Page 74 of The Hitch
Roman grunts and follows me out the door. I swear to god, if this leads us to the same shitty shack that we destroyed days ago, I'm going to murder The Paimon and Leanne both.
"Keep going. Follow the same road until I tell you otherwise," Leanne says over the phone mounted to the dashboard. I lean my head to the window and look up, watching her team of tiny drones stream through the gray sky above us. We still don't know exactly where we're going. But it can't be to the destroyed hut. I don't recognize the area.
A poorly maintained road is all that separates me from my wife. I have a feeling, and my gut is rarely wrong. Roman curses under his breath and swerves around cracked potholes. Every bump in the road, every whirr of the motor blends together into one word.
Melody. Melody. Melody.
I'm about to get my wife back, and I'm about to put a bullet through Ella's head. It has to be her. It could only be her. The psych profile The Eligos provided points directly to that woman: a deep need to be at the top and a ruthless lack of conscience, meaning she'll do anything to get her bag. If circumstances were different, I'd respect her.
But she took what's mine, and for that? She's going to fucking die.
Bang!
The rear window cracks and shatters. Roman curses and grips the steering wheel hard—we skid along the road for a split second before he regains control. "Get down, sir!"
I slide down to the floor and check my rifle's magazine. Full, exactly how I left it. Good. I feel a devilish grin slide across my face. "Keep driving, Roman. I'll take care of this."
"I would highly—"Bang!"—fuck!" The SUV shudders with the flip-flopping of our rear tire. "Never mind. As you were, sir."
"Thanks, Ro." I cock the gun and roll down my window. A shiny black coupe is gaining on us—some kind of sports car. I can't tell what it is at this angle, but it doesn't matter. Anchoring myself with one leg in the footwell and the other kneeling on the seat, I poke my head and gun out the window.
Aiming is not on my mind at this point. I let loose a spray of bullets and laugh when the coupe's windshield erupts in a spiderweb of cracks. Whoever's driving isn't doing a very good job, or maybe I hit them already. Doesn't matter. I fire another handful of rounds and shout with glee when blood red blooms against the cracked glass.
"Got 'em!" I yell out, and Roman laughs. The black coupe swerves and dives off the road before finally crashing against a cattle panel fence.
"We have to stop, sir. We're driving on rim." He looks over at me with apologies behind his eyes. I grit my teeth and nod. Within seconds, we've pulled into the grassy shoulder of the backwoods highway—if it could even be called a highway.
"I'll pay for a replacement, of course," I assure him as I help lug the full-size spare tire from under the cargo space.
"There wasn't a doubt in my mind, sir," he grunts.
Together, we have the ruined tire off and the new one on in record time. The rim is absolutely shot. Deep scratches mar the surface. What was once a perfect circle is now oblong and folded. "Damn. It really wasn't going to hold on for even a second longer, was it?"
"Nope." Roman scurries back to the driver's seat and grabs the phone. "Sorry about that, Leanne. Had to take care of a situation."
"You're going to like what I found," she practically giggles, ignoring Roman's apologies. "The end of the tunnel. You're about… oh, six miles or so?"
"Let's go!" I yell and slap the dashboard. "Leanne, directions?"
"Keep going straight until you come to Pimrock Drive. Hang a left. Follow it until the very end. Oh, hang on," she trails off with a mumble.
My phone vibrates in my pocket at the same time an alert flashes across the top of Roman's screen. In the background of the call, I hear a cacophony of notifications. Pings, buzzes, and melodic trills fill the air as everyone gets the same notification at the same time.
Unknown Number
TURN ON THE NEWS
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" I grumble as Roman clenches his jaw and slams down the accelerator again.
Fumbling with my phone, I tap on the local news app's icon. A livestream takes over my screen, and my heart stops. A gaggle of newscasters surrounds a run-down shack, not dissimilar to the one we destroyed plank by plank. The blonde newswoman stands in a station-branded jacket, smiling blithely as red and blue flashing lights reflect from her face.
"If you're just joining us now, this is Katie Allan with Alert 7, coming to you live from the Poconos. Local detective Rafaella Angelo has apprehended asix times overmurderer, Melody Crawford. She's been missing for the past year after the gruesome death of her stepfather. Presumed dead, it appears that Miss Crawford has been hiding out in the foothills—with either a hostage or an accomplice." The newswoman, Katie, turns to the side. "Here they come! Let's see if we can get a word in. Detective Angelo!"
My blood runs cold as I watch in horror. My wife, my beautiful wife, is covered in dirt and blood—she looks pale, sickly, and her face is noticeably gaunt. She's only been gone a week—hasn't Ella been feeding her? Melody's head lolls to the side as she stumbles to a police SUV. Ella herself holds her hands in cuffs and shields the back of her head as my wife plops into the seat and slumps over. Ella shuts the door and slaps the car twice, waiting, watching until the SUV revs its engine and peels down the dirt road.
In the distance, I hear the wail of sirens. We were so close. But we failed.
I failed her.
