Page 108 of Possessive Mafia Vows

Then, I’m running towards the trees. Every part of my body jolts and screams with the agony of sore muscles and the concussion I suffered when my head hit the wall.

They won’t find me in the woods. It’s what keeps me going. I can climb a tree and shelter in the branches, or find a hollow and climb inside, or bury myself beneath a mountain of mulch. The possibilities are endless.

At least, that’s how it seems until I hear the first gunshot.

I sprawl face-first on the sodden ground.

Peering behind me, soggy leaves clinging to my face, and hands, I realize that I’m still too close to the house. If the men follow me outside, it won’t take them long to figure out that I’m hiding in the trees, and with my twisted ankle, they’ll catch up with me before I’ve gone anywhere.

I drag myself back onto my feet and keep hobbling through the woodland.

More gunshots ring out behind me.

Angry yells.

They know that I’m missing.

I move erratically, staggering this way and that to confuse them, but certain that they’ll be able to trace my footsteps on the soggy mulchy ground. I trip over an exposed root, and land heavily on the ground again, the oxygen leaving my lungs with a whoosh.

I roll over, half-expecting to find Nick looming over me with a gun aimed directly at my heart, but instead I find that I’ve covered more distance than I realized. The silence surrounding me, and the pitter-patter of the rain dripping from the dense canopy overhead and onto the ground would be peaceful were it not for the gunfire coming from the building.

Another shot cracks the air, making my pulse race.

I’m confused. It didn’t sound as if it came from the property. It sounded more like it came from somewhere amongst the trees.

I remain on the ground, saturated and shivering, listening to the weapons being fired beyond the trees. I don’t know how many men were in the house. Minus my father, I’m aware of Nick and the Russian, but this sounds like a whole load of shots being fired back and forth.

The men aren’t trying to frighten me.

They’re defending themselves. And this can only mean one thing: Kyle has come to save me.

I feel safe here. No bullets have whizzed past my head, which means that the fight must be confined to the open space in front of the building. I scramble backwards and hide behind a wide tree trunk, hauling myself onto my feet and following the sounds of gunfire, back and forth.

With each shot that slices through the miserable night sky, I jump. I pray that Kyle doesn’t get hurt. Or worse. He’s only here because of me.

The silence is sudden. Shocking in its intensity.

All I can hear is the blood gushing through my veins and the thump-thump-thump of my heartbeat.

Just when I think it must all be over and I should head back towards the house to find Kyle, I hear another sound like a twig snapping. The forest is so wet, that I remain motionless, trying to hear above and beyond the rainfall. Perhaps I imagined it. But then, I hear another sound.

Closer.

I retreat deeper into the woods, stopping frequently to listen.

The rainfall seems to get heavier, harder, louder.

I stumble blindly onwards, my imagination turning the shadows amongst the trees into monsters that take the guise of Nick Morris and the dark-haired Russian.

I increase my pace. The rain is blinding. The dense darkness is becoming oppressive. When I trip over an invisible rock and land heavily on my swollen knee, I drag my knees to my chest and huddle my arms around them.

“Who’s there?” My words are swallowed by the trees.

The wind howls through the woods like a feral animal, and my eyes dart back and forth, convinced that every twitch of a branch is one of my captors about to pounce on me.

I stand up. Only, once I’m back on my feet, I’ve no idea which direction I was heading in.

I turn three-sixty, inspecting the ground for the imprint of my footsteps like this is an imaginary childhood adventure through the jungle, but I was wrong. The ground is too wet, and any footprints I might have made are already filled with water. Everywhere looks the same. There are no distinguishing features, no odd-shaped trees, no markings carved by kids who once played here. Only the rain, and the howling wind, and the trees bowing under the weight of the storm.

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