Page 10 of Captive of Outlaws

Then, and only then, it slips away, quick as it came.

“What...the...fuck...” I pant out. My fingers are cramped and white on the wheel, my hip aching from how hard I’ve been pumping the pedals. Panicked, I swivel around—but nothing. Nothing but dark woods and endless trees behind me.

I lost them. I think I actually lost them.

I let out a long, shuddering exhale. Of course, I also kind of lost myself. I have no idea where the fuck I am. A quick flick of my phone screen shows I’ve got no service, and when I turn the Mustang’s engine back over, the gas needle barely even flutters past that E.

I’m in the middle of the woods, in the pitch-dark night, and I’m out of gas.

But I’m alone. And—I think—I’m safe.

To my left, the ground slopes gently away from the road, a slight incline padded with leaves between two trees that’s just wide enough to slip the car into. With a few gentle pumps of the gas, I coax the Mustang forward and over, just enough to get the front wheels over the lip of the road, and let gravity take it from there.

With a gentleswooshof underbrush, I coast to the level of the forest floor, and once the car comes to a stop, I kill the engine a second time.

For a moment, I sit, still as prey in the sights of a predator. My chest hurts from the impact of the SUV and my throat feels raw from panicky breathing, but I’m alive.

Alive for now, anyway.

Half-formed notions about getting gas, finding money, tracking down something to eat swirl in my mind, but mybody is screaming with the need to rest. The adrenaline—from the discovery in the shop, from the fuckingcar chasethe sheriff’s goons somehow baited me into, from the monstrous fox-thing I almost pancaked—has ebbed away, and all that’s left is a bone-deep fatigue.

Shivering, I pull the keys from the ignition and slither over the leather into the backseat. It’s cold, but not hypothermia cold. I can make it one night, lie low until the literal crack of dawn and then take off on foot once I can see. My heart cracks at the thought of leaving the Mustang behind, but it’s useless without gas and sticks out like a sore thumb in the woods.

Still, though. That’s a problem for tomorrow. I curl into a ball and start to soothe myself to sleep even as tears prickle at the corner of my eyes.

Crying gets you nowhere, Maren. Just dehydrates you.

I screw my eyes shut even harder and force myself to take deep breaths. I don’t believe in God or magic or even luck, if I’m honest, but in that moment, I offer up a little prayer.

Just a few hours.

A few hours undiscovered, a few hours of rest.

Then I’ll take it from there.

But please, please, please, don’t let them find me here.

Chapter Three

I WAKE UP TO A TAPPINGat my back window.

My eyes fly open.

Fuck. It’s daytime.

Like, midday daytime.

Fear ricochets through my cramped limbs, jolting me to full alertness, but subsides when I see the figure at my window isn’t wearing deputy shades or LEO khaki.

It is a male person, though. Young, maybe a few years older than I am, with a bearded face full of hard angles and dark penetrating eyes. His hair’s long and swept into a knot, and there’s a scar through his left eyebrow, a streak of white through the otherwise dark hair. I swallow, my tongue suddenly sandpaper. When was the last time I even had water? Doesn’t matter. I’m a young woman alone in the woods in a car with no gas. And a guy who looks like a supermodel face on a prizefighter’s body is tapping at my window.

“Don’t come any closer,” I blurt out. “I have a weapon.”

That’s not entirely true. I maybe have a seatbelt cutter in the glove compartment, but that’s not going to do any damage unless, you know, you’re a seatbelt.

The guy smirks. “Sure you do,” he says.

“I’m serious,” I say. “Don’t hurt me or I’ll fuck you up.” I don’t know where the sudden bravado is coming from, but maybe that’s what happens when you’re literally cornered.

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