Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 74971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
“Back,” he said to the dogs, voice firm, but also kind as the dogs sniffed at him but didn’t get in his way. “Where is she?”
“She went out to shoot,” I told him, watching his head whip around to me, gaze accusing. “She wanted me to stay to explain to you,” I added as he turned again, grabbing two guns off the wall.
“Let’s go,” he hissed, hobbling across the house, making his way outside. He made his way off the porch and right toward my car, opening the back door and whistling for the dogs to climb in.
Considering their rural life, I was surprised to find them jumping in easily, like they were familiar with car rides.
“No, I’ll drive,” I insisted when he tried to get in the driver’s seat.
“I know where we’re going,” he said.
“Yeah, but I’m not injured,” I said, waiting for him to move away, then jumping in myself, getting my gun out of the center console, and placing it between my legs as I turned the car over. “That way, right?” I asked, pointing in the direction Murphy had before.
How long ago was that now?
Forty minutes? Fifty? An hour?
I was losing track of time.
However long it was, it was long enough.
For hidden men to come out of nowhere, for them to catch her off-guard, to grab her.
“I didn’t hear any gunshots,” Cohen said, seeming to speak to himself.
“Me either,” I agreed, wondering if that was good or bad. Surely, if she came across those fucks, she would have aimed and fired. And I didn’t even really know what those new guns of hers were capable of.
“She’d have tried to shoot them,” Cohen said. “She’s a good shot,” he added.
That was something I guess I had figured, but hadn’t learned for myself firsthand yet. I mean, of course she was a good shot if guns were her livelihood. But I never had a reason to consider it before.
I was considering it now, though, as I prayed Cohen was right, that she would take aim, shoot, kill anyone who tried to fuck with her.
But if they jumped her, overpowered her before she got the chance…
No.
Damnit, no.
I wasn’t going to let myself think like that.
“Keep going straight,” Cohen directed. “Who the fuck were they?” he growled.
“Cain Roth,” I said, because there was no other option.
“The trafficker?” Cohen asked, surprising me enough to glance his way, risking running over one of those spiky-ass bushes all over and getting a flat.
“Yeah. He’s obsessed with her,” I said. “Long story. But he wants to keep her. And he’d do anything to do it.”
“Left,” Cohen said, jabbing a finger toward the mountain ahead in the distance.
I didn’t see her.
But she’d been right about this place being a little disorienting. It felt like stationary bushes were moving, swimming in front of me as the landscape sprawled on endlessly around the car.
As we closed in, I could see what he was guiding me toward.
The mountain, a natural backdrop to prevent ricochet, was stacked with endlessly piled sandbags. Behind them was something else. Something black. Cut up tires, maybe? Typical shit to stop bullets at the end of a range.
It was a massive undertaking for one man in the middle of nowhere by himself. But, I guess, it was work that paid off if Murphy and others paid him to use it.
“She’s gotta be there,” I murmured to myself, wanting more than anything to believe it even as the car got closer and I saw no one.
Then, right there on the ground, a box.
“Fuck,” I snapped, slamming my hands into the wheel before flying out of the car, barely remembering to put it in park. “Murphy!” I yelled, looking around frantically, wanting to believe she was just off behind a bush somewhere, looking for a spent bullet shell or something. “Murphy!”
“Tire tracks and shoe prints,” Cohen’s voice said, making me turn to look, seeing what he was seeing with his eyes not so clouded with panic.
He was right.
Tire tracks and shoe prints. At least four sets.
“Fuck!” I yelled, my heart hammering as my stomach dropped.
Thinking of the scars on her back.
Of her in a cell being starved.
Being hurt.
Being the target of disgusting desires.
I was supposed to protect her, damnit.
“Get your shit together,” Cohen said, snapping me out of my swirling thoughts. “Losing your fucking mind ain’t gonna save her,” he added. “Get the box and get in the car,” he demanded.
I had no reason to fight his logic since, yeah, he was being a hell of a lot more logical than I was right about then.
I fetched her box of guns, knowing how much work she’d put into them, how much she’d kick my ass if she knew I’d left them in the desert.
Then I followed Cohen back to the car, but had to go to the passenger side since he was in the driver’s seat.