Page 8 of Captive of Outlaws

The letters on the page jitter in front of my eyes, and I realize my hands are shaking. I have to do something, have to stop this—but how? I have nothing to my name, literally fucking nothing beyond the clothes on my back, a hand-me-down set of coveralls with someone else’s name stitched on them, and a 1973 Ford Mustang I’m not legally allowed to drive.

But then it hits me: they can’t keep me here if I’m not here. They can’t keep me here if I run.

Clunk.Something sounds out in the garage, and I freeze like a startled rabbit, my heart pounding a thousand beats per minute.

I wait, counting again, and no more sound comes. Probably just some garage stuff shifting around. It’s not the kind of place that would be dead silent at night, I tell myself.

The sound brings me back to my senses a little. Am I actually thinking of running? I hate to admit it, but I’m not exactly a street-smart kind of girl. I’ve never actually been on my own, caged up by John for most of my life and all of my young adulthood. But no, I’m resourceful, I know how to solve puzzles, and I’m good with my hands. If I can get out of here, I can get a job, save up, get a lawyer who doesn’t live in Sherwood County. It’s a stupid dream, but it beats the nightmare that’s becoming my reality.

I look around the office briefly and frantically, thinking about stuffing my pockets with anything useful before discarding the idea. Actually stealing property from John would only make things worse if I did get caught, and time is precious. I glance at my dumb phone, which is old and battered, on a gas station prepaid card. Thankfully untraceable, becauseone, it’s literally a flip phone, and two, even if it weren’t, John is too old and boomery to understand how to install any kind of tracking app. 9:30 p.m., not exactly a cover of darkness, but it’ll have to do. I think if there’s anything else here I can grab—a set of tools, what would I do with those? My coveralls? I choke back a laugh at the last second. Instead, I grab the top sheet of the conservatorship paperwork and fold it into quarters, stuffing it into the back pocket of my jeans. I don’t know why it matters—more symbolic than anything. It’s not like missing this page would change the validity of the paperwork, but at least I have it.

Crack. Another sound from out in the garage. A bolt of panic glues me in place a second time; this time, there are voices, muffled, but they’re there, from the front reception area, it sounds like. I’m frozen, stuck,but goddammit, Maren, you have to run.

I don’t know who’s there, maybe John coming back for something he forgot, but they’re not gonna find me here.

I fly out into the garage bay in two seconds, slowing my approach only so that I don’t check a metal toolbox onto the ground and reveal myself. I force myself to a slow tiptoe toward the Mustang as I perk up my ears.

Definitely voices. Male. Indistinct. And plural. With my heart in my throat, I remember the CCTV, and glance at the ancient fizzing TV monitor perched on the corner of the workbench. The camera quality is terrible, but I can make out the shapes of the reception area—desk, chairs, water cooler—and see two figures skulking around.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. How would anyone know I was here? I haven’t seen John since I left the garage earlier. And the sheriff—

I’m keeping an eye on you.

I can’t tell through the shitty CCTV reception whether they’re wearing their Sherwood County Sheriff’s Office khakis or not, but it doesn’t matter. My gut tells me who they’re working for, because who else has hired goons around here? Why they’re here—how they knowI’mhere—I have no idea. But it doesn’t fucking matter.

“Goddamn thing’s stuck,” mutters one of them. He’s almost offscreen, out of security camera sight in the corner where the door leading to the shop is. A few feet away, I hear the doorknob of that same real-life door rattle.

I don’t need a second warning. I sprint, jump, fly into action, bashing the button to open the garage door as I slam my butt into the driver’s seat of the Mustang. I turn the key so hard it digs into the flesh of my fingers, the engine roaring to life like it’s angry on my behalf. My eyes dart to the gas needle—barely flicks above E, but that’ll have to do—and I grip the steering wheel as the folding slats of the door crank, crank, crank up to set me free, tantalizingly slowly.

“What was that?”

Fuck. Guess there was no way to avoid making noise given how goddamn old the motor on that door opener is. The doorknob behind me rattles again. My left hand clenches the wheel tighter, my foot hovering above the clutch as my right hand finds the gearshift.

C’mon, c’mon.

But the garage door takes its sweet time, like it always does.Crank, crank—

“Someone’s here.”Rattle rattle.

“Just break the damn thing down.”Rattle.

Crank, crank—

The instant the garage is open enough to slide through, I floor it. The Mustang lurches to life and I surge out, almost clipping the top of my head on the retracting door like I’m Indiana Jones with his hat, and spill onto the street. Tire screeches rip through the calm night air as I fishtail gracelessly out, yanking at the shifter and slamming both feet into pedals, my manual-driving instincts coming back in fits and starts. I straighten out and give it gas, tugging into second gear, and notice only too late that I’m peeling past a hulking unmarked SUV with tinted windows.

They’ll still have to run out, I think. Notice I’m gone, scramble for their car—

But no. The SUV’s headlights flare on.

Guess they have a driver.

I gun it. The garage is on the outskirts of town, thank you Jesus, so I’ve got a good stretch of empty road to build up speed, and the Mustang obliges, pistons thumping and fuel incinerating in the sweet melody of a car stretching its legs for the first time in a long, long while.

If I weren’t having a fucking panic attack, I’d almost enjoy it.

Behind me, in the mirror, the SUV starts up. I squint at it, one eye on the road and one in the rearview, and see it’s nothing special—a Range Rover, long wheelbase model, no visible customization beyond the lame “UVA Alum” license plate on the front. I exhale a little. Those suckers are big—longer than your average limo—and driving one is going to be like trying to steer a battleship through a kiddie pool. The Mustang can outmaneuver it easily, which is to my advantage.

I slam on the gas and jerk forward into third gear. Shit, it’s been a long time since I’ve driven at all, let alone drivenmanual, and never had a longer stretch more than a few feet to move a car around within the garage. But I literally can’t afford to get stopped or caught. I don’t have a fucking license. And I can almost picture the sickening look of glee on the sheriff’s face when he gets to book me for breaking the law. Sneaking into the garage after hours is one thing, operating a motor vehicle without a license...something tells me I wouldn’t get away with just a slap on the wrist.

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