Prisoner (Criminals & Captives #1)(55)

“Are we there?” he mumbles, and he sounds so much like a grumpy kid I have to smile.

“Not really. What kind of safe house is the Bradford Hotel?”

“Drop me there and get away. Don’t stay.” He’s been in and out of consciousness for some time. It’s been a straight shot. I managed to find Gedney Street on a map, though I’m not sure if I can trust his mumblings on the address.

From here I can see the soda displays and an ATM inside the store. It doesn’t look welcoming. In fact, it’s exactly the kind of place I would have avoided in favor of cleaner, brighter stores. But it’s either this or run out of gas. “Do you need anything?” I ask.

He grunts. “Probably need gas.”

“Thanks, Einstein,” I say. “Do you have any money?”

“Not enough,” he whispers.

We’re not going to make it much farther with half a gallon. I squint at the window, trying to get a read on the guy inside. Not much to tell. It’s a semirural gas station. I have some experience in hocking stuff when the money’s run low.

I put my hand to my neck. “I have this. It’s worth something.”

His gaze slants to the rearview mirror. He moves like he wants to sit up, then he winces.

“Stay down,” I scold, though he couldn’t get up even if he wanted. “I’ve got it under control.”

“Where’re we?”

“Keppelsville.”

“No,” he whispers.

“This is a diamond. It’s a universal language.” I smooth my hair back, try to get myself looking civilized.

“Bring the gun.”

“And right there, that’s the difference between you and me. I don’t behave like a caveman.”

Not anymore, anyway.

He’s protesting, but I don’t have to listen. I get out and shut the door. “I treat people as I would want to be treated.” I give him a look. He knows exactly what I’m talking about.

He fumbles the gun out onto the seat next to his head. He can barely move, damn it. A pang of fear slides through me.

I spin around and head into the dingy little station, angry with myself. How did I get back here? I pay my dues. I go to college. I’m not that girl who pretended to call 9-1-1 and watched a man die. I’m not the girl who stole food from the corner store or slid bills out of my mom’s junkie friends’ wallets.

That’s not my world anymore. Damn it.

Inside the store, the guy is looking through a porn magazine. He’s big and whiskery like he can’t shave right, and he wears thick wire-rimmed glasses, and he makes no attempt to hide the racy cover from me. In fact, he gives me a long once-over that leaves no doubt as to his thoughts.

Nice.

I put on a businesslike attitude. “I seem to be running low on gas. And cash.” I hold up the small diamond on my necklace. “Would you be willing to trade?”

He smirks. “I’d be willing to trade. But not for the diamond.”

“This is worth a couple hundred dollars.” I take it off. “You’d make a serious profit.”

He eyes me like a spider eyeing a fly. I get what he sees. A woman alone on a lonely stretch of highway. Dirty. Desperate.

“That’s what I’m offering. You don’t like it…” I shrug. “Somebody else’ll see what a good deal it is.”

“I don’t see anybody else around, though, that’s the thing.” He stands. He’s a lot bigger than me. “You won’t find another station for miles. So how’s about you get on your knees back here. Fifteen minutes,” he adds as if that wasn’t enough. “Fifteen minutes for all the gas we can fit in that little tank of yours.”

This guy is foul, and I’m talking about more than the smell coming off him.

“The diamond or nothing.”

His eyes shift to the side. I follow his gaze to what might be unrecognizable to most people; a thumbnail of polished wood. I know exactly what it is: one edge of the butt end of a double shooter, favorite weapon of convenience store clerks everywhere, big on stopping power and beating power. Maybe he’s thinking he can get the diamond and his fifteen minutes too.

But not as a trade.

And this weird feeling rises in me—heat, flashing up my neck and into my eyes. It’s not anger, it’s something else. Like I’m fed up with people thinking I’m some weak little girl. With people pushing me around.

I’m not afraid of him. I’m pissed.

I turn and beat it to the car, running all the way around it. I reach through the open window and grab the gun off the seat just as the guy clears the station door. Grayson is slouched sideways, eyes closed. Unconscious? At least he’s out of sight.

I crouch behind the engine and wait. I haven’t shot this kind of gun before, but I know how. The gas station guy comes barreling out with his shotgun. I let him get good and close—then I pull the trigger.

The shot goes wild, like I meant it to. He skids to a halt. Out in the open. My heart races. It felt kind of good.

“Don’t move,” I say, surprised my voice sounds steady.

He turns and runs back toward his shop.

I shoot again, shattering the window. “Don’t move!”

He freezes.

“Throw it down.” Of course he doesn’t listen. That would be too easy. “I swear I’ll shoot you. You think I won’t?”