Page 77 of Imprisoned

Tommy scrambles to grab the phone, but Rico kicks him. The car swerves violently. I catch glimpses of tree trunks rushing past as I fight to maintain control.

“You fucking traitor,” I snarl, releasing the wheel to grab Rico’s wrist. The car lurches sideways.

Rico slams my head against the window. Glass cracks. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth as I bite down on his arm. He howls but doesn’t let go.

The car hits something—a tree, a rock, I can’t tell. We’re airborne for a moment. The world spins. Metal screams against the wood. The windshield explodes inward in a shower of glass.

The impact throws Rico forward between the seats. His grip loosens. I drive my elbow back into his throat, feeling cartilage crunch. The car flips, and everything goes sideways.

We roll once, twice, the roof caving in. Willow’s head whips forward. Tommy yells. Rico goes silent. The car finally crashes to a stop on its side, steam hissing from the crumpled hood.

My head throbs as I blink away blood from my eyes. The car lies twisted on its side, metal groaning. Through the shattered windshield, I see trees tilted at the wrong angles.

“Willow?” My voice comes out ragged. She hangs limp in her seatbelt beside me, a gash across her forehead. Fear claws at my chest—a new, unwelcome sensation. I reach for her neck, finding a steady pulse.

The movement in the back catches my attention. Tommy stirs, moaning. Rico lies motionless, his neck bent at an unnatural angle. Good. Saves me the trouble of killing him myself.

I unbuckle my seatbelt and brace against the door frame. “Tommy, you still with us?”

“Yeah.” His voice is pained. “Think my arm’s broken.”

“Can you move?”

“Think so.”

Willow’s eyes flutter open. Relief floods through me—another foreign feeling I’ll examine later. “Stay still,” I tell her, supporting her head. “You might have a concussion.”

“The police...” she mumbles.

“Won’t find us here.” I check her pupils. Equal and reactive. “But Marcus’s crew will be coming. We need to move.”

The driver’s side door is crushed shut. I kick out what’s left of the windshield, carefully keeping the glass from hitting Willow.

“Tommy, help me get her out.”

Together, we ease Willow through the windshield. She stumbles but stays upright, holding her head. I scan the woods, listening for engines or sirens. Nothing yet.

“There’s a hunting cabin two miles east,” I say, orienting myself. “We can regroup there.”

Rico’s body shifts in the wreckage. Not dead, after all. His eyes open, filled with hate. Before he can move, I grab a jagged piece of windshield glass.

The voices roar back to life, demanding blood, and I’m happy to oblige them.

I wipe the blood from my hands on Rico’s shirt, watching the last twitches of life leave his body. The urges subside, satisfied with his death. They always prefer traitors.

They’re always there, these voices—sometimes a deafening chorus, sometimes a whisper. Violence feeds and temporarily satisfies them, like throwing meat at wild dogs. But only Willow silences them completely. It’s like she exists on a frequency that disrupts their signal, creating moments of pure clarity I’ve never known before.

“We need to move.” I turn to Willow and Tommy. She’s leaning against a tree, still unsteady. Tommy cradles his broken arm, face pale in the moonlight.

“Can you walk?” I ask Willow, touching her cheek gently. The gash on her forehead has stopped bleeding, but she’ll need stitches.

“Yes.” Her voice is stronger now. “Just dizzy.”

I grab the backpack with our supplies from the wreck.”

The cabin’s this way.” I take Willow’s arm, supporting her weight. “Tommy, stay close. Marcus’s crew on the outside will be searching this area, fucking MCs always stick together even when their boss is locked up.”

We move through the forest, keeping to the shadows. Every snap of a twig makes Tommy jump. But even the whispers in my head are unusually focused, attuned to real threats. They’ve always been good at sensing danger.

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