Page 74 of High Velocity

Then the pain sets in.

I fight to keep a clear mind, and slip my left hand behind my back. It’s a bit awkward since the gun is angled the wrong way, but I manage to get my hand on the butt and pull it free. I guess those target shooting sessions my father subjected me to, where he made me shoot both right- and left-handed, are coming in handy now.

I try to peek around the vehicle to see if I can pinpoint the shooter, when another sharp gun crack forces me back down. Whoever is shooting at me is doing so from the far side of the trailer. Ignoring my injured arm, which feels like it weighs a ton and burns like it’s on fire, I slide down on my stomach, inching my way under the vehicle. Praying I don’t run into a snake, I crawl and claw my way to the back of the car, where I have a better view peeking out from under the bumper.

Someone used an old drum under the downspout on the back corner of the trailer to collect rainwater, probably to water those garden beds, but I’m guessing that was a good while ago. The rusted drum, full to the brim and spilling over, provides decent protection for someone trying to stay out of sight.

Ignoring the sweat and dirt stinging my eyes, I try to steady my left hand wrapped around the gun and line up my sight. It would be an awkward shot if I was taking it with my right hand, but even more so with my left and under these conditions. Still, the barrel is a large enough target.

I fire off two shots in quick succession. The first one is too high, clipping the top rim of the barrel, so I immediately adjust my sight and fire again. There is no reaction. No responding shot, no sounds of someone scrambling to get out of range. Odd, I would’ve bet the bullets aimed at me came from that direction.

With adrenaline fueling me, I scoot forward a little and push up the edge of the tarp to look for vantage points. Not a lot of alternative cover on that side of the trailer. Unless he was lying flat on the shallow roof of the trailer.

Shit.

If he was up on the roof, that would suggest he had time to prepare, which can only mean one thing; he was watching. I bet if I hadn’t been looking at the ground to look for tracks, I’d probably have seen game cameras or something like that mounted along the trail.

I scan the roofline, which only has a very slight pitch, but see nothing. No movement. If he was up there, he isn’t now.

Or she.

Somehow, I automatically assumed the shooter is a man, and in the back of my mind decided it’s got to be Mitchel Laine, but who’s to say it isn’t Tracy Elliston taking potshots at me?

I don’t have time to waste trying to figure out who has their finger on the trigger. I could stay put and wait for Vallard to show up but, as much as I dislike the man, I can’t have him walk in on an ambush. Not to mention, Alex is out there waiting for me in the car. I can’t risk her safety.

Taking a moment, I try to have a quick look at my shoulder. The entire right side of my torso is on fire, but all I can see is a relatively small entry wound almost on top of my shoulder, supporting my guess I was shot from above. At least the bleeding doesn’t seem too bad, it’s not gushing.

Rather than waste time trying to patch myself up, I decide to forge ahead. With the gun firmly clenched in my left hand, I wiggle my way out from under the car, keeping a sharp eye out for movement around me at all times. A brief and random thought flashes through my mind, wondering how my blood pressure is faring at the moment. Probably not too good. But on a brighter note, I’m not having a panic attack.

Clearing my head with a shake, I force myself to focus as I inch my way closer to the corner. Crouching down, I now use the rain barrel to shield me from view from the side of the house. The ground at my feet is saturated, making a squishy sound as I shift a little to find a more comfortable position. Then I slowly lift my head to clear the edge of the barrel in my vision.

Nothing, other than a few stacked flowerpots and a partial bag of potting soil that look like they’ve been here a while. At some point someone cared about this place, but now it reeks of neglect.

“Drop the gun in the barrel.”

Every hair on my body stands on end at the sound of a gravelly man’s voice right behind me. But it’s the pressure of a barrel at the back of my neck that has the fingers on my left hand open up. A couple of droplets splash up when the gun hits the water with a plunk.

“Cell phone too.”

My heart is heavy when I send that down to the bottom of the barrel as well.

If I had the use of both arms, I’d use this moment to attempt a tried and tested maneuver to disarm him, but it would be suicide to try with one arm. I will have to wait for another opportunity. If he wanted me dead, he could have easily killed me. The fact I’m still breathing means he still has use for me, and therefore there is time for me to plan.

The only time I ever heard Mitchel Laine speak, prior to today, was to ask for his lawyer. He never spoke during the numerous interviews or even during his trial, staying mum through the whole ordeal. That doesn’t mean I didn’t recognize his voice instantly.

“Where is Tracy?” I ask.

But instead of answering, he grabs hold of my ponytail, and with his gun still pressed in my neck, starts marching me to the front of the trailer. There, he forces me through the front door, kicking it shut behind us. But before I have a chance to take stock of my surroundings, he lets go of my hair and with a violent shove in my back, sends me sprawling face-first to the floor.

I’m given no time to recover when a dirty hiking boot is planted in my neck, keeping me pinned to the dirty linoleum.

“Get the zip ties,” he barks.

My eyes track the sound of shuffling and find Tracy bruised, naked, and on all fours, scrambling for a ratty backpack sitting on the floor by a threadbare couch. I watch as she digs through the contents and comes up with a pair of black zip ties. It’s not until she turns around I see the full extent of her injuries. She’s almost unrecognizable. That bastard used her as a punching bag. Her eyes are almost swollen shut, blood is crusted under her obviously broken nose, and a deep slice on her cheekbone probably should’ve had stitches.

When her barely visible eyes catch on me, her lips form an apology.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers on a sob as she crawls toward me.

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