Page 71 of Extracted

Her legs dangled. Blood rushed to her face. The seatbelt cut into her hips and chest, constricting her lungs.

Dallas’s arms swayed. His chin rested on his chest and his legs were squeezed underneath the steering wheel.

Oh god. Oh god.

Someone had driven them off the road. They’d been found—either by Silas or someone else who wanted to collect the reward money for her death. Her heart pumped frantically. She needed to get them out. Whoever had just tried to kill them was going to make sure to finish the job.

She twisted in her seat and reached for the buckle. If she released it, she’d fall headfirst to the roof of the car. She needed to position herself properly first. If she hung out like a damn bat, she’d end up with a bullet in her head.

Slam!

The sound of a car door shutting reached her ears—their killer.

“Dallas!” she hissed, seizing his shoulder and shaking it violently. “Dallas, you need to wake up!”

Blood dripped from his forehead. Her stomach twisted and tears soaked her cheeks. He’d hit his head. Without medical attention he could die. At the very least he had a concussion, and if she didn’t get him out of the car and right side up, the damage could be devastating.

Hang on, Dallas.

The crunch of boots on gravel came next. All the moisture left her mouth. A scream swelled in the back of her throat, but she gulped it down.

She had to get them out of here.

She pressed the button on the buckle, but it didn’t budge. She gasped and tried again. There was too much pressure bearing down on the belt. She had to relieve some of the weight, but dammit, she didn’t have time to wrestle with the seatbelt.

Stretching forward and straining against the tight belt, she groped for the glove box and hit the button. The door sprang open, and the glove box’s contents spilled into her open hand—an array of papers and trash . . . and a knife.

Not ideal. She needed a gun, but the only one in the vehicle was in Dallas’s possession. If she had time to get herself down safely, she could probably retrieve the gun from behind his back. But the last thing she wanted to do was signal to their pursuer that they were alive. The footsteps moved quicker.

Determined.

Gemma lifted the weapon to her chest. The blade wobbled in her grip and her breath hitched on every rapid inhale.

She glanced toward Dallas’s window. It had been blown out, just like hers. Booted feet stomped slowly around the car. She moved her tongue around the torrid cavern of her mouth. Sweat dotted her skin and dampened her palms. The only way she could protect herself with the knife was if the man got close enough for her to stab him. Which was unlikely. He’d probably just aim and shoot.

The boots stopped at her window. The man crouched, getting low enough to reveal a light-blue T-shirt. His hand rested on his knee. In his palm was a gun. “I can hear you breathing.” His laugh prickled her skin.

She squeezed her eyes together, anticipating the bullet that would enter her skull at any minute.

“Maybe if you come out nicely, I won’t shoot your friend.” The thick Spanish accent held contempt. “Nah, that’s a lie.” An arm snaked into the vehicle, and long, rough fingers crawled across her lap in search of the buckle.

Vomit hit Gemma’s palate. She slashed the knife across his forearm. Blood oozed from the wound.

“Fuck!” He yanked his hand out of reach. “Bitch!” He lunged back into the vehicle, his eyes blazing fire and his face beet red. His fingers gripped her seatbelt buckle. “I’ll carve up your fucking face for that—”

Crack! Crack!

The man’s fingers loosened and his eyes turned wide and glassy. Two red spots bloomed from his torso. He slumped to the ground.

Gemma screamed. She kicked and flailed as if doing so would help her run from whoever was out there trying to kill them. Hysteria seized all rational thoughts. Her throat rasped as another cry ripped out.

“Gemma!” A rough hand bit into her bicep.

She stopped fighting and lowered her gaze to the masculine hand covering her skin. Streaks of blood covered his knuckles. She jerked her misty eyes to Dallas’s face. His stare was hazy, and his body still hung in the seat. Sweat mingled with dirt and debris along his hairline.

“Dallas. Oh my god.” Her voice broke, and she clutched his hand. “You were unconscious. I thought . . .”

She glanced down at the dead body lying halfway inside her window. Shot. Had Dallas not woken and killed him, she’d be dead . . . or at least forcefully removed from the vehicle for the man to butcher.

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