Page 4 of Tossed into the Mob
Maybe I could save my strength and just say La Luna Noir over and over to keep him in line.
“No funny stuff, I promise.” He side-eyed me, and I was proud at how I’d subdued him.
But the way he said “funny stuff” where his eyes were almost gooey—was he teary?—had me raising the weapon, but I soon lowered it ‘cause I didn’t have the strength and told him to take the off-ramp. I kept the gun low and hidden under my hoodie as he ordered food and asked for extra napkins. He fumbled in the console for cash, muttering about not wanting to use his phone. Damn, I was new to this and didn’t think about that.
He ordered burgers, fries, dessert, and sodas, typical on-the-road food, and the aroma of hot, salty, and sweet food dragged my attention from my predicament to nourishment. But I had to use my injured arm, and pain throttled me each time I stuffed fries in my mouth. Treyton ate as he drove, and we sat in silence while his car ate up the miles.
My mind drifted back to a few days ago and Dad gasping for breath as blood oozed from his chest. Minutes earlier a car had pulled up in front of the house, and my dad had dragged me to his closet and opened a door in the back that I didn’t know existed, leading to the crawl space under the house. Before he closed the door, he’d held my face, saying how much he loved me and told me to check the lockbox. I’d never forget his face, a mixture of panic and sadness.
What followed was… I couldn’t do this now, especially when my injured arm reminded me of Dad’s blood. Once I was safe, I’d think about it.
I couldn’t stop shivering even though the heater was on. I was losing blood, but I'd also abducted a guy, and I wasn’t sure what came next.
“Where are we going?” His voice dragged me back to the present.
“Somewhere to lie low.”
If I’d had the energy, I would have face palmed because I sounded like a small-time crook from the 1930s. We’d been driving for thirty minutes and were coming to a town, but I couldn’t let on that I was clueless about where to do all the lying low. I also hadn’t planned on being shot.
"Why me?" Treyton asked.
He was pretty calm for a guy who’d been kidnapped, and he hadn’t attempted an escape or to contact anyone. His gaze was almost kind? Maybe that was a midwife trait.
"Because you're a Durand.” I wasn’t going to give him more than that, partly because I was only one step ahead of him.
I felt the letter from Dad in my shirt pocket where he said to contact Treyton Durand and telling me where he worked. None of this seemed real because a few days ago I was a student, studying for my Masters degree and working part-time at the mall to help pay our bills.
And now the man who’d brought me up single-handedly was dead, I was on the run, and had been shot by the same bozo who killed my dad.
I spotted the exit sign for the town and told Treyton to take it. The shops were closed as we drove through, and I scanned both sides of the road for a motel.
“If you’re looking for somewhere to stay, there’s a trailer park a mile ahead.”
I should be the one in charge, and how did he know about a trailer park outside the city? I doubted kidnap victimssuggested hiding places. He may have been cute, but he was odd. Everything about this was weird, especially how he looked at me.
“I delivered a baby here.” He shot me a look. “But that family has moved on.”
The park was kinda rundown, with grass growing between some trailers and others that had little fences and gardens.The office was dark, but I spotted a sign that read Manager on the single-wide near the entrance.
“Give me the car keys and your phone.” But I struggled to get out, and the world spun around. I gripped the dashboard as darkness encroached on my vision.
“I’ll rent us a trailer.”
Huh? His voice was far away, but I’d kidnapped him and he was doing my bidding when there was no bidding, just slumping, groaning, and bleeding over his front seat, along with a sudden erratic heart rhythm. But I refused to die until my dad’s killer was in jail.
The door slammed and there were voices, but everything was fuzzy. The car was moving, and we drove maybe fifty yards. Someone opened my car door and put an arm around me. It had to be Treyton because there was no distinctive scent.
"I've got you."
He helped me up two steps, and I collapsed onto something soft. The place had been cleaned recently because it reminded me of what Dad used on our kitchen floor. It was the first familiar thing I’d encountered since I fled our home. I lay there thinking it would be better if I died because Dad was gone and I had nothing to live for, plus a crazed assassin was after me.
A pair of hands eased off my hoodie, and I bit down so hard on my lip, I tasted blood. My shirt was removed and finally the cloth wrapped around my arm.
“You’re lucky this was a through-and-through, and there’s less trauma than I expected, so that’s good.”
I didn’t know midwife speak or gangster talk, but I’d watched enough TV to understand I didn’t have a bullet lodged in me.
Someone was dabbing at my arm and cleaning it with warm water. I didn’t have the energy to cry out, though the hands were gentle and a voice murmured “Sorry,” and “Lucky I keep a first-aid kit in the car,” followed by “This should be stitched, but I’ll pack it with gauze and bandage it and monitor you for infection.”
