“Do you honestly think I’m stupid enough to carry a weapon around you after you shot my father?”
I had to give him props for that. I was running out of options to stop this deranged man.
He wore a permanent grin. “I can see your wheels turning. You’ll never save those girls.”
I gritted my teeth, and my next move was the only one I could think of. I went to headbutt him until he moved slightly and rolled us. Now, he was on top, pinning my hands above my head.
“I’m rather enjoying this quite a lot,” he said.
I bucked beneath him, trying to throw him off. His weight shifted to the right, and I took my shot. I wrenched my left hand free and clawed at the mud beside me, searching for a rock, anything to use as a weapon.
The storm raged on as my heart followed suit.
My hand found a fallen stick—solid enough to do the job.
I went to swing, but he stopped me. “Tsk, tsk, tsk, Grace. After you stuck the key in my neck, do you think I would make a mistake again?”
I held out my arms as if I were about to make a snow angel. “You win.”
I was praying hard that Fran was okay and had found that road Sabine mentioned.
He traced the stick over my face. “You truly will be worth my wait.”
As quickly as I could, I grabbed the end of the stick, wrenched it from him, and jammed it upward.
“What the fuck?” He fell off me.
I clumsily climbed to my feet, the mud slowing me down.
He pulled the stick from his eye then rose to his feet. “You’ll pay for this, Grace.”
Instantly, that memory of Thea gouging out John’s eyes hit me. Oh, the irony of what I was witnessing was all too satisfying. But I couldn’t bask in glory yet.
My self-defense training kicked in. As he lunged forward, I slipped to the side and drove my knee up into his ribs.
He staggered but caught my shoulder. “I can still see.”
“Barely.” I twisted, breaking his grip, and snapped a front kick to his knee.
The mud made my movements sloppy, but he grunted in pain. Then he swung wildly, his damaged eye throwing off his depth perception. I ducked under the blow and straightened with an uppercut to his jaw, followed by a sharp elbow strike to his temple.
Each hit was punctuated by thunder, as if nature itself were counting the blows.
He tried to grapple with me, but his movements were becoming erratic. I spun away from his grasp and delivered a kick to his stomach. His feet came out from under him, and hegroaned and opened his mouth to shout, but he went down, and his head hit something hard.
Then nothing.
I kicked him. He didn’t move. I pressed my fingers to his carotid artery and growled. He still had a pulse. I searched his pockets for keys to the cages and found something so much better that I almost cried—his cell.
Damn thing was locked.
I opened his eyelids, hoping that his cell was set up to unlock with face recognition. His right eye was filled with blood, but the good one was enough to open his phone. I sighed, punching in 911.
“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?” the lady asked.
“My name is Grace Hart. I’m being held hostage along with about ten other girls at a farm in the Freetown Forest. I don’t know more than that.” I rifled through Josh’s pockets again, looking for keys.
Nothing.
