Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 79338 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79338 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
I yank out the pepper spray and let him have it, right in the face. He roars with pain. It's not enough to stop him, but it makes him unbalanced. He misses with his punch, and then I dart past him, running as hard and fast as I can away from my tormentors.
“Fuck!”
“Get her!”
They all yell at once, and one of them snarls like a wounded bear. I hope it's the one I maced. That asshole deserved it.
I have no illusions of being able to outrun them for long, but if I can just get out into a public space before they catch me, maybe I can find help. But the alley is long, and they picked the spot well. We're alone here. Still, I run and run until I think my chest will explode, trying to ignore the sounds of heavy feet behind me while I look for something—anything that might protect me.
My opportunity is a door someone's propped open with a box. I have no idea what’s on the other side, but if the box is there it might lock from the inside. There’s no time to think about it. I jump through it, kicking the box out of the way and letting the door slam behind me. To my relief, I hear the click of a lock. Less than a second later, a massive body slams into the door trying to break it down. The crash of it echoes through the darkened room and makes me scream.
I need help. I have no idea where I am and they could be already looking for another way in. I think I’m in some sort of storage room, but who knows what’s in here. “Hello?” I yell, hoping that someone, anyone is here and can help me.
There’s no answer.
Do I call the police? Can I even trust them? Our police department isn’t the most reliable in the best of times, and I’m investigating false sentencing. I have no idea how deep the issue goes. They know where I go to school. Who I hang out with. They know where my parents live. The only thing they didn’t bring up might actually be my best option.
I look at my phone. There are some guys I know who are already living in the gray zone outside the law. The question is, can they help me? And will they?
I send a desperate message to the FixerUppers. I need help.
11
REAPER
The instant we hear the notification sound, all three of us hone in on it like fucking dogs when they hear the food bag come out. I get there first, snatching the phone Faith set up for us to monitor that social media account on. She was supposed to be in charge of everything, but that was before she checked in and saw our first messages with Mila. Didn’t take long before Alpha, one of her old men, came by and dropped the phone down next to us with a look that spelled murder.
Whoops. Apparently he didn’t appreciate his woman accidentally getting an eyeful of our junk.
I need help.
“What does she need help with?” Scrapper asks, reading over my shoulder. He puts down the sledgehammer and wipes his brow.
“How the fuck am I supposed to know? You’re seeing the same shit I am.”
Lucky for you we can be real fucking helpful. Do you have an itch to scratch? I shoot back.
The app starts ringing, and there’s a green video camera looking icon flashing in the corner. I have no fucking clue what I’m doing, but I press it, assuming it’s some sort of call. I’m expecting to see her doing something flirty, but instead, her side of the call is almost impossible to see, and there’s a lot of heavy breathing, but it doesn’t sound like the good kind. All three of us go from hoping to see some tits, to dead serious, like flipping a switch.
“Mila? What the fuck is going on? Talk to us, baby.”
“Oh God, I don't know. I'm—” In the background, something slams and she whimpers. “Some guys jumped me. I got away and locked myself in some building that had their back door open. It’s locked now, but they’re right outside and I don’t know where I am. I'm sorry, but I didn't know who else to call and—”
“Take a deep breath. Can you send us your location?”
A moment later, a message with a map link pops up in the chat. Scrapper gets it up while we keep her on the line and make a run for the compound to get our bikes.
“You’re doing great. Stay calm and stay hidden. We’re on our way.”
“Don’t hang up,” she whispers.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Mack and Scrapper fire their bikes up, and I throw my leg over mine. There's more banging behind her, and the video swings wildly as she scrambles to move. Fuck.