Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Innocent or guilty, they won’t care.
“Ptichka, you must—”
“Get up.” Jumping to my feet, I grab his uninjured arm, tugging on it with all my strength. “We need to go, now.”
I can’t lose him.
I won’t lose him.
A grimace twists Peter’s face as he attempts to sit up and fails. “My love, you need to—”
“Now!” I bark, yanking at his arm, and something about my tone seems to get through.
Jaws clenched, he struggles to a sitting position, and I crouch to loop my arm around his torso. He’s impossibly heavy, his large body all hard, solid muscle. My back and legs scream in protest, but I somehow manage to stand up, supporting most of his weight.
“The car,” he grits out hoarsely. “We have to get to the car.”
The car.
Just outside, parked on the side of the road.
We can do it.
We have to do it.
I take a step toward the door, and suddenly, most of Peter’s weight is gone. Glancing over, I see he’s somehow standing on his own, though his face is gray underneath the smears of blood and grime.
“The car. Come on,” I urge as we step outside. “Almost there. Just a little more.”
In the distance, I hear the wail of sirens and the roar of another helicopter.
They’re coming for us.
Coming to take Peter from me, just like they took my parents.
“The keys. They’re in my pocket,” Peter rasps, and I thank heavens for small mercies as I recall that keys in close proximity is all our fancy Mercedes needs to unlock and start.
Opening the passenger door, I all but stuff Peter inside, then sprint around to the driver’s side. My heart is pounding in a sickening rhythm, and my hands tremble as I start the car, pull out onto the street, and slam on the gas.
“Where do I go?” I ask frantically as we screech around the corner onto the main road. The sounds of the helicopter and the sirens are getting louder; it’s only a matter of time before they find us missing and send a pursuit.
No response.
I risk a glance at Peter. He’s half-slumped in his seat, his face colorless and his eyes closed as he holds a bunch of blood-soaked paper towels against his side.
Oh no. Oh, please, no.
“Peter.” I shake his knee.
Still nothing.
“Peter, please. I need you to tell me where to go.”
He groans as I shake him harder, and his eyes open blearily. “Cabin near Horicon Marsh. Get on I-294 toward 94, then take 41 and 33, turn right on Palmatory and go four miles. Dirt road on the left.”
Oh thank God.
I take a sharp right toward the highway and floor the gas as he fades out again. He’s losing too much blood, but I can’t do anything until I get him to safety.
He’s as good as dead if they catch us.
My mind spins like a dreidel on steroids as I tear down the highway. I can’t think about my parents or the enormity of what just happened, so I focus on the whys.
Why did they come for him?
Why did someone shoot that agent when Peter was about to surrender?
I believed my husband when he said he had nothing to do with the attack on the FBI, but is it possible he lied to me? Would they have come to arrest him like that if there was no evidence linking him to the bombing?
Logic says no, but I can’t bring myself to buy into it. Peter has done terrible things, but he’s no terrorist.
Morality aside, when he kills, he does it with precision and discretion.
So why? Why would they think he’s involved? And who shot at that agent? Had someone from Peter’s crew been that stupid? If so, why didn’t they help us further?
If they were willing to kill a SWAT agent, why leave Peter to fight the rest of them on his own?
None of it makes any sense, but dwelling on it is keeping me from hyperventilating at the wheel. I can’t think about our infinitesimal odds of survival, or that Peter might be bleeding to death.
Or that the tiny life inside me now has two fugitives for parents.
“Slow down.” Peter’s hoarse whisper reaches me as I zoom around a Toyota going eighty in the fast lane. “Don’t draw attention by speeding. Where’s your phone?”
My pulse leaps in joy as I lift my foot off the gas.
Talking is good.
Talking is very good.
“No phone,” I answer, some of my relief fading as I glance over to find him conscious but even more pale. “I forgot my bag at—”
“Good. That means they can’t track us that way.”
Shit. That hadn’t even occurred to me.
“What about your phone?”
He grimaces, shifting in his seat as he reaches for more paper towels from a roll tucked into the side of the door. “Untraceable.”
“Okay.” My mind races. “What else? Should we ditch the car? Is there anyone we can call for help? Your bodyguards? Can they—”