Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76580 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76580 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Alligators.
Bobcats.
Swamp people.
You know—old, gangly, missing teeth, likely with a pretty bad meth problem. I was sure they existed. And they didn't get many pretty pieces of choice meat around these parts.
That was a different kind of devouring I was not going to take part in either.
I think I'd rather take my chances with the 'gaters.
Some people did drive around this area after dark, though, and I was probably safer taking my chances on them than these dudes who put me in a trunk.
Especially because these guys clearly had been watching me. And we'd all been wholly unaware. I mean, they definitely watched me long enough to know that I was with West, and had done enough work to track down an identical bike, to make an identical cut.
These were professionals.
I would take my chances against some idiot with bad intentions in a passing car than against professionals any day.
"Oh, that bitch," a voice snapped, likely seeing the damage to the taillight.
Sorry not sorry, dude.
There was an accent to him too, but not an obvious one, not one I could easily place. I did better with South American accents, and this one had a distinct European sound to it.
I couldn't tell a Polish accent from a Russian from a Romanian.
Which would likely be of little use when I got away and told Huck and West about it, but I figured a Russian or Polish dude with a pen in his eye wouldn't be too hard to track down. And those guys damn sure knew a lot more than they were telling me about the local threats against us all.
I had insisted that I needed to be in on those conversations, had reminded them that my safety was at risk too.
They'd pulled a modern impression of 'don't worry, little lady, these big strong men will protect you' on me.
And, well, I was going to enjoy the hell out of telling them exactly how wrong they were.
And how right I was.
Was that petty?
Yes.
But I felt like I deserved petty when I got thrown in a trunk.
Petty.
And ice cream.
And a foot massage.
And a puppy to cuddle while I recovered from it all.
The trunk popped, making my stomach drop.
I sucked in a slow, steady breath, slitting my eyes open, seeing a face come into view.
My arm flew out, stabbing outward with the pen.
Missing the eye by several inches, the pen tip jabbed into the man's cheek, sending him rearing back with a howl.
The other man was taken aback for a second, gaze on his friend who was yanking the pen out of his cheek.
I was halfway out of the trunk when he remembered I was there, reaching out, hand closing around my forearm, yanking hard as I stumbled out of the trunk. Pain shot up my arm, enough of it that I was pretty sure there was a hairline fracture to my ulna—the smaller forearm bone.
"Ow," I hissed, remembering the piece of plastic in my hand, swinging out with it. I wasn't close enough—and didn't want to get close enough—to get near his throat, so I stabbed hard into his forearm, seeing the piece wedge in, feeling his grip release my arm.
I didn't think.
I didn't hesitate.
I turned and ran.
Any head-start I could get worked in my short-legged favor.
The road was long and bendy, but without any other cars, or places to hide out.
I knew it was a matter of time.
They'd get in their car.
They'd find me.
They'd drag me back.
And make me pay for what I'd done to them.
Lungs screaming, legs burning, I pushed past a turn in the road, allowing me to get momentarily out of sight.
There weren't a lot of choices.
None of them were good.
But only one of them would get me out of sight quickly.
With a cry in my chest, I threw myself off of the road, wading through the soggy ground found there, hauling ass across the slippery green, making my way toward a tree, inwardly praying the damn alligators hadn't decided to call it home for the night.
I grabbed with my good arm, thankful for a job that included some manual labor as I pulled up, allowing me to hook a leg over the branch.
The bark was covered in moss, making my grip loosen.
My other arm went up automatically, on instinct, grabbing.
The pain that shot through my forearm nearly made my vision go white.
But my leg held on and allowed me to straddle, hanging off the branch like the panthers I heard roamed these parts as well.
My arm throbbed, making tears spring to my eyes as I tried to pull myself up without it, to hide better on the branch, disguising myself in the hanging leaves.
My heart was hammering through my chest as the headlights started down the road, a flashlight aimed out of the window, scanning the sides of the road.