I always thought living in the middle of nowhere was the most amazing thing. No people to harass you; no cars passing by to create noise; no nosey neighbors to watch you covertly from behind twitching curtains. Now I feel quite differently about the matter. No people to come to your rescue; no cars passing by to flag down for help; no nosey neighbors to witness a berserk gunman and call the police. Shit.
I’m not stupid. This guy could shoot me right here and now and it would be at least twenty-four hours before anyone came up here to find out where I’ve gotten to. Despite that, though, I know getting into that car means I’m dead either way. There’s no time for me to feel sorry for myself, panic or beg for my life. Nor to strike bargains or try and worm my way out of it. I just point-blank refuse to accept it.
“No. I’m not getting into the car.”
“No?” The gunman’s face scrunches up into a mask of disbelief. “You do see this gun in my hand, right?” He holds it up sideways so I can get a good look at it, index finger still poised on the trigger. He begins to stalk forward, an intent look on his face that can only mean one thing: he’s going to force me into that car, conscious or unconscious, dead or alive.
I consider my options very quickly and decide that I have none. My bravado is all well and good, but when he reaches out and grabs for me it disintegrates into a paralyzing wave of fear. The first thing I automatically want to do is call for Zeth, but he’s a thousand miles away. A thousand miles away and I need him here, right in front of me, to pound this guy into the dust with his fists.
With a vise-like grip, the guy secures a vicious hold around my wrist. He reaches up with his gun hand and is about to bring the weapon down with full force onto my head when a strange impact makes his body stumble forward into me. His eyes are vacant as he slides down my body, hand still doing its level best to keep ahold of me, except now it’s in an effort to remain upright instead of to detain me.
I make a weird gasping noise of surprise as he finally lets go and his body starts to convulse. His arms and legs spasm like crazy, his head tipped back in a strained position. When I look up, mouth open, Lacey is standing over his convulsing body clutching a gigantic hunk of rock to her chest. It’s so big and hefty that she has to hold it in with both hands, and a ridged corner of it is darkened with something dark and wet. Blood.
“Did you just—” I let the question trail off. No need to ask what she just did.
Lacey drops hold of the rock as though she was momentarily possessed when she attacked Charlie’s henchman and now, suddenly herself again, finds that she’s gripping onto a murder weapon. “I just—he needed to let you go,” she whimpers. “Is he—is he dead?”
Should I even bother checking? It takes two seconds to form the answer. “No, he’s gonna be fine. But we need to get out of here. Like, right now.” The truth is that I have no idea whether either of the men are likely to survive the assault to their bodies, but I could give two shits right now. We’ve just dodged a bullet. Perhaps literally dodged a bullet. We don’t have time to be checking on pulses and asking if our victims are alright. “Get in the car, Lace.” I point to the sedan, indicating which one I mean.
She complies quickly, arms wrapped around her body, tucking herself into the back seat of the black vehicle. I almost ask her what she thinks she’s doing getting into the back when I remember Zeth’s words: She can’t. She won’t. But that’s something to query another time. Right now, I have other things to worry about.
I freeze for a second, giving myself a moment to quit panicking and think. Think, Sloane! Blunt force trauma to the head. Diclofenac. How much time do I have here? Could be five minutes. Could just as easily be five seconds, too. I don’t have time to run upstairs for clothes, but I figure I do have enough time to run inside the house and grab my purse from the table by the front door. Once I’ve snatched that up, I hurry to the parked Volvo by the side of the house, retrieve the key from my purse, pop the hood, and then—
Then I come to a halt.
A car won’t work without spark plugs, I know that, but faced with the engine I have no idea where the spark plugs are. Or what they look like. Gasping in exasperation, I grab ahold of one of the thick black hoses feeding into the engine block and I yank it free. A bolt and a washer come loose, skittering to the ground. I pick both up and throw them as hard as I can into the dark, scrubby undergrowth, praying that the car can’t work without them.
Enough delay.
I run back to the sedan to find Lacey shaking uncontrollably in the rearview. I also find the keys already in the ignition, just waiting to be cranked. They obviously wanted to make a quick getaway. Thank fuck. “Why are we taking their car?” Lacey’s teeth chatter together as she speaks. I’ve seen shock before, can recognize its early stages. I need to get her some sugar and soon otherwise she’s gonna crash. Hard.