Page 30 of Don't Take the Girl
"Yeah, let's go," I say, taking one last look at everyone before we head out. Besides Noah, there isn't anyone else I care to catch up with, and even that will have to wait. Even though London and I are exclusive, there's still bad blood between them, and the last thing I want is to ruin his night or ours with futile drama.
London opens the door of the truck for me to slide in, but before I manage a step, I'm yanked back against a hard chest, and a gloved hand is covering my mouth to stifle my scream. It takes London mere heartbeats to recognize the nightmare unfolding.
"LET HER GO!" he roars, eyes blazing with terror and rage, as his fists clench at his sides, ready to fight.
That's when I feel something press into my side. "I wouldn't come any closer if I were you," a male voice scrapes against my ears—gritty, deep, and hoarse, sounding like a man who sucked down a pack a day his whole life. If the menacing gravel in his tone wasn't enough of a giveaway, the sickening stench of tobacco seeping from the leather glove pressed against my lips would betray his identity. Recognition hits me like a physical blow—it's him, the drifter, the shadowy figure whose eyes I felt boring into my back just days ago as he stood motionless at the end of my street, watching, waiting, memorizing, before I disappeared behind the door.
"Do you want money?" London pulls his wallet from his back pocket and tosses it at our feet. "Take it. Just let her go."
"If I wanted money, there's a slew of unlocked cars and unattended purses around the corner," he answers with a snicker.
"Then what do you want?" London pats the front of his jeans. Finding his keys, he reaches into his pocket. "Take my truck. You can have anything you want…" he says vehemently, chest heaving, tossing the keys with his wallet. "But you can't have her."
"I have what I want," he snarls, yanking me backward against him as ice-cold terror floods my veins, while hot tears begin to stream down my face as my heart hammers in my chest.
This is all my fault. I put myself on his radar. I challenged him when I should have just ignored him. I should have walked into my house like I didn't see him. He takes another step, and I lose my footing. A muffled cry escapes as his arm tightens around me, and the barrel of his gun presses harder into my side.
"Don't." London lunges forward with desperate courage, ready for battle, only to freeze mid-stride as cold reality strikes him. His fists remain clenched, but he knows they are useless against a gun. "Don't take the girl," he pleads.
"What are you going to do, boy?" The question slithers from his lips as his pocketed hand swivels toward London with unmistakable intent.
London raises his hands in defense, his defiance taking a hit, but he doesn't relent. "And what about you?" He licks his lips, his panicked gaze flicking between mine and my abductor. He's stalling. "We saw you on the way in. You don't have a car, and I'm not going to let you walk away with my chief."
London's gaze locks with mine as I battle the violent tremors consuming my body. Through the fog of terror and adrenaline, a crucial realization breaks through: he didn't say "my girl," he said "my chief." My eyes widen with sudden understanding. He gives me an almost imperceptible nod of confirmation. I have his chief. I'm wearing his jacket, which means I have a weapon too.
I force my eyelids shut, struggling to tame my thunderingheart with this new thread of hope. But the terror remains, a living thing with its claws embedded deep. The knife's presence feels like a cruel joke. What good is a Hail Mary when fear has practically turned my limbs to stone?
"This is the part where the hero always gets it wrong. He tries to think like a villain. I'm not trying to get away. That's your miscalculation…" Something in my brain clicks, and my desire to live, my desire to fight, overtakes my fear. This man isn't trying to escape and take me hostage. Whatever chip he has on his shoulder is about to come full circle, but I refuse to be the martyr in his story. London's eyes catch the movement of my arm as I sink my right hand into the pocket of his letterman in search of the knife that's already saved my life once.
"So what is it? Why are you here? Why her?" London demands, attempting to distract my assailant as he drags me around the front of London's truck into the empty street.
My trembling fingers locate the cold metal of the pocketknife, and a desperate flicker of hope battles against the paralyzing dread. When my captor steps off the curb, his hand slips just enough, and I don't waste my breath on screaming. Instead, I bite down on his thumb—hard.
"Son of a bitch!" he snarls through clenched teeth. "I should have known you wouldn't make shit easy. Fucking brat!" He wrenches my head sideways. "I could snap you like a twig right now."
My thumb slides over the knife, finding the stud that engages the blade. I press it and slide the blade all the way out the same way I've witnessed London do countless times.
"You hurt her, and I'll kill you with my bare hands! I swear it." London charges forward, stopping mere inches from us, once again stealing my attacker's focus. But I won't let London kill for me. Nobody has to die tonight. I just need to escape.
I wrench my arm free, the knife clutched in my white-knuckled fist, as I make the only hit I can in this position and drive the blade deep into his thigh.
"Ahhh!" His blood-curdling scream pierces my eardrum, and his grip on me falters. I slam my elbow into his stomach. He doubles over, and London lunges forward, shoving me clear as he seizes the knife. What happens next unfolds in a blur—both agonizingly slow and lightning fast. London extracts the blade from the man's thigh, crimson already soaking his pant leg, and presses the cold steel against his throat.
"You were wrong. I wasn't plotting your next move. I was plotting hers."
"Then you should know you've already lost the?—"
"Laney!" Sydney's unmistakable shriek drowns out his final words as London drags the blade across his neck before dropping the knife and rushing to me.
"Are you okay? Tell me you're okay," London demands, crushing me against his chest where I feel his heart hammering in terrified synchrony with mine.
I nod vehemently, my entire body shaking uncontrollably. "I'm okay. Lon... I was so scared," I choke through a flood of tears.
"I know, baby. I'm so sorry. It's okay?—"
"Call the cops!" someone shouts from the gathering crowd.
"What happened?" Sydney asks, shock evident.
