Chapter 5 THE TRAP
When I woke up, everything was moving.
The air was thick with gasoline and rain. My head throbbed like it had been split in two. For a moment, I didn't know if I was still dreaming until I realized my hands were bound behind my back and something rough pressed against my skin.
The last thing I remembered was the sound of breaking glass and a man's hand covering my mouth.
Now, I was lying across the backseat of a car that smelled of wet leather and smoke. The windows were dark, the world outside nothing but streaks of rain sliding across the glass.
Two men sat in front. Their voices were low, rough, and careless.
"The boss said no marks on her face," one muttered.
"As long as she's breathing, he won't care," the other replied.
I didn't move. My pulse hammered so hard it hurt.
The boss. Whoever he was, I already knew who his target really was. George.
I swallowed hard, forcing air into my lungs. Panic wouldn't help me now.
I needed to think. To remember every detail. The men had broken into my villa just a few seconds after George had called, and I was still on the call with when... That couldn't be a coincidence.
Someone wanted to use me to make him suffer.
My hands burned where the ropes dug in. When I shifted slightly, something sharp pricked my wrist. I froze. Carefully, I rubbed my sleeve against the seat, and a tiny glint caught the dim light.
A shard of glass.
It must've clung to me from when the vase shattered at the villa.
For the first time since I woke up, a flicker of hope sparked in my chest. I turned my wrist slightly, pressing the sharp edge against the rope. The glass cut into my skin first, warm blood slicking my hands, but I didn't stop. I sawed slowly, silently.
The car rattled over a bump. One of the men cursed under his breath.
"Take the next exit," the driver said.
"We'll wait till the call comes," the other answered.
I didn't know what call they meant, but I didn't wait to find out.
The ropes gave way with a soft snap.
I held my breath, listening. The men didn't notice. My wrists were raw, bleeding, but free. I shifted, bracing my feet against the door.
I had one chance.
The driver lit a cigarette, and the glow illuminated his reflection in the rear view mirror. His eyes flicked toward me just as I moved.
I kicked the seat with every strength I had in me.
The car jerked hard, tires screeching against wet asphalt. The driver lost control. The world spun, the front glass shattered, and my shoulder slammed into the door.
When the noise stopped, all I could hear was rain.
The car had crashed sideways into a ditch. Steam hissed from under the hood. One of the men groaned. The other wasn't moving.
I didn't wait.
I shoved the door open and stumbled out into the storm.
Mud swallowed my feet as I ran, branches whipping my face, breath burning in my chest. My hands were shaking, but I couldn't stop. If I stopped, I'd die.
Headlights flashed far behind me, the car, the men, someone shouting my name. I didn't look back.
The rain grew colder, heavier. I tripped over roots, fell, pushed myself back up. Somewhere ahead, a faint glow flickered, a gas station sign.
I ran toward it like it was the last light in the world.
Inside, the air smelled of coffee and old oil. The attendant, a boy who couldn't have been older than twenty, froze when he saw me, soaked, barefoot, trembling, my blouse torn.
"Please," I said, voice cracking. "I need a phone."
He pointed toward the corner. I grabbed the receiver with shaking hands, dialed the only number that mattered.
George's.
The line rang once, twice, then nothing. No answer.
I tried again, but the line went dead. The world blurred as tears stung my eyes. I pressed the receiver to my forehead, whispering, "Please, just pick up."
The boy came closer. "Ma'am, should I call the police?"
I looked up sharply. Police meant questions. Questions meant names. And names meant George. If this was about him, about his company, his enemies, I couldn't risk it.
"No," I said quickly. "No police. I'll handle it."
He looked uncertain but nodded.
I turned toward the window. The rain had slowed to a drizzle. For a brief moment, I thought maybe I had lost them. Maybe I had actually gotten away.
Then I saw it, a dark van pulling into the station, headlights off.
My heart dropped.
It was the same one. The same scratched bumper. The same dent on the left side.
They had found me.
I ducked behind the counter, whispering to the boy, "Don't move. Don't say a word."
The door creaked open. Boots hit the tile floor, slow and heavy.
"She's here," one voice said.
"Check the back," another answered.
I pressed myself against the cold linoleum, holding my breath. My heart pounded so hard I was sure they could hear it.
The boy's breathing quickened beside me. I reached over and covered his hand. "Please," I mouthed.
Footsteps moved closer. I could see their shadows now, one tall, one heavyset, stretching across the counter.
The taller one spoke again. "Boss said she's worth more alive. Don't make a mess this time."
The boss again. The same boss that had ordered them to take me.
And then I heard it, the sound of another engine approaching outside.
Headlights cut through the rain, lighting up the small shop.
The men turned toward the door, cursing under their breath. I stayed still, frozen between hope and dread.
The door opened. A new figure stepped in, umbrella in hand, face shadowed by the light behind him.
"Leave her," he said quietly.
I recognized the voice instantly. Cold, sharp, familiar.
One of George's old rivals. Billy Ernest.
He'd stood across from George at too many business meetings to count. Ruthless. Patient. The kind of man who smiled when others bled.
"Mr. Ernest," one of the men said quickly, straightening. "She escaped"
"She's not far," Billy interrupted, his tone calm, almost amused. "And she's smart enough to run straight into a trap."
The air left my lungs.
I didn't wait to hear the rest.
I crawled toward the back door, pushed it open, and ran again.
Cold wind hit me like a slap. My legs screamed, my lungs burned, but I didn't stop.
The ground was uneven, slippery. I ran until I couldn't hear the voices anymore, until the lights of the gas station vanished behind the trees.
I stumbled down a slope, falling hard onto my knees. Pain shot up my legs, but I kept crawling, pulling myself behind a pile of wet branches.
I pressed my back against the earth, shivering. My hair stuck to my face, rain dripping from my lashes.
Somewhere in the distance, I heard men shouting. The sound of tires. Doors slamming. Then silence.
I wanted to believe I was safe, but the quiet felt too thin, too fragile.
I wrapped my arms around myself, whispering into the dark, "George, please… please find me."
A distant sound answered, the crunch of gravel.
Headlights swept over the trees, growing brighter, closer.
I turned, heart hammering, just as a car pulled to a stop at the edge of the hill.
The driver's door opened.
A beam of light hit my face.
"Lea Robert?" a voice called.
For one breathless second, I thought it was him.
Then I saw the figure step out, tall, calm, and wearing the same coat I had seen back at the gas station.
Billy Ernest smiled through the rain.
"Running only makes it worse," he said softly.
And before I could move, the world went black again.