Prisoner (Criminals & Captives #1)(53)

I scramble to my feet and see Grayson lying there, curled on his side, grabbing at stones around him, trying to get to his gun, which is too far away.

The man who was choking me is on all fours, like a cow. He rises to his feet, unsteady, clutching his belly, gun in hand, taking jerky steps toward Grayson.

He’s going to kill Grayson. And then he’ll kill me. The shears that dropped glint in the sun. I roll over and snap them up, and without thinking twice, I run for the guy, jump on his back, and jab them into the side of his neck.

They go in with sickening ease.

Horrified, I pull them out. My fist feels wet. Warm. He raises an arm and his gun goes off, and then we crash to the ground together, but I don’t let go. He’s crawling, dragging himself. I have this idea in my head that I have to hang on, I have to stay behind him and ride him, because he might shoot me if he can see me.

I can barely hold on, my one hand is so bloody. A car passes, slowing, then speeding, a blur of metal and glass out of the corner of my eye, but I don’t let go. This is how I’m going to beat this *. Not with physical strength. Not with fighting skills. By never giving up. It’s how I always win.

He’s on his hands and knees, and then he just collapses. I jump off him, arm soaked with blood. The man seems dead. Then I look over at Grayson. He isn’t moving.

Something lurches in my chest. I know what I should do—take one of the cars. Take the car and get out, like Grayson said. Get the FBI.

It has to be the FBI, because that’s what Grayson told me. And then he groans.

Before I can think better of it, I’m at his side. He blinks rapidly. “Fuck,” he whispers.

“Grayson.” His whole shirt is full of blood, there’s blood on his face, but he was bloody even before he got shot. Sirens in the distance. “Can you walk?”

He tries to get up. “No. Go. Take the car. No time.” The blue car is a ways off, but not the black fancy car. If nothing else, being with Grayson has taught me about taking what you want. He’s injured now. I’m in charge.

I run to the fancy car and get in. The keys are still in the ignition. I start it up and drive it the few yards to where Grayson is, navigating so my tires don’t go over the man’s body…the man I killed. I should probably leave Grayson here. I know I should.

I get out and open the passenger door and go to Grayson. “Come on.” I pull on his arm, and he grunts in pain.

“No! Other—” He uses his left hand to push himself up.

I grab his left shoulder and help him, though it’s him doing the work. It’s only a couple of feet to the door. He flops onto the seat and I shut the door. Then I race around and get behind the wheel and drive.

The seat is so low I have to sit up to see out the window. I lay on the gas, increasing the speed, using the steering wheel not only to steer but also to keep me forward. I’m not the best driving without my glasses, but I can make out the road, the red blur of a stop sign, other cars.

He’s curled up on his left side in the passenger seat, the top of his head grazing my thigh. The curled-up position seems to ease his pain.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispers. “You are so beautiful.”

He’s delirious. “I’m taking you to a hospital.”

“No.”

“You don’t have a choice.” Because I have the power, though I don’t feel powerful. I just feel scared. More than when Grayson put a gun to my side and forced me to help him escape. More than anything.

“No…just…” He fades off. My heart pounds.

“Just what?” I press. Does he have a game plan for when he gets injured? “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“Bradford Hotel,” he grates out. “Get on the interstate.”

“Are you crazy? What about your friend?”

“No. Can’t go back there.”

I look down at him. He seems to be pressing on his shoulder; the white scar design on his thick forearm gleams with sweat and blood. The words chest cavity float into my mind. How bad is he hurt?

“Grayson?”

The only sound is sirens in the distance.

I drive for a bit and say his name again. “Grayson.” Again he doesn’t answer.

Don’t leave me alone.

“Don’t name your farm animals?” I ask. “What the f*ck is that? So I’m a farm animal you shouldn’t have named?”

He makes a breathy noise. Maybe it’s supposed to be a laugh. It doesn’t comfort me.

“Here’s a farm animal name. How about ‘You’re lucky I pulled your sorry ass out of there after what you did.’ What do you think about that for a name?”

I look down. He’s smiling. Maybe grimacing. Either way, it’s better than him sliding out of consciousness. I want him with me. I have to know he’s okay.

The road winds. Trees obscure everything beyond ten feet. “Where’s the interstate? I’ll get on the interstate if you tell me where it is.”

He hisses out a breath, like this is a monumental task. “Which way’re we going?”

“Which way?” I look around for the sun. It’s up there, but I don’t know what time of day it is. Afternoon? Yes, afternoon. The sun sets in the west. “Uh, east.”

“Okay,” he says, voice light and shallow, a pond instead of the ocean. “That’s what we want,” he says. “Interstate’s east of here.”