gun sails out of the weedy ditch onto the road.
“That’s it.” Grayson’s voice. “She can’t breathe! Ease up.”
The man loosens his hold on my neck, and I gulp in the air. The haircutting shears I got from the bathroom lie on the ground near my feet. He didn’t see them fall. I try to twist out of his arms, but they’re like rock. If I could get to the scissors…
My heart twists as Grayson rises from the weeds, hands over his head. His stance is wide and proud. And then he starts toward us.
He’s coming for me. Just like he did before.
My heart skips a beat, and everything slows. I forget the hands around my throat, the burn in my lungs. All I see is him. The borrowed gray T-shirt shows off his lean, muscled body. His expression is fierce.
The man tightens his grip on my neck again, and I can hear the smirk in his voice when he says, “Fancy meeting you here.”
Even from far away I see the change in Grayson’s eyes—they’re like steel, peering out of his bloody face.
He shrugs. “The way I remember it,” he calls out, “I said the next time I saw you, I was going to kill you.”
The man jabs the gun deeper into my cheek. “Yeah, you said that right before they stuffed you into the back of a squad car.”
Grayson smiles, and it sends chills down my spine.
“Close enough,” the man says.
Grayson doesn’t stop.
“I’ll kill her,” the man says.
“Oh, I was going to kill her myself,” Grayson says, moving steadily toward us like a thundercloud or a battleship.
I feel the man’s fingers stiffen over my throat, press in. I sputter. “If you were going to kill her, she’d be dead,” the man growls.
I cough, but Grayson doesn’t flinch. I’m right in the middle of them, two men who want to kill each other.
“Any kid who grew up on a farm knows,” Grayson says, moving ever nearer, just a bus length away now, “you should never name the animals. It makes them too hard to slaughter. But you go ahead.”
Name the animals? I twist and kick, landing one on the man’s shins.
In a flash Grayson’s hands are off his head, and he has a gun pointed at us, having taken advantage of the distraction I’d provided, I suppose. “You’ve got one shot, the way I see it, before I take your head off. So how about you do her, I’ll do you, and we’ll all be on our merry way.”
The man starts pulling me back toward the open car door, but then Grayson starts counting. “One. Two.” And I know we won’t make it. “Three.”
The gun is off my cheek, and the blast shatters my ears. At that exact moment he lets me go, and I stumble back, clutching my neck, gasping for air. I lose my footing and fall to the ground. There’s another shot, and another. I wait for the pain, but it doesn’t come. Who’s hit?
I scramble to my feet and see Grayson lying there, curled on his side, grabbing at stones around him, trying to get to his gun, which is too far away.
The man who was choking me is on all fours, like a cow. He rises to his feet, unsteady, clutching his belly, gun in hand, taking jerky steps toward Grayson.
He’s going to kill Grayson. And then he’ll kill me. The shears that dropped glint in the sun. I roll over and snap them up, and without thinking twice, I run for the guy, jump on his back, and jab them into the side of his neck.
They go in with sickening ease.
Horrified, I pull them out. My fist feels wet. Warm. He raises an arm and his gun goes off, and then we crash to the ground together, but I don’t let go. He’s crawling, dragging himself. I have this idea in my head that I have to hang on, I have to stay behind him and ride him, because he might shoot me if he can see me.
I can barely hold on, my one hand is so bloody. A car passes, slowing, then speeding, a blur of metal and glass out of the corner of my eye, but I don’t let go. This is how I’m going to beat this asshole. Not with physical strength. Not with fighting skills. By never giving up. It’s how I always win.
He’s on his hands and knees, and then he just collapses. I jump off him, arm soaked with blood. The man seems dead. Then I look over at Grayson. He isn’t moving.
Something lurches in my chest. I know what I should do—take one of the cars. Take the car and get out, like Grayson said. Get the FBI.
It has to be the FBI, because that’s what Grayson told me. And then he groans.
Before I can think better of it, I’m at his side. He blinks rapidly. “Fuck,” he whispers.
“Grayson.” His whole shirt is full of blood, there’s blood on his face, but he was bloody even before he got shot. Sirens in the distance. “Can you walk?”
He tries to get up. “No. Go. Take the car. No time.” The blue car is a ways off, but not the black fancy car. If nothing else, being with Grayson has taught me about taking what you want. He’s injured now. I’m in charge.
I run to the fancy car and get in. The keys are still in the ignition. I start it up and drive it the few yards to where Grayson is, navigating so my tires don’t go over the man’s body…the man I killed. I should probably leave Grayson here. I know I should.
I get out and open the passenger door and go to Grayson. “Come on.” I pull on his arm, and he grunts in pain.
“No! Other—” He uses his left hand to push himself up.
I grab his left shoulder and help him, though it’s him doing the work. It’s only a couple of feet to the door. He flops onto the seat and I shut the door. Then I race around and get behind the wheel and drive.
The seat is so low I have to sit up to see out the window. I lay on the gas, increasing the speed, using the steering wheel not only to steer but also to keep me forward. I’m not the best driving without my glasses, but I can make out the road, the red blur of a stop sign, other cars.
He’s curled up on his left side in the passenger seat, the top of his head grazing my thigh. The curled-up position seems to ease his pain.
“Fuck, baby,” he whispers. “You are so beautiful.”
He’s delirious. “I’m taking you to a hospital.”
“No.”
“You don’t have a choice.” Because I have the power, though I don’t feel powerful. I just feel scared. More than when Grayson put a gun to my side and forced me to help him escape. More than anything.
“No…just…” He fades off. My heart pounds.
“Just what?” I press. Does he have a game plan for when he gets injured? “I’m taking you to the hospital.”
“Bradford Hotel,” he grates out. “Get on the interstate.”
“Are you crazy? What about your friend?”
“No. Can’t go back there.”
I look down at him. He seems to be pressing on his shoulder; the white scar design on his thick forearm gleams with sweat and blood. The
words chest cavity float into my mind. How bad is he hurt?
“Grayson?”
The only sound is sirens in the distance.
I drive for a bit and say his name again. “Grayson.” Again he doesn’t answer.
Don’t leave me alone.
“Don’t name your farm animals?” I ask. “What the fuck is that? So I’m a farm animal you shouldn’t have named?”
He makes a breathy noise. Maybe it’s supposed to be a laugh. It doesn’t comfort me.
“Here’s a farm animal name. How about ‘You’re lucky I pulled your sorry ass out of there after what you did.’ What do you think about that for a name?”
I look down. He’s smiling. Maybe grimacing. Either way, it’s better than him sliding out of consciousness. I want him with me. I have to know he’s okay.
The road winds. Trees obscure everything beyond ten feet. “Where’s the interstate? I’ll get on the interstate if you tell me where it is.”
He hisses out a breath, like this is a monumental task. “Which way’re we going?”
“Which way?” I look around for the sun. It’s up there, but I don’t know what time of day it is. Afternoon? Yes, afternoon. The sun sets in the west. “Uh, east.”
“Okay,” he says, voice light and shallow, a pond instead of the ocean. “That’s what we want,” he says. “Interstate’s east of here.”
“Should I speed up and risk, you know—”
“Getting a ticket? Fuck, yeah!”
“You hang in there,” I say. “I’m doing ninety.”
He doesn’t answer.
“If at any point I think you’re unconscious, you will be dropped at a hospital.”
No answer.
Don’t leave me alone.
“Or I’ll just drive you back to the prison myself. Straight to the clinic and check you in.” I reach down and touch his dark hair, damp against his clammy forehead, inches from my thigh. “Got it? So stay with me.”
“Yes, Ms. Winslow.” The words are faint, but they’ve never sounded sweeter. My chest expands with relief. At his core he’s a fighter. A warrior.
And he fought for me.
Nobody ever came for me or fought for me, and it means everything that he did.