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Authors: Allie Juliette Mousseau
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overcome.
Keeping the woman balanced over my shoulder, I arm myself with both Glocks—one in each hand—and press forward like a bat out of hell.
Chapter Five
Rachel
Grave mistake.
I shouldn’t have played a bargaining chip like that! I just thought if I could get them to remove the cuffs, I’d have a chance to get away. I thought anything would be better than Mexico City!
Now I’m even more desperate. I don’t understand what’s happening!
The fighting noise erupts, and a new picture comes to mind. Miguel’s men saw police raiding the place and decided to get me the hell out before I was discovered. That’s why this guy isn’t bringing me to the rescuers. That’s why I’m still in these archaic cuffs that keep my arms and hands in check and immobilized behind my back, and that’s why, when I screamed, he taped my mouth shut.
He hasn’t uttered another word since telling me he was taking me out of here. No way he’s my savior.
What does that mean anyway, taking you out of here?
He would have taken the cuffs off if this was a rescue; he would’ve removed the blindfold so I could see his face . . . it all would’ve been done differently.
He still hasn’t talked to me. His breathing is controlled as he runs almost full-force. He’s so strong, I don’t know how I can get free from him. But if I’m going to get free, this is my chance—during the transportation—before I’m thrown into another hole or a vehicle.
I consider hitting him with the cuff bar but realize I don’t have enough distance to strike with any real force, so I’d probably just succeed in pissing him off enough to knock me unconscious. Then I’ll have no chance.
Dread slows the beat of my heart to a near stall. What if this is the guy in charge of delivering me to the buyer?
I can’t figure any of this out. All I know is that I’m being whisked away from police and closer to my death.
The man running doesn’t slow or falter, and his muscular shoulder is driving into my ribcage, grating against it without mercy. My legs press up against his chest, and being barelegged, my skin scrapes against some sort of utility vest—I can feel the cool metal and lumps of plastic within the Velcro micro pockets.
If I can just reach something in one of those pockets! I can poke out his eye! Or jab him in an artery.
Dear God, give me the opportunity.
All of a sudden, he stops and changes direction.
My ass, feet and legs keep hitting unyielding metal . . .
It’s a ladder, I can feel it.
Oh my God! How high is it? I’m on his shoulder!
I try screaming under the tape.
“Stay silent,” he barks gruffly in a low, threatening tone.
I can only imagine how high up we could be.
I wonder if I can push my face against the fabric of his shoulder and back and move this blindfold away from my eyes. Why hadn’t I thought of that when he first picked me up?
As he jostles me while going up the ladder, I work my cheek and temple over his shoulder, willing the blindfold to loosen its hold.
He wraps one arm over me and the other under my body for just a moment, causing me to freeze. Then he focuses his effort upwards. Lifting his arms and crushing me closer against him, he also lifts whatever’s over the top of us.
When he presses me into him, it’s exactly what I need, and the blindfold comes down and away from my right eye.
It feels like a lifeline I can grip onto for all I’m worth. I can see again. But what’s happening around me causes me to shudder with fear that’s quickly spilling towards hysteria.
It’s darkest night as he’s racing away through the edge of woods, as if to stay under the cover the low hanging trees provide. I can see a mansion and its lights receding as he pulls me deeper into the night.
That place had to have been my prison. Under floodlights in the distance, I see men fighting, dying. I hear the sounds of bullets firing into the air and dogs barking.
Before I have the chance to
Keeping the woman balanced over my shoulder, I arm myself with both Glocks—one in each hand—and press forward like a bat out of hell.
Chapter Five
Rachel
Grave mistake.
I shouldn’t have played a bargaining chip like that! I just thought if I could get them to remove the cuffs, I’d have a chance to get away. I thought anything would be better than Mexico City!
Now I’m even more desperate. I don’t understand what’s happening!
The fighting noise erupts, and a new picture comes to mind. Miguel’s men saw police raiding the place and decided to get me the hell out before I was discovered. That’s why this guy isn’t bringing me to the rescuers. That’s why I’m still in these archaic cuffs that keep my arms and hands in check and immobilized behind my back, and that’s why, when I screamed, he taped my mouth shut.
He hasn’t uttered another word since telling me he was taking me out of here. No way he’s my savior.
What does that mean anyway, taking you out of here?
He would have taken the cuffs off if this was a rescue; he would’ve removed the blindfold so I could see his face . . . it all would’ve been done differently.
He still hasn’t talked to me. His breathing is controlled as he runs almost full-force. He’s so strong, I don’t know how I can get free from him. But if I’m going to get free, this is my chance—during the transportation—before I’m thrown into another hole or a vehicle.
I consider hitting him with the cuff bar but realize I don’t have enough distance to strike with any real force, so I’d probably just succeed in pissing him off enough to knock me unconscious. Then I’ll have no chance.
Dread slows the beat of my heart to a near stall. What if this is the guy in charge of delivering me to the buyer?
I can’t figure any of this out. All I know is that I’m being whisked away from police and closer to my death.
The man running doesn’t slow or falter, and his muscular shoulder is driving into my ribcage, grating against it without mercy. My legs press up against his chest, and being barelegged, my skin scrapes against some sort of utility vest—I can feel the cool metal and lumps of plastic within the Velcro micro pockets.
If I can just reach something in one of those pockets! I can poke out his eye! Or jab him in an artery.
Dear God, give me the opportunity.
All of a sudden, he stops and changes direction.
My ass, feet and legs keep hitting unyielding metal . . .
It’s a ladder, I can feel it.
Oh my God! How high is it? I’m on his shoulder!
I try screaming under the tape.
“Stay silent,” he barks gruffly in a low, threatening tone.
I can only imagine how high up we could be.
I wonder if I can push my face against the fabric of his shoulder and back and move this blindfold away from my eyes. Why hadn’t I thought of that when he first picked me up?
As he jostles me while going up the ladder, I work my cheek and temple over his shoulder, willing the blindfold to loosen its hold.
He wraps one arm over me and the other under my body for just a moment, causing me to freeze. Then he focuses his effort upwards. Lifting his arms and crushing me closer against him, he also lifts whatever’s over the top of us.
When he presses me into him, it’s exactly what I need, and the blindfold comes down and away from my right eye.
It feels like a lifeline I can grip onto for all I’m worth. I can see again. But what’s happening around me causes me to shudder with fear that’s quickly spilling towards hysteria.
It’s darkest night as he’s racing away through the edge of woods, as if to stay under the cover the low hanging trees provide. I can see a mansion and its lights receding as he pulls me deeper into the night.
That place had to have been my prison. Under floodlights in the distance, I see men fighting, dying. I hear the sounds of bullets firing into the air and dogs barking.
Before I have the chance to
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