Booted (Trails of Sin 3)

“Where’s John?” I calmly set the coffee aside as bloodlust shivers beneath my skin.

“Mary,” he says without looking at her. “Why don’t you go—?”

“Mary stays.” I grip her frail arm. “Give me John’s location.”

She tugs against me, more in alarm than in an attempt to flee. “Fletcher?”

Fletcher scowls, his hand twitching for his gun. “I don’t know where—”

I yank her arm straight, holding the wrist and elbow, and crack the ulna bone over my knee. I feel the break, hear the screams, and swallow down the regret that inflames in my throat.

The sheriff goes for the gun on his hip, but Jake already drew his own and trains it at Fletcher’s head from a few feet away.

Mary sags to the floor, sobbing and cradling her arm. I grab the gray bun on her nape and drag her to her feet.

“I’ll break every bone, Fletcher.” I swat away her efforts to fight and position her good arm in front of me. “Then I’ll start cutting off pieces.”

“Tell him where John took the Indian!” She trembles and wails. “Tell him, Fletcher!”

Mary knows? She obviously doesn’t know the location. She would’ve leaked it after the first break.

“Hand over your gun.” Jake inches closer, pistol aimed and steady.

He and Jarret murdered a lot of men, and his skill with a firearm is impeccable.

I give Mary a shake, drawing her attention. “Tell me what you know.”

Fletcher’s face reddens. “Mary, don’t—”

“He helped John get the Indian girl today. I don’t know where he took her, but I…” Her voice grinds into sobs. “I just want all this to go away. All this business with your family… It’s an infection. I want it out of our lives.”

Goddammit, I ache to crush her for smiling and serving us coffee and talking about our mothers. She knew the whole time that my girl had been taken from me. Fucking bitch.

She tucks her broken limb against her side and shrieks as I wrench her other arm out and over my knee.

“Stop.” Fletcher holds up his hands, his eyes wild with pain and desperation. “I’ll tell you. Please, just don’t hurt her.”

“The gun,” Jake says. “Slowly.”

He slides it from the hip holster and hands it to Jake. “I have a cabin at Loblolly Lake. On the south side. That’s where he’s holding Raina.”

“Did you provide the tranquilizers?” I tighten my grip on Mary.

“Yes.”

He didn’t just help John capture Raina. He gave John a secure place to rape her.

I know they’re lifelong friends, but I didn’t understand the depth of that relationship until now. John has nothing to offer Fletcher. They’re in this together because that’s what friends do, and they’ve been doing it since my mother died and probably long before that.

They’re a cancerous lesion on the flesh of the soul that can only be removed with gunpowder and sharp steel.

I release Mary and lift my handgun from its wedged position between my belt and tailbone. As she runs into Fletcher’s arms, I toss Jake the keys to my truck.

He waits until my weapon is trained on Fletcher before leaving the house without a word.

He’ll pull the truck around and follow the rest of the plan.

Meanwhile, Mary cries against Fletcher’s chest as he gingerly exams her broken arm.

“I need to take her to the hospital.” He looks up at me, eyes pleading. “I’ll give you directions to the cabin. Anything you need. Just let us go.”

“Don’t need directions. You and Mary are taking me there.”

I wake on my back on a concrete floor, vision blurry, muscles weak, mind groggy. So tired. So many questions. Is Conor okay? Does Lorne know what happened? Where’s John?

Where am I?

I lift my head and stop breathing.

Empty storage room, concrete walls, steel door, duct-taped wrists, scattered clothes—it’s all in my periphery, but my attention is locked on my body.

I’m completely nude, and I don’t have to touch between my legs to know he’s been inside me. I feel the wetness. The abuse. The violation.

My stomach heaves, and I roll to my side, fighting for air and trying not to puke while remaining as quiet as possible.

He raped me while I was catatonic.

He forced me when I couldn’t fight.

Tears smear my eyes, and I drag my bound hands across my cheeks, wiping, whimpering, and trembling all over.

I don’t remember it. I wasn’t forced to feel him, smell him, or hear him. I know it happened, but I’ve been spared the memory.

I won’t be so lucky next time.

My breathing grows faster, louder. Sweat drenches my skin, and fear overwhelms my body as I take an inventory of the cramped room.

The bolt on the door requires a key. There’s nothing in here but the clothes he stripped from my body.

How am I going to escape this?

My shoulders curl in, and I press the duct tape to my forehead, rocking and shaking violently. Coldness seeps into my skin, my blood, my bones. I can’t hear over the thundering drum in my ears.