Page 7 of Hunted, Season Three

To wiggle my toes around in my tennis shoes I’m so grateful I put on.

Brad’s eventual arrival at the window is accompanied by him smiling, disturbingly brighter.“Hello, Sweet Pea.”

Dry heaving can barely be stopped.

But it is.

Because I can’t throw up.

Because I can’t move a muscle.

Not.A.Single.One.

Not yet.

He’s gonna give meonechance to attack and escape, and I need to be focused on that and only that.

“I have mother’s pearls for you,” the monster announces, grin glowing in the darkness.“I can’t wait to put them back around your neck where they belong.” His hammer free fingers pull at the handle revealing its locked nature, another automatic action The Kid always does – like taking his fucking car keys.“Why isn’t this open?” He repeats the movement prior to commanding.“Open it.” There isn’t time to verbally deny the request.“Open.It.” The over articulation indicates that his irritation is exponentially increasing.“Open.It.Now!”

God, it’s what I imagine dealing with a toddler coming off a sugar crash must be like.

“Nowwwwww!”

Or one without its nap.

“Nowwwww!”

Or one in terrible need of some stronger discipline.

“Nowwwwwwww!”

One solid swing of the tool, to my surprise, doesn’t break the window.

And neither does the second that’s slightly to the left.

Or third that’s slightly to the right.

However, the fourth, which lands directly on top of his first hit damages the integrity of the blockade.

Creates additional cracks.

Whispers to me to prepare to shield my face from the pending glass rain shower.

“Oppppeennnnnnnn!” This heavy whack has me holding my breath.“Theeeeeeeeeeee!” Another blow pushes the tip of the tool through.“Doooooooorrrrrrrrr!”

Tiny sharp pebbles burst in my direction, forcing me to shut my eyes and bury my head in the crook of my forearm in hopes of protecting myself.

Maniacal bellows pour from Brad as he leans his face inward to find the handle, providing me with the perfect opportunity to strike.Without hesitation, I drive the uncapped pen directly upward into his eye, grip and force unwavering until he’s stumbling backwards on an injured howl, “Fuckkkkkk!”

At that, I swing the door open, slamming it into his bent over frame, landing a blow to his head that not only knocks him onto his ass, but the air out of his system.

Yet again there’s no reluctance, no inkling of resistance to take off running for the wooded area across the road to the sound of him chillingly taunting, “Run…run…as fast you can…I will catch you…because I always can…”

Chapter 2

Nolan

I really need to hire that guy I interviewed last week.

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