Hunted

Chapter Four

Cherokee Falls, South Carolina

The pants didn't fit.

I'd managed to get the handcuffs off with little issue thanks to the keys on the utility belt, but the pants I'd pulled on dwarfed my tiny frame.

I wasn't sure what it was about that insignificant fact that set me off, but it was enough to send all my adrenaline crashing. Between pulling the tattered material off the man's legs, trying to yank them over my own, and catching sight of the blood splatters that dotted the blue material, I was ready to throw in the towel after hardly beginning.

I never wanted to do any of this— I only wanted to go home.

Wrapping the belt around my waist as tight as it could go, I tried to breathe through the frantic tears dripping down my cheeks. The belt didn't fit. It was three sizes too big and I ended up having to tie the leather together in a knot for it to stay upright. There was no way this would work.

"Oh god," I muttered, repeating the mantra I'd been relying on for the past fifteen minutes, "What am I doing?"

There was no answer, which was for the best. I didn't want to have to resort to heavier measures to keep my kidnapper down.

I wasn't sure I could do it even if it came down to it.

Speaking of him, I turned my head over my shoulder to eye his limp body on the ground. He still hadn't stirred. Even as I divested him of his uniform, he'd simply laid there as cool as a corpse. It worried a quiet part of me that refused to relinquish its grip on morality, but I knew I didn't have the time or the luxury to worry about his health.

I had to get out of here, even if I wasn't sure where I would land.

Pulling on the man's navy blue shirt uniform, I tucked my hand into the pockets. I'd yet to find the keys to the cruiser and I wouldn't be going anywhere until I had those safely in my possession. The first pocket came up empty, save for a small ball of lint, but in the second pocket I managed to feel the cool touch of metal.

"Thank goodness," it was still odd using my voice, having been gagged for the better part of a week, but I needed to get used to it. I brought the set up to the sunlight, squinting at the four silver keys, "Crap."

I'd never driven a car— hardly ever been allowed to ride in one either. There were certain aspects I was familiar with due to my readings, but the practical part of the whole thing left me floundering. At best, I knew there was an accelerator, a brake, and a gear shift.

But beyond that? I had no clue.

Grabbing the largest key, I shuffled toward the still open driver's side door. The car was making an irritating beeping noise to signal the ajar door, but I paid it little mind. Instead, I squeezed the keys as tight as I could, peering into the tight machine that had been my cage for the last part of the week.

It still smelled like cigarettes. Obvious considering the multitude of smushed burnt-out butts on the passenger side flooring, but it still made me gag. I'd never get over that sick smell of tar and the memories it drug up of my mother.

But there was no time to dally in memories of the dead.

Tucking my behind into the seat, I grabbed the door and shut it as swiftly as possible. Once the beeping quit, the only thing I could do was stare.

The magnitude of my actions hadn't yet settled in, but I could feel the shock and panic creeping its way up my throat. I needed to move before it could fester, but I wasn't sure where to go or how to even get started.