Page 136 of Pretty Little Threats

Rose crosses the street. Her long brown hair is loose, the harsh wind sending strands flying, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Her shoulders are hunched. Posture defeated.

Regret pours over me. All I wanted was for her to know the truth, but I hate seeing her this way. That fire I’ve come to love so much is nowhere in sight.

I run to catch up, but the light changes, and I have to stop or get run over by the mid-afternoon trafficwhizzing by. I lift on my toes, keeping her in my sights. I can’t wait to hold her.

To kiss her until she stops crying.

To take her back to my house where she belongs.

The traffic begins to slow, but it’s still too heavy for me to cross the road. A trash truck rumbles as it passes by, and for a few seconds, I can’t see her. My heart skips, but then the vehicle is gone and my gaze finds her once more.

A white van without windows stops beside her and all the doors open.

Muscles tensing, I step forward, but a horn blares, and I jump back to avoid getting taken out.

Four figures get out, dressed in fatigues and wearing masks.

Dread unfurls in my gut and I stop breathing.

They look at Rose.

No. No. No.

Rose lowers her head even more. She has no idea.Look up, Rose. Come on, baby, look up.

She doesn’t.

They close around her.

“ROSE!” Her name is wrenched from my throat as desperation claws at my insides.

I’m too far away to get to her.

She turns, eyes clashing with mine, and the relief on her face is instant. One of the figures prepares a sack to toss over her head. My blood runs cold as I watch the woman I love being bashed on the back of the head and tossed into a van.

I dodge the last cars. Brakes squeal all around me, but I race through the changing light and sprint toward the vehicle.

My heart slams against my rib cage.

I’m not going to make it.

The van pulls away from the curb.

My breath comes in rushed pants as I pump my legs and arms faster and faster.

I need the plate. The description. Something, anything, to help me find her. I’m nearly there, but the passenger window rolls down and a gun appears.

“Fuck,” I shout, ducking behind a car.

“Dare!” Remy roars as shots ring out, the pops and subsequent screams echoing off the buildings surrounding us. Tires squeal across the pavement. The van is already turning down the next street, forcing other cars to slam on their brakes to keep from crashing.

“Dare,” Remy says, gasping for breath. “Are you hurt?”

“No.” I check my friend to make sure he’s okay before getting up and sprinting down the street.

“Dammit, Dare!” Remy shouts, but he quickly catches up with me, tucking his gun into the holster at his lower back. “This is reckless.”

“They fucking have her.” I race around a group of elderly women and turn the corner, but the van is nowhere to be found. No evidence of what direction they went. There are too many cars on the road. Too many people talking. Too much noise.

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