Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 30245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 151(@200wpm)___ 121(@250wpm)___ 101(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 151(@200wpm)___ 121(@250wpm)___ 101(@300wpm)
I’m dragged from the nightmare by shouting and gunshots. I’m not sure what’s going on, but I burrow further under the covers. The thought of violence erupting has me tense. Suddenly, my bedroom door flies open, and I’m practically dragged from the bed.
“Come,” one of the men shouts.
He pulls me out into the hallway, and I’m stumbling after him as he grips my wrist. His fingers dig in harshly, causing me to whimper in pain. My gaze flicks around. I’m trying to locate Missy. Or the twins. But they aren’t anywhere to be found.
“What’s happening?” I mumble, trying to tug free from his hold, but the man is far stronger than I am. “Please?” Tears burn my eyes, but I fight them back. I don’t need to show weakness. Fear already has a hold of me, and knowing my life is about to change once again makes me anxious.
“Move.” He stops and shoves me into a room.
I don’t see Missy or the twins, which makes my gut churn. If I’m being sold right now, or stolen once again, I’m not going to make it through. I can’t. Just when I thought things were calming down. I have a new owner who doesn’t hurt me, friends who went through the same thing as I have, and now I’m being thrown into turmoil again.
I glance over my shoulder to find the doors shut. There are still gunshots ringing through the air. We’re all huddled in a corner. My hands are shaking as I shut my eyes so tight, I see white behind the lids.
There aren’t any guards in the room, and I wonder briefly if we can make a break for it. The veranda doors are glass. All it would take is something to shatter them. I’m not foolish enough to think they’d leave the doors unlocked. It would be far too easy.
But getting out of the house is one task. Another is racing down the garden to the fence where we may be captured before we can even smell freedom. The noise outside the room is getting louder. Panic sets in. My heart thumps against my ribs. It’s a reminder of where I am and what could possibly happen.
Nothing good.
Nothing good at all.
When silence finally falls, my stomach drops. There isn’t a sound on the other side of the door, and I’m not sure if it’s for the best. Me, along with the other ten girls, sit and wait.
It’s as if we’re waiting for the reaper to come through the door and take us to a better place. Anything would be better than being a captive to bad men. When the door swings open, we all jump.
“In here,” the man at the threshold calls. He’s not in uniform, so I don’t know if he’s a peeler or if he’s like one of the devils I’ve come across in the years since I’ve been taken.
“What the fuck?” Another voice comes from the entrance hall.
The guard who brought me into this room was clever. He dragged me through the back of the house, while avoiding main entrance hall.
“Agent,” one of the men in uniform finally appears and my chest tightens. Agent? That means the peelers are here. They’ve found us. “We can’t find Andre,” the uniformed man says. “There’s no sign of him down in the basement or up in any of the rooms.”
“And the girl and the twins?” the agent asks, glancing over his shoulder.
He must be talking about Missy, James, and Josh. They’re the only ones I can think of. They’re my friends, and if Andre took them, it means they hold higher value than we do. He may have something even more dangerous up his sleeve for them.
Fear sets in when more men storm into the room. The agent offers us a look filled with sadness and pity. “It’s all going to be okay,” he says as he stops in front of us. “We need to talk to each of you, but for now, I’d like you to go with my men.”
“Where are the twins and Missy?” I ask, fear holding me tightly in its icy grip. There were times over the past few months where I didn’t think I would make it. I was convinced it would be the end of me, but those three stood by me, supported me.
“We’re not sure,” he tells me. I don’t know where the agent’s from, but I can pick out his accent is clearly American. “We have a team on that,” he continues. “Don’t worry, we’ll find them.”
His assurance doesn’t calm my heart rate, and it thuds against my ribs, travelling slowly up into my throat and tries to suffocate me. Panic sets in and my breathing comes in short bursts.
The agent offers me his hand, and when I lift my gaze, I find kindness instead of anger and seething. Over the years, men have looked at me as if I was nothing more than a piece of shite under their shoe.