Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 52338 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52338 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
"Who is that?" I ask cautiously. I can't remember a time I've ever seen my father scared, but I know it's something I never want to see again. He wipes his sweaty palms along his dress pants before turning his stern gaze to me.
"I need you to go upstairs to your room and lock the door. Don't come out unless I tell you to," he orders, his voice low.
"What? No!" I exclaim. "Who's outside, and what in the world is going on?!"
"Morgan, now isn't the time to be defiant," he hisses through gritted teeth. "Get upstairs now!"
"Tell me what is going on!"
The front door flies open, nearly falling off the hinges when a heavy booted foot kicks it down. Three mountainous masked men storm into our house, two of them grabbing my dad while the third one advances toward me. My brain screams for me to run, but I can only stand there with wide eyes as panic sets in.
"Get your hands off my daughter!" my father bellows, which earns him a solid punch in the gut that leaves him gasping for breath.
"Dad!" I scream.
"You shut the fuck up before you're next," the man restraining me growls in my ear. I nearly swallow my tongue in fear and force my legs to move as the men drag my father and me into the dining room. Tears burn my eyes as the man squeezing me hard roughly pushes me down into a chair. "Move and I'll break your neck."
The men quickly tie Dad and me to our chairs, the other two men wasting no time to immediately pummel Dad. The sickening thuds of each hit and kick my father receives make my chest tight with fear. Now I wish I had listened when he told me to go upstairs. I could've called Trent; I could've called for help. Now we're at the mercy of three men who have god knows what planned for us with no one who can save us.
One of them pauses long enough to narrow his cold gaze at me. "You're next."
A loud crack comes from behind me, and my father groans out in pain when he falls over to his side, still attached to the chair. Between the threat, my father's pained sounds, and the scent of his blood tickling my senses, I'm not sure what comes over me, but I can't do anything but scream at the top of my lungs.
"No, stop! You're hurting him!" I scream, jerking against the coarse ropes that bound my wrists and ankles. "Stop it!"
Pain radiates across my cheek as ringing fills my left ear for a moment. A rough, calloused hand painfully grips my face and forces me to look into dark, menacing eyes as he brings his mask-covered face closer to mine.
"I told you to shut the fuck up!" he growls and lifts his hand to strike me again. I scream when a gun goes off, blood splattering my face and clothes as the man standing before me slumps forward and falls into a heap at my feet. I can only stare in shock as I watch Trent move through the dining room with precision and skill, shooting one of the other men in the head before grabbing the other one. He doesn't say a single word to either of us, only dragging the man out of the room toward the basement.
The scent of blood permeates the room as two men bleed out on the floor. I sniffle and look over at my father, who's still lying on his side and bound to his chair.
"Dad? Are you okay?" I ask, my voice wobbly. His breathing comes out ragged, almost as if it hurts him to take a deep enough breath. "Dad?"
"I'm fine, Morgan," he says, his voice tight. But I know he's only lying to try to keep me calm. I pull against the ropes, the rough material only scratching my skin the more I fight against it. So many conflicting emotions crash through me. How did Trent know we were in trouble? How'd he get here so quickly? I think back to his blank expression when he killed those men. It's almost as if he's done this before, a routine task that he's done over and over again instead of murdering two men in cold blood. It only makes me realize that I don't know him as well as I thought and that he has a lot of explaining to do.
After what feels like an eternity, Trent finally reappears. He moves over to my father first, pulling a pocket knife from his back pocket and cutting the ropes from his wrists and ankles. He helps my father slowly sit up and leans him against the leg of the kitchen table before he comes over to me. He swallows hard, an apology seemingly in his eyes but not on his lips. It feels like I'm looking at a stranger, not knowing who this man is in front of me. He looks like the Trent I know, but the Trent I know isn't a murderer. The Trent I know wouldn’t have been able to take down three men who were easily three times his size all by himself.