She had to reach Finn. Had to.
His closed eyes and ashen face tore at her. He looked like he’d been tossed aside by an uncaring hand, lying slumped against the brick wall, blood seeping from his chest. The front of his t-shirt slowly soaked it up. He might have only been asleep if it weren’t for al the blood.
She moved jerkily forward and Owen’s hand closed around her wrist. He gripped tight enough to grind her bones together, to drag her to a halt. He twisted her arm up behind her back. It should have hurt, but she had gone numb.
Finn.
He pushed the barrel of the gun beneath her ribs. She saw it, but she didn’t feel it. It made her wonder if the punch of a bullet would hurt, wake her up.
“Let’s go,” Owen said. “Cooperate or I go find your other boyfriend and shoot him too. Move.”
Her jaw flapped but no sound came out.
Owen strong-armed her toward the stairs, down them, the gun shoved beneath her ribs the entire time. He was strong and handled her easily.
She had to get back to Finn. Had. To. Had to stop this before Dan came strolling in and the prick shot him too. Owen needed to die before this nightmare worsened. He would die whatever it took.
Owen pulled her along, keeping her close, keeping up the grip on the gun and her wrist. If he had been behind her on the stairs, it wouldn’t have worked. Halfway down the stairs, she threw her half-formed plan into action. With a strangled scream, Ali smashed herself into Owen. She threw al of her weight against him.
Surprised and caught off balance, he toppled to his knees. Gravity took over.
She had hoped he would let go. He did, but only of the gun. It bumped its way down the steps ahead of them.
Next came the tearing and the pop of her arm being wrenched from its socket. A blaze of white pain shattered her like a bolt of lightning, shearing her in two. She knew her shoulder was dislocated. No more numb. Oh fuck did she feel it.
They both fell, tumbling down the stairs to land one on top of the other. Owen grunted and shoved her aside, setting off all the pain receptors in her body once more. Black pinpricks danced and the world swam, murky and bright. Her breathing came in agonizing puffs. Every bit between her top and toes felt broken. When her vision cleared she stared down the barrel of the gun, her arm limp at her side.
Owen kicked out, caught her in the leg. He even sneered for good measure. Or he tried to. There was a bruise blossoming on his jaw, bloody drool on his chin. He was a mess. She wasn’t much better. Her shoulder drowned out all other sensation.
“Fucking thtupid bitch.”
She blinked, again and again. Poor Owen had apparently bitten his tongue.
She lost it. A manic giggle frothed up. It came out as a gasping groan of a noise.
The prick’s face turned pink.
“Up. Move.” Blood bubbled on his lips. He grabbed the front of her shirt, wrestled her back up onto her feet. Whatever damage she’d done him, he still had her in strength. “Move!”
Owen dragged her, limping and swaying, to a vehicle parked out front of the building. It was one of the pick-ups used for supply runs, nothing anyone would notice. The night was deadly quiet, the street empty. Dinnertime, everyone was busy. There was no one nearby to hear them.
“Don’t make me thoot any more people,” Owen hissed in her ear, hustling her into the passenger side of the pick up. He flicked on the child lock and slammed the door closed in her face.
She had to get back to Finn.
Ali nursed her injured arm, breathing through gritted teeth as the pain ebbed and flowed. In and out, in and out, in time with her heartbeat.
Oh, God. Finn. He had to be alright. He couldn’t die. She had to escape. Get back to him. Stop the bleeding.
The truck’s interior stank of old cigarette smoke. She peered out through the dirty windscreen, hoping for rescue so she could get someone to save Finn. Not many lights out there. A few of the empty steel storage drums dotted up the sidewalk, the tips of flames dancing over the steel rim, smoke winding up into the night air.
No one knew to help Finn. He was still up there, bleeding and alone. There had been a silencer on the gun but still, someone had to have heard something. She didn’t want to think of him dying, but there it sat, front and center. No chance she was going to give in and cry in front of the prick, though her eyes watered. Her trembling sent pain lancing through her. Fuck but it hurt. Her breath stuttered and she held in a groan.
Owen climbed into the driver’s seat, a gruesome trail of slobber dripping down his chin. It hung, suspended, catching the light from the nearest fire before fal ing to his lap.
The drive was short. Blackstone wasn’t big. Neither spoke. Owen drove with the gun still in hand, braced against the steering wheel.
He darted looks at her every other second, waiting on her next great escape attempt, no doubt.
What the hell could she do?