Page 20 of Stolen By the Hit Man
Think about the people who love you. My work family and…that’s about it. That’s right. I haven’t spoken to my parents since I was 16.
“I need someone to contact the Prophet. I need to see about granting a release for my girl Jasmyn.”
I clear my throat and speak up, loud and clear across the thirty yards that separate us so they can hear me.
“I’m not your wife, Braydon. I know you all lied to me.”
No one says anything at first. “What’s that, sweetheart?” Braydon says, playing dumb.
I don’t miss the fact that Joaquin’s trigger finger is twitching.
‘Don’t you fucking speak to her,” Joaquin says.
“It’s okay, Joaquin. Let me handle this.”
Through gritted teeth, he says, “Jasmyn, get in the car.”
I ignore this and turn my attention back to the men. “You kidnapped me. I remember everything. I wasn’t in a farm accident. I crashed my car in the mountains. You took advantage of a woman with a concussion. I know everything.”
The one I knew as Uncle Charlie steps forward. “What do you mean, everything?”
What follows is a stare down while the final piece clicks into place. That wasn’t a deer in the road. It was human. Somehow, my mind couldn’t handle the fact that I was driving up on the scene of a crime — four men placing a body in the middle of the road. They looked like they were arguing when I came around the corner, and in a split second, they scattered. And I was so shocked and scared that I veered off the road.
My hand dips inside my purse, taking hold of the grip of the gun. Anxious sweat drips down my brow.
“I know what you all did, Charlie. And you’re all going to jail.”
“Well, we’ll see if the sheriff buys the story of a lying transient whore who took advantage of our hospitality. Or if he’ll believe those of us with roots in the community, that we came upon this little lady tourist trying to cover up a crime scene after driving recklessly through our mountains.”
Braydon shakes his head. “Sure is a shame what all these tourists are doing to our fine countryside.”
Joaquin’s last tether to reason finally snaps. “Jasmyn, get down on the ground,” he says as he reaches for his pistol.
I see it in the instant before it happens: Braydon reaches for his belt holster. He draws.
My hand tugs loose from Joaquin’s grip.
There are six men with rifles and pistols, and enough backup firepower in the UTVs for a small army.
The shot echoes across the field. My ears ring.
Braydon goes down first. Joaquin backs up, effectively knocking me to the ground, where the open passenger door serves as a shield as another shot takes out Uncle Charlie. His body jerks at the impact, and he falls to the ground.
Somewhere along the way, Joaquin drags me into the car and throws the Blazer in reverse. He drives like a madman as gunfire is exchanged. The car bumps over the rough terrain of the rutted lane until we’re on the highway, Joaquin shouting at me the entire way to get down.
As we drive away, a strange white spot appears on the passenger side window. Then another. It takes me a minute to realize it’s not random spots, but bullets being fired at us. I duck down and try not to panic.
“Joaquin?”
“Yeah?”
“Why is the glass not breaking?”
“Bullet-resistant glass.”
I swallow. “Are you a cop?”
He scoffs.
