Page 64 of Ricochet

As seconds ticked by, his growling grew louder, more intense, peaking into the edges of a bark. I couldn’t take my eyes of the vehicle outside, though. A vehicle meant a means of escape.

My stomach churned with the indecision swirling in my head. Should I take a chance and approach a complete stranger, or stay where I could land back in the arms of a psycho, one who’d surely kill me? At that point, Michael had to have figured out I’d stolen that chip from his desk.

I’d vowed never to be a victim again. I’d never be broken again. Not knowing Nick’s intentions made him an enemy.

A quick glimpse outside the window showed the lights hadn’t yet flipped back on. Do it, Aubree. Go now.

A bark tightened my muscles, and I tiptoed to the bedroom door, peering down into the dilapidated foyer. Blue’s barks turned frantic, and he jumped at the door, scratching the wood like he tried to claw his way to whatever stood on the other side. He sounded like a starving lion ready to break from its cage.

With Blue occupied, it was then or never. Dashing into the bathroom-slash-closet, I nabbed my coat, slung over the rack, and slipped it on. Not the warmest thing to wear in October, but it’d have to do.

Holy hell, my heart hammered so hard I thought the damn thing might leap out of my chest, and my easy breaths turned to shallow pants of fear.

All at once, Blue stopped barking.

My body continued to tremble, though, as Blue remained by the door, frozen stiff one minute, whimpering and pacing the next. He lowered his head, as though sniffing through the door, then sat back on his haunches.

Padding down the stairs earned a quick glimpse from the dog, but as though he was too occupied to care what I did, he turned his attention back toward the door.

Inside the dark kitchen, I searched for something I could use as a weapon. Anything. Rifling through mostly empty drawers produced nothing more than spatulas and a can opener. I twisted around and zeroed in on the kitchen chair.

Blue’s distant bark stiffened my spine, and I lurched forward, grabbed the back of the chair, and slammed it into the countertop. Once. Twice. The leg finally splintered into a sharp spike of wood, a pathetic little jabbing tool.

Better than nothing, though.

Through the kitchen, into an adjacent mudroom, I made my way toward the back door. The slamming of the chair hadn’t interrupted Blue’s incessant barking, and another glance over my shoulder showed the dog hadn’t bothered to follow me.

I slipped through the door, shutting myself outside, where brisk winds whipped through my opened jacket. I hadn’t had time to change and wore nothing more than a T-shirt and jeans beneath the coat.

Scampering across the lawn brought me to the edge of the shallow grove that separated the two properties. Christ, I didn’t even have a flashlight.

Voices erupted from a distance away. Two? Three? Blood pounding through my ears made it difficult to distinguish, but each one definitely sounded deep, masculine.

The trembles wracked my body, and each breath arrived shaky. Who were those people? Drug dealers? Nick’s neighbors?

Twigs crackled beneath my boots as I rounded trees and snuck through the narrow forest, until I arrived on the edge of the adjacent estate.

Perhaps more dilapidated than the one I’d just escaped, the mansion had more of a gothic look. Sounds from inside echoed across the yard. Glass breaking. Slamming, thumping. Crumbling, like whoever was inside had taken a sledge hammer to the walls. Laughter.

Thieves.

Across the unkempt lawn, an older model red truck sat parked, the bed of it filled with metal and furniture—objects that backed my suspicions. The closer I stalked toward the truck, the louder the noises became, like a stampede moving through the house with speed. Behind a lower level window of the house, flashlights flickered about, and in one of the rooms on the upper level. Crouching low, I rounded the vehicle and, finding it empty, opened the door and climbed inside.

My father, in his determination to protect me and teach me to get out of sticky situations, had shown me how to hotwire a vehicle once. That’d been years ago, though, and dread twisted my gut as I bent forward and searched the glove box for something I could use to remove the panel on the steering column. Depending on the age of the truck, a screwdriver could be used like a key to start it, too , but I found nothing. Still clutching the wooden spike, I flicked the sharp tine, testing its strength. Maybe I could use the tip as a key. Or lodge it into the panel to pop it off. Was worth a try, anyway.

As I sat up, breath trapped in my throat.

Through the windshield, a kid, maybe fourteen or fifteen, stared back at me. Dirt coated his pale face, and his clothes were no more than rags hanging off his skinny frame, like he’d been living on the streets. He glanced over his shoulder, toward the mansion behind him, then back at me.

Breaths arriving fast enough to make me dizzy, I slid my hand across my lap, patted along the door for the handle, and gripped tight.

Before I could bolt, he opened his mouth and screamed. Loud, piercing. It wasn’t until it reverberated back that I realized he’d yelled, “Thief!”

I jumped out of the driver’s seat, and the second my boots hit the grass, I dashed toward the woods. A backward glance showed three men exiting the mansion and trailing after me. I kept on, pounding as much speed as I could from the clunky boots I wore, ignoring how they thumped as I leapt over fallen branches and brush.

Oh, shit, oh shit!

“Stay on her, Trey!” I heard one of them call out.