I can’t just let this happen.
The crunch of gravel under my shoes draws their attention, even over the sound of Kyle’s gasping cries.
Aaron’s expression shifts when he catches sight of me, moving quickly from surprise to satisfaction. He gives me a predatory smile, still gripping Kyle’s bloody collar in his fist.
“Well, well.” He releases Kyle, who crumples to the ground in a heap of blood and groans. “The little bitch is smarter than she looks.”
I force myself not to flinch as he approaches me slowly, clearly enjoying the obvious fear on my face.
Aaron’s hand closes around my upper arm hard enough to leave bruises on top of the bruises already blooming there.
“You know what,” he says, yanking me close enough that his breath washes across my face in a wave of stale beer and cigarettes. “I was going to wait for the ransom. Give your rich boyfriend a chance to pay up like a good little fuckboy. But you just had to go and fuck with my time.”
His free hand grabs a fistful of my hair, wrenching my head back until my neck screams in protest.
“But I’m going to enjoy teaching you what happens when?—“
“AARON!”
One of the bikers sprints around the corner of a shipping container, boots skidding on gravel. His face is slick with sweat and his eyes are wild.
“There’s a fire in the main building. The whole back wall’s going up.”
Aaron’s grip loosens by a fraction. His head swivels toward the far side of the salvage yard where, now that I’m looking, an orange glow licks at the sky above the stacked containers. The sharp smell of smoke threads through the diesel and salt.
“Then put it out,” Aaron snarls. “Use the extinguishers. I don’t give a shit. I’ll deal with the damage when I’m done with her.”
The biker opens his mouth to argue, but he never gets the chance.
The explosion punches the air out of my lungs before the sound even registers. A concussiveboomripples across the yard, rattling the shipping containers like tin cans. A pillar of orange flame erupts beyond the row of containers to our left, vomiting black smoke skyward. Heat rolls over us in a wave thick enough to taste.
“The propane tank!” The biker staggers, throwing an arm over his face. “That’s the fucking propane tank! The whole yard’s gonna go!”
The remaining bikers break formation, whatever loyalty they felt toward Aaron evaporating in the face of fire and exploding fuel. They scatter toward the blaze, boots pounding gravel, shouting over each other.
Aaron’s grip on my arm goes slack. Just for a second. Just long enough for his head to turn toward the inferno, mouth hanging open, confusion and rage warring across his face as his operation literally goes up in smoke.
And then I hear the sirens.
Distant at first, then rapid and multiplying. The unmistakable wail of emergency vehicles tearing through the quiet Maine night from what sounds like more than one direction.
Aaron’s face goes white and his fingers spasm, just enough for his grip on me to go slack.
I rip my arm free and run.
My legs are numb and clumsy from hours in the chair, and the gravel shifts treacherously beneath my feet. I stumble once, catch myself on the corrugated wall of a container, push off,keep going. The fence. Kyle said there was a hole in the fence. Somewhere along the perimeter, in the direction opposite the fire.
Behind me, Aaron roars my name.
I don’t look back.
The container maze swallows me. I go left around a rusted hull, then right through a gap barely wide enough for my shoulders. Smoke fills the air, burning my eyes and throat. The sirens are louder now and I blindly run in the direction I think they’re coming from.
A figure steps into my path, close enough that I can slow down before the inevitable collision.
I slam into a hard chest at full speed and strong arms wrap tight around my body.
FORTY-FOUR
