Page 118 of Lethal Threat
Now there are two of them. And being shoved into the back floorboard of the asshole’s truck kind of puts a hold on any escape attempt.
They knew exactly how to get me into a spot where I can’t move a single part of my body.
Both hands are bound behind me. Feet zip tied to hands. I’m trussed up in an impossible position. Stuck between the backseat and front seats of his truck.
Have they done this before?
The oily, sick feeling in my bones gets worse.
Some dark part of me wonders if other people have seen this floorboard on theirlast ride.
I try to lift my head to get my face out of the carpet but can’t. Twisting to the side causes a stab of pain. Holy hell! My ribs hurt.
I drop my head back down. The gag bites into the corners of my mouth.
I mutter, “Screw you,” against the strip of bedsheet my attacker ripped off Evelyn’s bed. It tastes like the most disgusting laundry detergent on Earth.
Ick.
Somehow, the mix of grit and new car fumes and nasty taste only makes my anger hotter.
I hate them. Violently.
Which is good. It makes my blood surge hot through every single little capillary in my body.
If I’m lucky, I’ll set the truck on fire from sheer fury.
The driver says, “She is going?—”
His voice dips low and I can’t make out the rest of his words. The second guy mutters something.
Dammit,the road noise is too loud. I can’t hear.
“He’ll pay.” It’s the driver’s voice again.
Nothing else is said. The vibe in the truck is lethal. I will not last long at their hands.
The only reason I’m in as good of shape as I’m now is because the second man got there before idiot number one had time to do what he wanted…
His idea of sick fun.
The truck jostles. My ribs scream. Oh wait. That was me screaming. Only the gag blocks it…bluck!
I work and work it with my tongue. My stomach twists around, revolting against the taste. The disgusting thing won’t budge.
Fuming, I try to channel my inner James Bond. But oneword spoken between the two stops my mind cold in its tracks—bridge.
A bridge!
God. No. I can’t swim like this. I swallow, even though my mouth is cotton-ball-dry.
My shaking turns violent. My teeth would be chattering if they could touch. These men are going to throw me in the water.
I bet there’s a cinderblock in the back of the truck with my name on it.
Shoot me. Stab me. Anything is better than getting thrown off a bridge like a discarded human pretzel tied to an anchor.
An arrhythmia flares behind my sternum. Sweat is gathering on my wrists, between my mashed breasts, at the small of my back. I fight the tears that are seeping out of my eyes.
