Chapter 42 Sadie
Sadie
I’m pressed into the back seat, the truck bouncing over broken asphalt, and every jolt sends a lurch of panic through my chest. My hands are tied, wrists chafing raw against the rough rope.
My mouth is dry. My throat aches from screaming, but they didn’t care. None of them did. The metal tang of blood—Shepard’s, maybe theirs—hangs in the air like a cruel perfume.
I can hear them up front, voices low, clipped, careful, but sharp. The engine hums like a predator’s growl. Every curve makes me brace my shoulders against the seat, heart hammering so hard I’m sure they can hear it.
I want to scream again, to punch, to fight, but I can’t. Not yet. Not now.
“Help me,” I whisper under my breath, tasting the word like it’s a lifeline. Gabe. He has to know. He has to be coming. He has to.
I close my eyes and try to hold onto that thought, the only thing keeping me from sliding entirely into panic. Images flash: the fire consuming Driftwood, Shepard’s bloodied face.
And then me, screaming, flailing, a woman trapped in the bed of a truck like prey in a cage.
It’s dark in the truck. I’ve been away from them so long that I’m surprised how difficult it is to tell who’s who.
Under any other circumstances, I would smile.
One of them leans back, muttering something I can’t make out. Another laughs, low and cruel. My stomach knots.
I force my eyes open, peeking through the small slit in the seatbelt—anything, some hint of the world outside.
Shadows stretch across the walls of the truck bed. Their movements are quick, practiced. Everything about them screams danger.
I bite my lip until it bleeds. My hands tremble.
I want to do something, anything, but the ropes dig into my wrists, a constant reminder of my helplessness. The truck hits another bump, throwing me against the door, and I catch my breath in a strangled gasp.
“Move faster,” one of them says from the front. The words are casual, almost bored, but my blood goes cold.
Faster. They’re not just taking me. They’re moving me with purpose. Every second feels like a knife twisting in my gut.
I press my forehead to the cool metal of the door and try to think. I can’t see the road. I can’t see Gabe. I can’t see anyone who might save me.
But I can feel.
I can feel the tension in the cab, the slight shift in weight when one of them checks the mirrors, the vibration of the engine through the floor. Every little detail becomes a piece of a puzzle I have to solve.
I think of the town, the fire, the chaos Gabe must be facing. He’s probably already out there, running, fighting, trying to get to me. My chest tightens. I want to yell his name, tell him I’m okay—but I can’t. Not yet.
Not until I’m free.
The truck swerves slightly. I almost tumble, but my knee catches the seat. My hands strain against the ropes, raw skin screaming.
My mind races: if I can just loosen the knot, if I can just grab something sharp, if—if—if I can survive until someone comes for me.
I catch a flash of light through the small rear window, the faint reflection of headlights bouncing across the cab. My heart leaps.
Someone’s there. Someone could be coming.
Hope, fragile as it is, claws its way up my throat. I swallow it down, try to steady my breath. I have to survive. I have to hold on.
Gabe is out there. Boone is out there. Someone is coming for me.
The truck hits a dip, throwing me forward, and I slam against the seatbelt. One of them laughs again. I grit my teeth and focus on that tiny glimmer of hope.
Every jolt, every turn, every bump—I catalog it. I memorize the way the tires hum against the road, the smell of diesel, the faint metallic sting of blood in the air.
A shadow falls across my face from the front window. One of them glances back, sneers.
“You like screaming, don’t you?” he says, and it’s dangerous.
My stomach turns. I don’t answer. I can’t. I let my pulse guide me. I let my instincts cling to survival.
I think of Gabe again. The memory of his eyes, the promise I can feel even across miles of chaos, burns in my chest.
He’s going to find me. He has to. And if he does… I have to be ready. Ready to fight. Ready to claw my way out. Ready to breathe again.
The truck slows. My heart jumps.
Maybe they’ve hit traffic. Maybe there’s a roadblock. My mind snaps into overdrive, scanning possibilities, mapping escape routes in my head. My breath comes in jagged pulls, every exhale tasting of ash and fear.
And then, faint, almost impossibly faint over the roar of the engine, I hear something else. Tires crunching in the dirt. Voices shouting. A shout that isn’t theirs.
My pulse explodes. My head snaps toward the rear window. There’s movement, headlights bouncing across the road. Hope rises in my chest like wildfire.
I press my fists into my knees, knuckles white. I whisper Boone’s name, just once, letting it slip into the air like a prayer.
The truck rocks again, but this time it feels different. Dangerous, yes—but there’s a possibility now. A chance.
I bite back a scream, bite back tears. I lean against the door, listening, watching, waiting. Whoever is coming—they have to be fast. They have to be smart. They have to be my saviors.
The truck jerks, and I slam against the seatbelt, heart hammering so hard I can’t breathe. My wrists are raw, the ropes cutting into my skin, but I barely notice.
My eyes are fixed on the shadows in the cab, the dark outlines of the men who have been dragging me away like property.
“Scott,” I whisper under my breath, hatred and fear twisting together.
The thought of him—the smug way he moved, the cruel sneer—makes bile rise in my throat. The others—Jeremiah, Levi, Trevor, Dalton—they’ve all been silent hunters, ghosts in the back of my head, each movement a threat.
And then it happens.
The truck hits a sharp curve, tires skidding on gravel, and headlights flare behind us. Someone else is here. Someone is closing in.
My pulse skyrockets. My body tenses, every nerve screaming.
The cab doors burst open, and gunfire erupts. The sound is deafening, metal snapping, shouts tearing the night apart.
I hit the floor instinctively, ears ringing, stomach twisting. I catch glimpses of chaos through the small rear window: figures diving, the glint of metal, men scattering.
Scott screams. His voice cuts through everything—sharp, furious, panicked. And then: a sharp crack. A sudden, horrifying impact.
He goes down. I see it—eyes wide, mouth open in disbelief and rage. Blood blooms across his chest, spreading fast, dark and impossible.
My stomach drops.
Scott, who thought he was untouchable, is on the ground. Shot.
Jeremiah yells, pointing at someone behind us, gun raised, and Levi shoves Trevor, trying to regain control. Dalton freezes for a fraction too long. The truck jerks again, and I press myself into the seat, silent but desperate, praying.
My mind is a storm. Gabe. Boone. Someone has to be coming for me. They have to. I feel it. The way the cab swings, the way the shadows outside shift—it’s them.
The remaining pack scramble, trying to get the truck moving again. Their faces are frantic, sharp with panic now that Scott is down. Fear replaces their arrogance.
I taste it, revel in it just a fraction—I don’t forgive, I just notice.
The doors slam open again. Shouts, boots on dirt, a rush of air. Someone yells my name: “Sadie! Move!”
Gabe. Boone. Relief explodes in my chest, but I don’t move too fast. Not yet. My body is still trembling. My heart is still hammering like it might break ribs.
But I can see him now—Gabe, wild and determined, moving with a purpose that terrifies me and reassures me at the same time. Boone is there too, a wall of strength.
“Cut her ropes!” Boone shouts. Hands grab mine, sharp, firm. I hear the snap as the knots give, and freedom tastes like fire in my lungs. I shove to my feet, wobbling, legs weak, but alive.
The pack tries to resist. Jeremiah swings, but Gabe intercepts, hand catching him mid-strike, twisting him down. Levi lunges at me, and I stumble back, but Boone slams into him with brutal precision.
Trevor makes a move toward the door, and Gabe shoves him aside, his eyes sharp as knives. Dalton hesitates, and that hesitation costs him—he’s thrown to the ground as well.
I watch them fall, one by one. My chest is burning, my lungs screaming, but I can’t look away. Every one of them taken down, every one of their plans shattered.
And Scott… gone.
I swallow hard, trying to steady my hands, my stomach still twisting. He won’t be moving again.
Gabe grabs me then, pulling me against him, strong and relentless. “You’re okay,” he growls, voice rough, and I let myself collapse against him, crying, shaking, but alive.
Boone moves beside us, eyes scanning, making sure the rest are subdued.
“Get her out,” he orders. “Now.”
I don’t even hesitate. I’m moving. I’m running. I’m safe. The fire, the chaos, the fear—it doesn’t matter now. Not as long as I’m here, with him, breathing, alive.
The remaining pack groans from the ground, defeated, groggy, furious. I glance back once, and it feels like the nightmare is finally breaking apart. The dark, twisted plan that dragged me through terror is unraveling in front of my eyes.
And I know this: we survived. We’re together. And no one—no one—will ever take me like that again.