Page 108 of Mason

Think, Shelby.

I can’t fight.

I can’t run.

But I can wait.

I can listen.

And if they’re fighting, if they’re this fucking nervous, then perhaps there’s still a way out of this.

“We don’t want the money,” the driver blurts out suddenly.

The contact stills.

“What?”

“We’re out,” the driver says, voice tight, final. “This isn’t what we signed up for.”

The jumpy one nods fast. Too fast.

“You can keep her. Take her to whoever the fuck wants her. But we don’t want the money. We want no part in this.”

For the first time, the contact looks… amused.

And that’s the moment I know.

They just made a mistake.

They shouldn’t have backed out.

They shouldn’t have tried to be good men.

Because monsters don’t like loose ends.

The contact sighs, rubbing his jaw, then pulls a gun from his waistband and shoots the driver point-blank in the face.

A sharp crack, a splatter of red across the van’s white paint, and the driver is gone before his body even hits the ground.

The jumpy one screams.

I lurch backward, falling to my knees, my breath stuck somewhere between my lungs and my throat.

The contact barely spares me a glance.

“You should’ve taken the money.”

The second shot is sloppier. The jumpy one tries to run, but the bullet catches him in the back, sending him sprawling into the dirt.

And then it’s just us.

Him. And me.

I look at the dead men, my heart a broken, uneven rhythm in my chest.

Then a shadow moves, and I feel fingers wrap around my hair.

I don’t have time to react, don’t have time to brace, before I’m dragged under the bridge, my knees scraping against the rough concrete.

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