Now would be a good time to run, but I’m frozen in place.
What if the bullet hit me and not him?
What if I’m already dead and it’s just my conscience that is stuck here in this nightmare?
Someone kicks over the chair Brady is tied to. He squeezes his eyes shut as his body lands on the carpeted floor with a thud, probably because he knows he’s looking my way.
I crane my head to see more of the hallway, just in time to witness the front door being kicked in. Sunlight floods the hallway, so harsh on my eyes that I can barely make out the silhouettes of the men entering our house.
All I wanted to do was enjoy my weekend, but for whatever reason, I ended up in the live-action version of an ego shooter. There is no other explanation, because whoever these men are, they are not police officers. They also don’t seem to be backup for the three guys currently hiding in my living room.
Two of them crouch down behind the couch with their weapons drawn while their leader stands behind the wallopening up to the hallway. He’s the first to go down. Well, the second, since victim number one is slowly but surely suffocating me.
As the new intruders move deeper into the house, one of them steps on my flowers and his dirty combat boots smear the ripped-off petals across the floorboards.
I flinch as gunshots go off and the two remaining men find the same fate as their friends. Worn down leather is pressed against my cheek and tears cloud my vision as I’m forced to lift my head.
“You weren’t supposed to be here.”
A rifle is pointed right at my face, so I look back down at the shoes of the man in front of me. At least I found the one who ruined my flowers before I die. He lifts his foot and I wonder who I wronged in my past life for getting crushed to death instead of receiving a comparatively merciful bullet like the others.
His boot doesn’t come down on my head, though. Instead, he kicks the corpse off of me, allowing me to scoot back until my back is pressed against the wall.
Piercing blue eyes stare into mine, as if he’s just searching for a good excuse to end my life.
“Is that how we treat witnesses, Cabrera?”
The fresh voice belongs to someone outside of my field of vision, but I don’t dare to move my head even an inch. What Idosee are two other men who untie Brady before dragging him out of the house.
“Not a witness; a fucking problem.”
He stalks over to me, grabs my arm, and yanks me up. More hair comes loose from my ponytail. It obstructs my sight, and for whatever reason, this is when my fight-or-flight instinct finally takes over.
I kick and thrash in his hold while he tries to maneuver me out of the house, the simple mention of the wordwitnesssomehow enough for my subconsciousness to assume they won’t kill me if I fight back.
I mean, who kills a witness?
Right?
I’m close to accepting my fate when I actually land a blow. My elbow connects with something and the man turns both of us around, shoving me toward another guy with an annoyed grunt.
He’s holding me in the weirdest, most fear-inducing hug I’ve experienced in my life—so far—and mumbles to himself when a sharp pain shoots through my thigh. It burns, and the realization that I was just injected with God knows what doesn’t help either.
The scary hug turns into a warm blanket moments later, right when my eyelids begin to feel heavy. There’s a big hand holding the back of my head, another one stabilizing my body. The men are talking, but it’s like trying to eavesdrop through layers and layers of thick wool. I can decipher a single sentence, and that one is unsettling enough to start one last, fruitless attempt to free myself.
“She’s even prettier up close.”
3
MAX
“The little bitch really hit me,” Logan hisses, while he checks if his nose is broken. He rubs his face with the sleeve of his jacket, but all it does is spread more blood in his short beard. “Now stop cuddling her, this isn’t make-a-wish.”
Reluctantly, I hand Mrs. Holton over to him. He throws her over his shoulder and as we cross the street, we hear Sam yelling at Mr. Holton.
Logan unlocks the car, but when he opens the trunk, ready to throw Mrs. Holton in there, I clear my throat. He sighs, drawn out and deliberately loud. Just like he does every time he’s unhappy with my—as he calls it—good cop approach. In my opinion, it’s more likeI’m a decent human being, and he’s Logan, but no matter how you want to put it, it gets on his nerves.
Drops of blood run over his lip and I reach out to wipe them away. I can’t see him like this. Not because I’m worried, but because it gets me fucking hard.
