Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103665 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103665 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
The blast of a gun discharge caught his attention right before pain burst through his chest. He pitched forward, smashing into Amka and the counter, and the world went dark.
Amka went down hard, flailing under Christian. Warmth pooled over her arm. Red warmth. “Christian?” A buzzing filled her ears. Was he shot? Slight movement sounded, and a shadow crossed her vision. Pain burst through her head, and she slumped unconscious.
Amka drifted. Sound fractured. What had hit her head?
The weight on her shifted. She tried to hold on, tried to grip Christian, but her fingers wouldn’t work. Nothing did. Her body had turned traitor. Blood soaked her shirt—his, not hers—and it was warm and awful and everywhere.
Christian.
She wanted to scream but couldn’t shape the breath. Her lips barely parted. Her vision pulsed white around the edges. A face came close, too close, and she turned her head instinctively, but pain lanced her skull like a nail driving through the base of it. Her neck refused to support her. She gagged.
Then everything tilted.
Her body was hoisted awkwardly, dragged or carried, she couldn’t tell. Her head lolled to the side, and she caught a glimpse of light flashing past the window. The interior of the house was gone. Her cheek scraped against something cold and rough—someone's jacket maybe—before she was dumped hard against what felt like vinyl. A truck seat. A door slammed.
An engine rumbled to life.
Moving. They were moving.
She was being taken.
Her eyes cracked open, barely slits, just long enough to catch the blur of trees sliding by in streaks of dark and green. Her head lolled, vision doubling. The buzz in her ears got louder. Christian’s face filled her mind. The sound of the shot. The heat of his blood. His body dropping onto hers like he was trying to shield her even in death.
No. No, he couldn’t be dead.
She had to fight. Had to stay awake. Get help. She tried to move. Her muscles didn’t listen. Her right hand twitched, fingers curling weakly around air.
The vehicle stopped.
A door yanked open. Rough hands gripped her shoulders. She moaned, barely audible. Then her body was dragged again, this time across gravel. Pebbles jabbed at her ribs. Her knee hit something sharp, and she winced.
Another car door opened. She was lifted, shoved inside. This time the air smelled different. Greasy. Like fast food and gasoline. Her temple bumped the window. Stars exploded behind her eyes.
She thought she might throw up.
Someone swore. Something metal clicked.
The car rocked as someone climbed into the driver’s seat. The engine revved, and the vehicle accelerated fast, throwing her against the seat. Her head rolled. The pressure behind her eyes pushed outward.
Christian.
She tried to focus. The pain in her head increased like a shriek. Then everything zipped out again, swallowed by a wave of black.
Christian came to flat on his stomach, one cheek pressed into the cold floor. The copper tang of blood filled his mouth. He pushed up to hands and knees, gritting his teeth. The sharp pain in his shoulder lit his vision white, but he didn’t stop.
His hand came away wet. The blood was his.
He looked toward the door. It stood wide open, wind curling inside. Amka was gone. He swore. Loud and raw. His vision wavered when he shoved himself to his feet. He stumbled to the kitchen counter and grabbed a towel, pressed it hard to the hole just under his collarbone. The bullet had passed through muscle. He was lucky. If it had gone half an inch lower, his lung would be done.
But luck didn’t matter now.
He yanked his phone free and called Brock.
“Hey—” Brock started.
“Got shot, and somebody took Amka from her house. I’m fine. They’re in your truck. Call Damian and Ace, get everyone looking, and I’m going tracking.” He clicked off and grabbed gauze and duct tape from the nearest drawer. Slapped them over the worst of it. The world tilted again. He gripped the counter to steady himself before heading outside.
Outside, the morning had turned quiet again, the kind of quiet that didn’t sit right.
He had to find her. God. How had he let himself get fucking shot? Was he that turned around about her that he’d forgot his own damn focus? He followed the prints down the porch steps. Blood smeared the edge of the wood. Not his. Amka’s. A streak where someone had dragged her across the dirt.
The scuff marks led to where Brock’s truck had been parked. Fresh tire tracks bit deep into the gravel, kicking up from the sudden acceleration.
He followed on foot, moving fast despite the fire in his shoulder.
The truck had gone north, toward the old fire road. A shortcut toward the valley. A good two miles of winding dirt before it met worn asphalt. He ran the distance. His chest burned, and he tasted blood again, but he didn’t stop. Couldn't stop.