Amara (Reapers MC #12) - Elizabeth Knox Page 0,1
move my fucking hand. He jabbed a syringe filled with something in my arm after he slapped me around back at the warehouse. I had managed to stand up, but sadly it didn’t do me any good. I fought as much as I could given the zip ties restraining me. If they hadn’t been on I’m sure I would’ve had a chance. Within a moment of injecting the liquid it was like my body became dead weight, and I staggered to the ground.
When he saw I was down for the count, Lucien was sneering down at me, mocking the fact I couldn’t move an inch. He made it a point to tell me exactly what he’d be doing, carting my body across the border to Mexico which leads me to my current predicament.
I’m in the trunk of a sedan. I’m not sure of the make or model, but I was shoved underneath where the tire usually is. It’s typically carved out specifically for the tire, but not this time. It was almost molded for a human body.
Lucien tossed my body in the alloted area, fastened the liner over me and locked it somehow. Now I’m hearing Santana’s albums play on repeat, blasting through his radio. It’s so loud I can barely even think.
I’ve tried to hum, to speak, though nothing I’m trying is working. In my head I’ve been counting the seconds I’ve been in the back of this car. I’ve just counted to 4,325, which translates to a little over 72 minutes. Over an hour into this trip and depending on his route we could be there in five hours or eight. I have no idea which way he’s using to get across the border.
Counting might be useless, yet I know it’s the only thing assisting in helping keep my sanity. I can hope and pray the brothers will come for me, but with the way I pissed Damon off he might just say fuck it. I’m his sister, but . . . I really know how to push the man’s buttons.
If they do try to find me I don’t know where they’d start. It’s not like our father was close with his family, the Ramírezes. As a precaution most members of the Cartel had a GPS tracking chip inserted in their forearm somewhere. I know my uncle Alejandro had one inserted, yet my uncle Rafael had his cut out if I remember the story correctly. My father is Roman Raines, the half-brother to the Ramírez familia.
We were never too involved with our uncles, although my father was particular in that decision. He ended up admitting he didn’t want us around our uncle Rafael, but it’s only because he was the most corrupt and vile man on the planet. Thankfully, he met his maker a couple years ago. I have no doubt the world is a much better place with his passing.
I’m trying so desperately to think of anything to keep my mind focused. I don’t want to feel the beads of sweat on my forehead, the heaviness in my chest that somehow slowly crawls up my throat and makes me feel like I’m choking. To be honest, I’m terrified because I have no control of the situation at hand.
I can’t even open my mouth to speak, or clear my throat. I’m here, but I’m not here. I don’t know the woman taking control of my mind right now. Actually, that’s a lie. I haven’t seen this woman in years, since I made one of the biggest mistakes of my life that cost me so much. I lost my best friend because I was stricken with fear and sought comfort in the wrong person’s arms.
I’m not a good person, in fact, I’m the one people don’t want to be around. No one makes a choice to put themselves in the position to be in my company, and I can’t blame them. I’m the bitch. I’m the cruel one. I’m so many things rolled into one, but I’ve accepted it. I’ve accepted my fate because my decisions are what brought me here.
Maybe this is my penance for the things I’ve done. I could try to list them from worst to the most miniscule of my mistakes, but I know what’s put me here. I was the other woman. I was the one who tore a family apart, not knowing it at the time.
Sometimes before I drift off to sleep I wonder if I kept Widow and Melody apart. Internally, I