Chapter Twenty-Nine #3
He took the next curve, cursing the need to ease off the gas. But he couldn’t help her if he wrecked the damn car or dumped it in a ditch.
In the car. The dog in the car, so she’d been in the car.
Gone to see Pop, grocery shopping. Dubecki, either lying in wait at the house, or he’d spotted her in town and followed her back.
He contacted the station again. “Get me the name he used at the hotel. I didn’t have time to wait for it. Get me the name.”
New ID, had the car painted, switched plates again.
He had plenty of luck crossing the country. Too much luck.
“It runs out tonight.”
Because Arden was alive, and she’d stay alive.
He wouldn’t lose her. He wouldn’t let her down.
He gunned it on the next straightaway as his beams cut through the fog and the spreading gloom.
He saw Jamie, standing in the rain outside his house, saw him cross both hands over his heart.
He didn’t slow or stop. Instead, he thought, twelve minutes from Jamie’s call to now. He’d made up some time, and he’d make up more.
Dustin drove like a madman. Each time the car shuddered or fishtailed, his fear came out in crazed giggles. They could chase him, for now, but they’d never catch him.
Homestretch, he thought. On the homestretch, and he and Arden would be where they were meant to be in a few hours. Less, even less, because fuck the speed limit!
The fog scared him, but he imagined cutting through it like a knife. Like the hunting knife he had strapped to his belt opposite the gun.
A man with a mission, and mission all but accomplished. He was a man who defended himself and his woman against anyone who came against them.
He hadn’t had time for the zip ties—also on his belt—or the duct tape thanks to the interfering bastard with the stupid yappy dog.
He hoped the interfering bastard lay dead on the road in a pool of blood.
“That’s what you get, what you get for trying to stop me from taking what’s mine.”
The dead guy couldn’t stop him, and the dead guy couldn’t call the cops. And they wouldn’t know what the fuck when they found the dead guy, would they?
By the time they’d figured it out, he and Arden would be home, safe and sound, where no one could touch them.
The Retreat. His mountain home.
Reassured, he eased off the speed. His stomach still clutched and roiled, and he felt a near-urgent need to piss.
A few more miles, he decided. He’d pull over, take a piss, then use those zip ties. She could wake up before long and go hysterical as women did so he’d use those ties, and duct tape her hysterical mouth.
Arden drifted to consciousness. Her face burned as if someone had set a torch to it. She felt sick, everything spun and swerved.
At first she thought: Terrible dream.
Then she remembered.
Her eyes flew open, and the panic screamed through her until she could pull in air. She pulled it in too fast, gulping it so her throat began to burn like her face.
Every inch of her body broke out in a cold sweat, and her vision blurred, grayed.
She squeezed her eyes shut again, pushed, pushed against that helpless panic. The panic that tried to drag her under with sharp clawing fingers. Where she had no air, no light, no hope.
She heard her own breath, fast, labored. Second by sweaty second, she fought to slow it.
She would not lose control. She would not be a victim ever again. She would think, goddamn it. She’d think, she’d fight, and she’d survive.
Not a victim, not a victim, she heard Gideon tell her. A survivor.
On those slow, deep breaths, she opened her eyes again.
Dark, so dark, and rain pounding, and … movement.
She pushed her hands out, met resistance.
A car, in a car. In the trunk of a car.
That panic leaped back like a live thing, gripped her throat. She started to beat against the trunk, then stopped herself.
He’d hear her. And he’d make her stop.
Think!
He drove so fast, and when the back of the car slid from side to side, she closed her eyes, braced for the crash.
But it righted again, slowed a little.
Jamie, she thought. Coming when he saw her car, he said. He’d see Zorro inside the car. Please, please don’t let him have hurt my dog.
Jamie would call Gideon, and Gideon would come.
Until then, she had to stay alive.
In the dark, she felt around, then remembered her Christmas gift. She’d left her phone in her purse, but she had the multi-tool and the tiny flashlight in her pocket.
She used the light, shined it around, focused it on the latch for the trunk. And there, as expected, the tiny glow-in-the-dark light on the inside latch.
She might not be good with tools, she thought, but she was hell on research. And she’d researched escaping from a locked trunk for her third book.
She breathed in, breathed out.
“Okay,” she whispered, just for the comfort of her own voice. “You wrote it. You can do it.”
She would do it, and she’d find a weapon. A trunk of a car had tools. A jack, one of those things that took the bolts off the tire. Maybe a wrench or anything she could swing or throw. And all of that? Under her.
She opened the multi-tool, did her best to curl up as small as possible. And got to work.
No, she wouldn’t be passive, wouldn’t be a victim. She’d survive, again, she’d survive.
And she’d either send Dustin goddamn Dubecki back to prison or to hell.