Page 46 of Silent Trail

"That's for me to know and you to find out later, sweetheart."

As they approached the dilapidated bridge, Sheila felt her heart sink. The once imposing structure now stood as a skeletal monument to its former glory. Its wooden beams were weathered and worn, their paint peeling away in long, mournful strips. Rust clung to the metal joints like a disease, eating away at the bridge's very foundation. The sight of it sent an involuntary shiver down her spine.

Sheila hesitated before turning onto the bridge, her eyes darting between the decaying structure and the man who held her and the girl captive. She couldn't afford to let her fear get the best of her; she had to focus on getting them all out of this alive. As her foot pressed down on the gas pedal, she silently prayed that the bridge would hold their weight just long enough for her to figure out what to do next.

As the truck rumbled onto the bridge, the old wooden planks creaked and groaned beneath them, voicing their objections to the unwelcome intrusion. Sheila's knuckles whitened around the steering wheel, her grip tightening as she fought to keep control of the truck and her rising panic. Think, Sheila, think, she urged herself, desperately searching for a way out of this nightmare.

The truck's tires rolled hesitantly over the ancient wooden planks, each one emitting a nerve-wracking groan beneath their weight. Sheila could practically feel the rotting wood straining, threatening to give way at any moment.

"Are you sure this is safe?" she asked. "It might not hold us."

"Drive!" the man barked, his eyes blazing with a dangerous fire. "I said drive!"

Swallowing hard, Sheila guided the truck deeper into the skeletal embrace of the decaying bridge. Her hands trembled on the wheel, cold sweat gathering on her brow. Please, hold, she silently begged the structure, her heart pounding like a drum against her ribcage.

As they reached the halfway point, the man raised his hand. "Stop," he commanded, his voice low and menacing. Sheila's foot pressed down on the brake pedal, bringing the truck to a shuddering halt.

"Get out," the man ordered, the knife still clutched tightly in his grip.

"Why?" Sheila asked, her gaze fixed on the glint of the blade, fear curdling in her stomach.

"Because," he snarled, his face contorted with rage, "you're going to jump, just like those bullies made me jump into that pool all those years ago. How's that for poetic justice?"

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

Sheila's heart pounded in her chest as she stepped out of the truck, the cold metal handle leaving a momentary chill on her palm. The old, dilapidated railroad bridge creaked beneath her feet, its wooden boards showing the wear of time and weather. She could hear the water far below, its roar a constant reminder of the danger that lay beneath her. The drop was so far that she knew there was a good chance she would lose consciousness on the way down or when she hit the water. Her chances of survival would not be good.

Come on, she told herself. You've faced worse odds in the boxing ring. The difference, of course, was that the stakes here were far more serious, far more significant.

This wasn't about winning and losing—it was about life and death.

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Sheila approached the edge of the bridge. The moon cast a silver glow over the rugged landscape, illuminating the mountains of Utah like otherworldly sentinels. Far below, the river churned, a dark ribbon slicing through the rocky terrain. It was late at night, and the stars twinkled overhead, their beauty contrasting sharply with the perilous situation she found herself in.

The wind whipped around her, ruffling her hair and tugging at her clothes as if it were a living thing trying to pull her away from the edge. She swallowed hard. As she stared down into the abyss, she knew that the next few moments would determine not only her fate but that of an innocent girl and perhaps others.

The truck's door slammed shut as the man stepped out, his menacing figure silhouetted against the moonlit sky. In one swift motion, he yanked his captive from the backseat, holding a knife to her trembling throat. Her eyes locked onto Sheila's, pleading for salvation.

"Everything's going to be okay," Sheila assured her.

"Not for you, sweetheart," the man sneered, his amusement palpable. "Not after you jump. There's no way you'll survive that fall."

Sheila's mind raced back to the text message she had sent Natalie. Had she seen it yet? When would help arrive? She knew she needed to buy time, and the only way to do so was to stroke this man's ego—not an easy feat, given his evident sadism.

"Fine," she said, her heart pounding in her chest. "But before I jump, tell me something. What will you do after this? You seem like a man with ambition."

The man's eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Sheila worried she had miscalculated. But then, his lips curled into a sinister grin. "Oh, I've got plans," he replied, never taking the blade away from the girl's throat. "Big plans."

"Like what?" she asked, trying to sound genuinely interested rather than desperate.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" the man taunted, clearly enjoying her discomfort.

"Maybe I would," Sheila said, injecting her voice with determination. "Or maybe I want others to know, too. To understand why you're doing this."

He arched an eyebrow. "Really? And why should I listen to a word you're saying?"

"Because I'm about to jump off this bridge for you," she said, hoping her gamble would pay off. "I think that earns me the right to know what I'm dying for."

The man considered this for a moment, then nodded. "You want the truth? Fine. After tonight, no one will forget my name. They'll know who I am and what I've done. And they'll respect it—or fear it."

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