Hunted

Chapter Six

Outskirts of Elmwood, South Carolina

"I'm dead," I whimpered, fingers shaking on the sleek leather-coated steering wheel, "I'm so dead."

I hadn't planned to steal another car. The first time had been more than enough in the trauma department. Yet, when surrounded by men with muscles the size of my head and voices too honied to trust, I'd been suffocated with the overwhelming urge to escape.

When backed into a corner, sense tends to succumb to safety.

Hearing the strange man, Marc, call out for reinforcement made something inside of my soul shrivel up and die, the chance for escape dwindling by the second. As I darted through the clustering of cars surrounding the gas station pumps, I had one last-ditch thought of evasion— turning to duck behind their car and hide where they'd least expected it.

Finding their car unlocked had been a blessing I doubted I was worthy of.

I could still remember the soul-cleansing relief at the way the handle gave in to my frantic fingers, the way the door opened without so much as a creak. It had been so easy to climb into the driver's seat— utilizing those heavily tinted windows to my own advantage as I scrambled through the car's components, trying to find something heavy I could use as a bludgeon when they eventually returned.

I'd planned on hiding in the car for as long as I could, but once my fingers touched the cool edge of a heavy set of keys, I knew I'd found my chance for escape.

A panicked laugh bubbled up from my throat.

As the hours ticked their way through the day, I was slowly coming to match the fugitive label painted on my chest.

At least the suburban was a step up from my first car-jacking victim. Unlike the police cruiser, the inside of this SUV was decadent. Complete with leather seats, a central mounted GPS system, and a heated interior, the mammoth vehicle was practically a five-star resort compared to its predecessor. It even had a full gas tank and a working radio, something I'd missed dearly from my last mechanical accomplice.

Despite the elegance, I couldn't help but return to my original source of worry.

Twitching my gaze back toward the passenger seat, fear scratched its way up my chest, "Dead— I'm dead."

The car came with an unanticipated souvenir beyond the amenities.

There were few things in life I'd never forget the sight of. Some of them were to be expected, family memories that never left or thoughts of friends once cherished— my mother's screaming face, my father's disapproval, Karen's laugh, and my neighbor's oatmeal cookies. The others were less pleasant.

The smell of bleach, the taste of vinegar, and the cold gleam of polished metal as it cocked against my head.

Tucked between the plush leather seat and the center console beside me, I caught that familiar glint of metal. Terrified memories flooded to the surface. I remembered the way my original kidnapper had tucked that metal against the base of my skull, his wet breath breaking out of my ear and commanding me to walk toward the door. I learned from experience how hard that heavy frame would be as it'd bash against the weak flesh of my temple.

Without even touching it, I knew it would smell like brass and fire, maybe even a touch of bleach due to the pistol's polished surface.

I shouldn't have been surprised by the sight of the gun. From my best assumptions, the people who were after me were entangled with a criminal organization. The stunt they'd accomplished down at the police station didn't happen without coordinated effort and practice. They knew what they were doing, how to track me down, and— my eyes flicked back toward the pistol.