Page 61 of Altered By Fire (Undercover Sinners 1)
So I keep driving, even though I sort of want to go back.
I take an obscure back road that leads into the country. And for a while there, as the buildings and houses fall away to fields of green, I feel myself starting to relax. The suicidal thoughts haven't left me, the dark urges, the pounding inside my chest when I imagine laying out a few lines in the bathroom … But at the same time, if I don’t care about dying then why did I run?
"Because your feelings were hurt? Please," I snort, but deep down, I figure it's probably true. I let those guys get under my skin, and now I'm all butt hurt that they were using me. Well, fuck them. I was using them, too.
For about an hour, I just drive when no destination in mind.
It's only when I decide to turn down a quiet, gravel road and park for a moment—just to clear my head—that I see another car turn down right after me. Could be somebody heading to their farm or their forty acres … but maybe not.
When I left, I stole one of the guys' guns from a holster on the card table on my way out. So I'm not completely helpless, but the thought of shooting Colt or Weston makes me really fucking sad. Or Mace. Oh God, last night with Mace … Although maybe I would shoot Hawke or Arsen, just for good measure.
But, of course, when the door to the vehicle opens, it's not any of my guys that step out: it's a group of men that I well recognize from my father's meetings. He's literally sent in the big guns to drag me out of here, men as ruthless as Dmitri but without any pretense of being normal. These are the guys he only sends in when he needs a situation dealt with, but doesn't care how it turns out.
Meaning, I could be raped, killed, tortured. This is my father's last resort.
Before I can even start the van, one of the men—I don't know his name, any of these men's names—shoots my tires out while a second man makes his way toward me, shoes crunching the gravel beneath his feet as he goes, slow and calculating.
I have to be careful because if he gets close enough, he very well might just shoot me through the window. Or fuck, there could be another man in that car with a sniper rifle. I duck down and crawl between the seats, shoving aside fast food garbage and a half-empty bag of Pampers diapers.
"Natalia Petrova," one of the men says, tapping on the back window as I curl myself into a ball under the center seat, my stolen gun at the ready. It's in that moment that I really have to decide. I have eight rounds in this weapon, enough to hurt or maybe even kill a few of the men pouring out of that car.
I don't have enough to stay alive or stay out of their hands, if they intend to take me back to my father. But I do have enough to put the barrel of this gun between my lips and pull the trigger. Just like I said I would. I have enough ammo to die. But now that it comes down to it, do I really want to?
I hesitate for so long that a shot's fired through the window on the sliding door of the van, and a hand creeps in to open the lock. What I don't hesitate to do is shoot this guy just above the knuckles, shoving myself up and heading straight for the passenger door. There's another man outside this one, but I fire a shot through the glass and then another into his neck before I bother to open it, taking off across the field and wondering when I'm going to feel those first agonizing shots in my back.
But they don't shoot me, these men, the ones my father lovingly calls his cleanup crew. Yeah, he likes pet names for his monsters.
That means that while my dad doesn't mind if I do accidentally end up dead, he's at least asked them to make some attempt to bring me back. Or else, he's told them to have fun with me. That's a possibility, too.
Heart racing, I take off toward a small copse of trees, but I can hear heavy breathing and footsteps behind me. Doing my best to anticipate a tackle of some kind, I come to a sudden stop and throw myself to the ground, tripping the man behind me. He comes up quick though, turning and kicking me so hard in the face that I see stars, the gun falling from my hand to the grass.
A bit of Hawke's training sets in there for a moment, and I take a swing at the guy, hitting him in the face and drawing just a bit of blood from his nostrils. He doesn't look at all put off by the move. Instead, he comes at me again, stopping me as I scramble to pick up the weapon between us. He has his own gun own this time, but he doesn't shoot me, hitting me as hard as he can in the side of the face with it.
