Page 65 of Shadows Relived
Elvis dropped one man with a clean shot to the shoulder, then ducked behind the hood as bullets rained down.
Meaghan clutched the weapon tighter. Her ears rang, and her chest felt like it was caving in. She wasn’t a soldier. She wasn’t built for this.
But she refused to be a damn victim either.
She shoved the door open and rolled out, crawling across the dirt toward the treeline, using the vehicle for cover.
That’s when she heard Gage cry out.
“Meaghan! Get down?—!”
Too late.
A pair of gloved hands yanked her backby the arm, dragging her upright with brutal force. She screamed, twisting, kicking, slamming her elbow into the man’s ribs.
He grunted but didn’t let go.
Another figure appeared, helping the first. Together they wrestled her toward a matte-black van parked behind the SUV. One of them ripped the weapon from her grip.
“No!” she shrieked, heels digging into the ground, kicking wildly.
“Elvis!” she shouted, struggling harder. “Gage!”
She caught a glimpse before the men jerked her around. Elvis sprawled on the ground, unmoving, his head bloodied. Gage crawled a few feet away from him, clutching his stomach, as he tried to stand to get to her.
The last thing she saw before the doors slammed shut was Gage reaching for her, blood smeared across the dirt, and then?—
Darkness.
The van peeled away, tires spitting gravel. The roar of the engine drowned out everything.
They shoved her onto her side, zip-ties binding her wrists, her breath ragged as she fought back tears of rage.
This couldn’t be happening. Not now. She was so close to Callen, to her father, and to the answers she needed. The answers she deserved.
The drive blurred together—long, quiet, methodical. But blindfolded, she couldn’t even see the direction they were going.
Whoever had taken her knew what they were doing. No chatter. No sloppy handling. No identifying details.
It was almost worse than the screaming chaos of earlier.
Eventually, they pulled off somewhere in the deep country, the scent of mildew and pine thick in the air. They dragged her from the van, still blindfolded, and walked across what sounded like rotted floorboards into an old house. Judging by the creaking, it had been abandoned for decades.
Then they ripped the blindfold from her head.
She blinked a few times, trying to force her eyes to adjust to the dim light from a single bulb overhead, thinking they ripped this scene right out of a cheesy film.
The room was sparse, with just a cracked fireplace, peeling floral wallpaper, and a wooden chair bolted to the floor, only increasing her earlier thought about old shows. They shoved her into the chair and zip-tied her to it. Not rope, which would make it easier to cut if she had a knife. She didn’t, though. She should have paid better attention about being prepared.
Then they left her alone.
She tried counting the minutes, but time seemed to drag. She managed to get her breathing to slow down, to become steadier, refusing to panic. Panic got you dead, and she refused to go out this way.
She strained against the restraints binding her wrists, testing their give, but all she did was dig the hard plastic into her skin.
Then she heard the footsteps.
Slow. Measured. Confident.
