see it more clearly. “Camaro?”
“Yeah,” Rex said cryptically, checking his mirrors.
“He was in the gas station lot,” she added, her chest
tightening.
“He was.” Rex fell completely back to let the guy take the
road, but the yellow vehicle hung back, too, parallel with their pickup. “Did
you get a look at him?”
“No,” she was ashamed to say. “He didn’t get out.”
“Right.” Rex was examining the car, looking down to the
inside. “He’s got a buddy in there. Talking on the phone.”
She gulped. This was not good. “Is there a way to escape
them?”
“A crossroads up here,” he answered, his gaze all over the
road and their surroundings. Bounded by rock-strewn berms, the country road
offered no exits. Straight ahead was the only way to go, and she could bet that
their pickup was not agile enough to have a wheel radius that could turn them
easily in such a narrow space. And in the few minutes necessary to beat the
Camaro to a one-eighty reverse. “Hang on, honey.”
Rex gunned the pickup. A newer model than the Camaro, the
pickup sped ahead, leaving the driver of the Camaro to step on the gas. The
older car must have had a new, souped-up engine because within two minutes,
they were once more even on the road.
Another vehicle, straightaway about three or more miles
ahead of them, barreled toward them in the on-coming lane.
“He’ll have to drop back,” Skye said like a prayer.
“I will,” Rex told her, his jaw tense. “Rather have our
Camaro boys dead than us.”
“Or them,” she indicated the other truck.
But at that moment, the other truck switched lanes, heading
dead on for their pickup.
If Rex cursed, if she screamed, she didn’t know. But the
horror of the coming impact, made her brace herself.
The next thing she heard was the screech of their own
truck’s tires.
A huge jolt. A crunch of metal. The shattering of glass.
Voices. Loud. Crazy. Spanish. English.
Her own voice, saying, “No, no. Don’t touch me. I’m fine.”
But not feeling it. “I’m fine.” Wanting to vomit. Stumbling from the truck.
Retching into a ditch. Warm hands to her arms. Rough hands on her arms.
She turned, her gaze going to the man who held her. “Rex?”
She heard a man grunt, shout her name.
“Get her in the car, Marco.”
She was being yanked away.
Her knees gave out, as she saw three men beating Rex.
Outnumbered, he still managed to get in punches of his own. To one man’s head,
another’s ribs. A third, his groin.
But she was hustled off, lifted, carried.
“No! No!” She kicked at one man. He was small, thin, evil
looking. A mustache. She twisted away from the one who held her arms. But he
held on, cursing at her in Spanish and calling for help. But there were no more
men. Were there?
She writhed and twisted.
Grappling with the two guys who carried her, she writhed.
They let her drop. The air gushed out of her, but she scrambled away. Getting
no farther than a few feet, she cut her hands. The two grabbed her up again.
She fought for calm, reason.
Where was Rex?
Where were these guys taking her?
She had to get into a position so that she could hit them to
the jugular or the balls.
Next thing she felt was one man’s hand on her head, stuffing
her into the backseat of a car. She choked on the smell of old fast food
wrappers, empty beer cans and an old bottle of tequila.
“Tie her up,” she heard one of her captors yell to the
other. “Don’t let her back there alone!”
“ Si, si ,” the other man yelled and rattled off a
spate of Spanish as he climbed in beside her.
“Put a gag on her,” one ordered.
No need. Who am I going to yell out to?
“Hey, hey, Ricardo, the lady wears no bra,” the one guy
rubbed his dirty hands over the points of her breasts. “See?”
He laughed as he lifted her t-shirt and she twisted away. Him,
she would kill. Soon.
The other two ran their bleary-eyed gaze over her bare
breasts and what they said in Spanish, Skye did
“Yeah,” Rex said cryptically, checking his mirrors.
“He was in the gas station lot,” she added, her chest
tightening.
“He was.” Rex fell completely back to let the guy take the
road, but the yellow vehicle hung back, too, parallel with their pickup. “Did
you get a look at him?”
“No,” she was ashamed to say. “He didn’t get out.”
“Right.” Rex was examining the car, looking down to the
inside. “He’s got a buddy in there. Talking on the phone.”
She gulped. This was not good. “Is there a way to escape
them?”
“A crossroads up here,” he answered, his gaze all over the
road and their surroundings. Bounded by rock-strewn berms, the country road
offered no exits. Straight ahead was the only way to go, and she could bet that
their pickup was not agile enough to have a wheel radius that could turn them
easily in such a narrow space. And in the few minutes necessary to beat the
Camaro to a one-eighty reverse. “Hang on, honey.”
Rex gunned the pickup. A newer model than the Camaro, the
pickup sped ahead, leaving the driver of the Camaro to step on the gas. The
older car must have had a new, souped-up engine because within two minutes,
they were once more even on the road.
Another vehicle, straightaway about three or more miles
ahead of them, barreled toward them in the on-coming lane.
“He’ll have to drop back,” Skye said like a prayer.
“I will,” Rex told her, his jaw tense. “Rather have our
Camaro boys dead than us.”
“Or them,” she indicated the other truck.
But at that moment, the other truck switched lanes, heading
dead on for their pickup.
If Rex cursed, if she screamed, she didn’t know. But the
horror of the coming impact, made her brace herself.
The next thing she heard was the screech of their own
truck’s tires.
A huge jolt. A crunch of metal. The shattering of glass.
Voices. Loud. Crazy. Spanish. English.
Her own voice, saying, “No, no. Don’t touch me. I’m fine.”
But not feeling it. “I’m fine.” Wanting to vomit. Stumbling from the truck.
Retching into a ditch. Warm hands to her arms. Rough hands on her arms.
She turned, her gaze going to the man who held her. “Rex?”
She heard a man grunt, shout her name.
“Get her in the car, Marco.”
She was being yanked away.
Her knees gave out, as she saw three men beating Rex.
Outnumbered, he still managed to get in punches of his own. To one man’s head,
another’s ribs. A third, his groin.
But she was hustled off, lifted, carried.
“No! No!” She kicked at one man. He was small, thin, evil
looking. A mustache. She twisted away from the one who held her arms. But he
held on, cursing at her in Spanish and calling for help. But there were no more
men. Were there?
She writhed and twisted.
Grappling with the two guys who carried her, she writhed.
They let her drop. The air gushed out of her, but she scrambled away. Getting
no farther than a few feet, she cut her hands. The two grabbed her up again.
She fought for calm, reason.
Where was Rex?
Where were these guys taking her?
She had to get into a position so that she could hit them to
the jugular or the balls.
Next thing she felt was one man’s hand on her head, stuffing
her into the backseat of a car. She choked on the smell of old fast food
wrappers, empty beer cans and an old bottle of tequila.
“Tie her up,” she heard one of her captors yell to the
other. “Don’t let her back there alone!”
“ Si, si ,” the other man yelled and rattled off a
spate of Spanish as he climbed in beside her.
“Put a gag on her,” one ordered.
No need. Who am I going to yell out to?
“Hey, hey, Ricardo, the lady wears no bra,” the one guy
rubbed his dirty hands over the points of her breasts. “See?”
He laughed as he lifted her t-shirt and she twisted away. Him,
she would kill. Soon.
The other two ran their bleary-eyed gaze over her bare
breasts and what they said in Spanish, Skye did
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