Page 3 of Mountain Hero

That would be alarming on its own, but then I caught a glimpse of the items in the backseat, and the pit in my stomach got ten times heavier. A black face mask. Gloves. A crowbar. Spray paint. A gas can.

As we reach the outskirts of town, everything grows darker. There’s just a faint smattering of stars peeking through a cloudy sky and the headlights cut through inky black. On the rural roads outside of Bliss, there aren’t any street lamps or twenty-four hour gas stations or diners, just faint specks of light from houses at the ends of long, winding driveways.

Panicked thoughts collide in a dizzying frenzy. Where are we going? What is he planning? Why did he bring me?

It’s the first time I’ve left his house since I got there, and I highly doubt he’s about to let me go free.

I want to ask, but the fear of another slap or punch keeps me silent. Instead, I huddle into the passenger seat, trying to appear as small as possible. My heart is jackhammering, slamming against my chest, the beats so loud I can hear them.

This is a different fear than I’m used to. Back at the house, I know what to expect. But here? In the dark? With the gloves and the crowbar and the gas can…

Oh. A terrifying possibility brings a surge of bile and I almost vomit all over the car. Is he taking me into the middle of nowhere to kill me?

I’d have to run. Do anything to fight back.

I’m envisioning terrible scenarios—Thomas swinging the crowbar at me, sprinting through the woods with him hot on my heels—when the car begins to slow and the headlights go off. A sliver of moon casts just enough light to follow the dark strip of road.

A few seconds later, Thomas turns off the road and onto a gravel driveway.

My muscles tense. I search my memories for the self-defense skills I learned when I took that class in college. Go for the groin. The eyes. Yell. Kick. Punch. Run.

Then we come to a stop. At first, all I can see is an expanse of pavement and a small building, dark and silent, beyond it.

Hopefully not where he’s planning to kill me.

“Here’s what’s going to happen.” Thomas shifts the car into park and turns to me. “You’re going to stay here. Be my lookout. You see anyone come near, you honk the horn.”

“What are you doing?” It just comes out, and I inwardly scold myself while bracing for the inevitable punishment.

But this time, Thomas doesn’t hit me. He grins, which is even worse. “I’m robbing the place. Lots of valuable shit in there I can sell. And all that expensive gear means plenty of money somewhere inside.”

I peer out the window again, trying to figure out where we are. But I’m not familiar enough with the area to know without the advantage of daylight.

“Where are we?” I whisper, unable to stop myself.

“Rossi’s Outfitters.” His eyes narrow. “Wasn’t so bad when the old man ran it. But his nephew’s a fucking prick. Thinks he’s so damn special because he was”—his voice pitches up mockingly—“in the Army. Like his shit don’t stink like the rest of ours.”

Thomas grabs my face, his fingers digging into both sides of my jaw and squeezing. “And you’re going to help me. Don’t even think about running, either.” Voice dipping dangerously, he adds, “You know what’ll happen if you try to run. I will catch you. And if you think that punishment before was bad… you’ll be crawling to get the chores done after I’m done with you.”

I don’t doubt him. If not from history—which would be enough—but from the malicious look in his eyes, like he wants an excuse to hurt me.

“Okay,” I whisper, and he releases me.

Then he turns off the car and pockets the keys, crushing the slim hope that he might forget.

What am I going to do?

The question keeps repeating as I watch Thomas get ready—pulling on the knit mask that covers everything but his eyes, sliding on the thin gloves, setting the gas can on the pavement outside the car.

What am I going to do?

“Don’t fucking move,” he repeats just before he gets out of the car. I just nod at him.

Then he does something I wasn’t expecting. He grabs my hand and clamps it around the crowbar. “There,” he hisses. “Now you’re really an accessory. They’ll find this in the rubble and know you were involved.”

A small whimper sounds in the back of my throat.

Thomas shoves his face close to mine, close enough to feel his hot breath through the knit fabric. “I fucking mean it. Honk if you see anyone. And don’t try anything.” He pauses. “If you do it right, maybe I’ll let you keep that book, after all.”

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