Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Who shot? Why? An accident? An errant shot meant for me that landed in the head of the man who ordered it?
Can’t be. The oke on the bridge seemed as shocked as I am.
Again, not the time. Must revisit anon.
Danny’s chasing after the van, gun drawn, as the vehicle speeds away. He doesn’t shoot, presumably because the back of the van contains Christine and while shooting at the tires looks cool when it works, it could also endanger the precious cargo in the back if it were to cause the driver to lose control.
“Fuck!” he shouts as I reach him.
“What the fok, man? Why are you here?” I shout.
“Come on!” he yells back, ignoring me altogether.
Truly, when did I start carrying so little influence? This has been a very strange few… weeks? Months? Years? Millennia?
Regardless, I resign myself to the fact that I must needs remain in bafflement for just a wee bit longer and limp along after him, my kilt of annihilation still holding me back in an utterly absurd way.
We arrive next to what appears to be an ancient Triumph Bonneville. What a motorbike enthusiast might refer to, I suppose, as a classic.
There is no more talk, no exchange of pithy dialogue as Danny jumps onto it and starts it up. I don’t even insist that I should be the one leading the pursuit of Christine’s abductor. I just climb on behind him, guns still clanking in my pockets, place my hands on his hips—which, under any other circumstances, might be an act of salaciousness, but in this case is entirely functional—and hold on as we zoom off after the van.
The sirens are almost upon us now. But no matter. By the time they get here, we’ll be long gone. One step ahead of judgment.
As is our custom.
CHRISTINE
Goddamnit. I feel stupid. I feel a lot of other things too: Angry, in pain from where I smacked my head against the wall of the van as I was being thrown in, stupefied (which is totally an Alec word, but is the right one) at what the fuck is happening… but mostly just stupid.
I can’t believe I didn’t see this dickhead coming up behind me.
Shit. I let myself get got. And now someone’s going to have to come after me.
I hate that. I mean, I love that I have people who care about me enough to come after me, but I hate that I have to be fuckin’ rescued.
Also, the pain in my head right now makes me kind of nervous. Because it’s reminding me of the headache I had when I woke up in that tiny basement apartment, unremembering of who I was or what had happened to me. Knowing only that there were weapons under the floorboards and I knew how to use them.
This isn’t that, of course. Not even close. But PTSD is real and it’s a motherfucker.
I have to get out of here. I have no idea where I’m being taken, but if there’s one thing that’s true about every single abduction scenario it’s that you need to do whatever you can to avoid being taken to a second location. Because once you’re in the second location… you’re already fucked.
Technically, this van is the second location, but I’m gonna let it slide this time because I don’t want to get bogged down in a semantic argument with myself when what I need is to get the fuck out of here.
It’s pitch black. The kind of black that doesn’t just exclude light but consumes it and turns it into more darkness. There are no windows and where there would normally be access to the cab or some kind of porthole to allow a view of the driver, it has been walled off entirely.
It’s not only disorienting in terms of space, it’s unclear to me how fast we’re moving. If we’re still on the paved roads or if we’ve gone off into the woods or something like that. If I’m able to get the rear door open, what will I see?
My phone is still on me. I grab it, swipe up, turn on the flashlight.
First thing: No one else is in here. No Andra, no Theo, no nobody. Just me and a bunch of stripped-out, bare metal.
Second thing: I still have my gun. That’s cool. Nice to know that the crew we’re currently battling against are sloppier than we are. Super helpful.
But before I go shooting up a tiny, enclosed metal box, I think to see if maybe the back door is somehow just magically unlocked. The slapdash nature of the way this has gone so far gives me hope that…
No handle. Locks from the outside. No way to open it from within that I can see.
I suppose a girl can’t be lucky all the time. (“Luck.” Ha. I actually laugh. I think I may be losing my mind. “Losing.” Ha. I laugh again.)