Devil's Lair (Molotov Obsession #1) - Anna Zaires Page 0,89
the rearview mirror and the steep, pothole-filled road ahead. Please don’t let it be them. Please don’t let it—
The pickup truck appears in the mirror, its dark shape gaining on me swiftly.
I push the gas pedal to the floor, my breath coming in jagged gasps as my car bounces over a series of potholes. Adrenaline sloshes in my veins, ratcheting up my pulse until all I can hear is its roar in my ears.
Pop!
My right side mirror explodes, and my terror doubles as I catch sight of a man leaning out the truck’s passenger-side window, gun in hand. Instinctively, I jerk the wheel left, and the next bullet shatters the back window and punches a hole in the windshield, barely a foot from my head.
The third bullet whines past my shoulder, and I taste death. I feel its icy, scaly fingers. It’s everything left undone, unsaid, all the things that won’t come to pass. It’s Nikolai whispering into my ear how much he wants me, loves me, and Slava giggling as he hugs me tight. It’s the bitter knowledge that these men will get away with this, like they did with Mom’s murder, and regret that no one will ever know how I died.
A fourth bullet pierces the seat an inch from my right side, and I jerk on the wheel again, desperate to avoid the inevitable, to live at least a second longer. The pickup is right behind me now, looming over my Corolla like a black mountain, and as I try to swerve out of the next bullet’s path, its bumper rams into mine, hard, making my head whip forward.
Pop!
Fire punches through my upper arm, the sensation so sharp and sudden it doesn’t hurt at first. Instead, I feel something hot and wet slide down my arm as the truck slams into my car again, making it shudder from the massive jolt. The pain hits me then, a nauseating wave of it, and with the desperation of a dying animal, I jerk off my seat belt and push open my door.
Pop!
What remains of the windshield shatters as I hit the dirt so hard air whooshes out of my lungs. Stunned, I roll twice before landing on my back and watching in dazed horror as the truck rams one last time into my Corolla, forcing it off the road and squashing it against a thick tree. With an earsplitting screech of metal crushing metal, the old car crumples, and then, just like in the movies, catches fire. The truck immediately backs up, and some remnant of strength propels me to my feet.
Run, Chloe.
Dragging in a wheezing breath, I lurch toward the trees on legs that feel like broken matches, my knees threatening to buckle with each step I take. My foot catches on a root, and pain shoots through my left ankle—the same ankle I twisted hiding in Mom’s closet—but I just clench my teeth and force my strides to lengthen, ignoring the hot blood dripping down my arm and the dizziness washing over me in waves. I can’t give up, not if I want to live, so I keep going, keep limping forward at a zombie-like half-jog, half-run.
A male voice yells something behind me, and I force myself to pick up speed, ragged sobs sawing between my lips as another bullet whizzes past my ear, splintering a branch in front of me.
“Fucking bitch!”
Some sixth sense makes me duck, and a bullet slams into a tree instead of me as I lurch sideways.
Run, Chloe.
Mom’s voice is clearer than ever, and with a surge of strength I didn’t know I possessed, I launch into a full-scale run. My ankle screams each time my foot strikes the ground, my vision blurring from nausea and waves of pain, but I run with everything I’ve got.
Only it’s not enough.
Not nearly enough.
A truck-like force rams into me, knocking me off my feet, and a massive weight crushes me into the leaf-strewn dirt. I can’t even wheeze as my ribcage flattens out—and then, miraculously, the weight is gone and I’m flipped over onto my back.
When my vision clears, I see a huge dark-haired man straddling me, gun pointed at my face and mouth twisted in a triumphant snarl.
“Gotcha, little bitch,” he says, panting. “And since you made us work for it, you owe us some fun.”
51
Chloe
Air rushes into my oxygen-starved lungs, and I swing my fist blindly, aiming at that smug face. He intercepts it with ease, brutal fingers catching my wrist and pinning it