Page 17 of Stolen By the Hit Man
Chapter Seven
Jasmyn
I just have one quick thing I need to do first before we leave. One thing I need to grab, just in case things go sideways on this visit. Provided I can find that one thing.
I do, easily enough, and then we go.
On the drive to the main gate at the compound, I help Joaquin practice how he is to speak to the elders.
He seems distracted and distant, though. Like he’s not really taking any of the protocols seriously.
“Wait right here.” The guard at the main gate at the compound has us pull over to the side of the lane while he radios someone.
“I don’t like this,” Joaquin mutters when we’re out of earshot. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“There’s probably an alert that’s been sent out to security that I’ve run away and to be on the lookout for suspicious activity,” I tell him. “It’s better that they check you out so they don’t think you’re with the Wylie Gang.”
I speak confidently, but my hands are shaking. Joaquin sees this and reaches over to comfort me.
I don’t pull away.
And I don’t look away from our joined hands until I hear the approach of half a dozen utility terrain vehicles, loaded with four to six men each. The gun racks on the UTVs are loaded with high-powered rifles, and that doesn’t include the ones the men are carrying.
“A bit overkill,” Joaquin says lightly, still unable to mask his anxiety.
Overkill? Yes, yes it is.
But also eerily familiar.
Another piece of the puzzle clicks into place.
And then another.
Chapter Eight
Jasmyn
One month earlier
Eighty-four degrees Fahrenheit and zero humidity. That was as far as my thoughts went in planning this escape from Tampa in July.
I’m an idiot, I think, as my rental car swerves to miss the deer standing in the middle of the highway at 2 a.m., swipes a guardrail and careens downhill. As the tree crumples the passenger side of the car and my head hits the driver’s side window at the impact from the airbags, my last thought before everything goes black is, “I should have gone to The Bahamas.”
I thought the Montana climate would be the perfect reward for my hard work. A solo rejuvenation and brainstorming retreat, as well.
It turns out that the trip is indeed exciting, but for entirely the wrong reasons.
Just because I’m the head know-it-all at J. Waters Luxury Fabrics doesn’t mean I literally know everything, including how to drive in the mountains in the pitch-black night.
When I come to, my head is pounding and I’m face-to-face with…well, I don’t know who this is.
“What’s your name? Do you know what day it is?” The man asking these questions is in a uniform. An EMT, perhaps? Police? I can’t tell. I’m in a lumpy hospital bed in a shabby cinder block room with an IV hooked up to my arm.
I start to reply. “I’m…”
Wait…who am I?
I can’t remember my name. Wait a minute… I can’t remember my name? Panic sets in. “Where am I?” I croak.
