The Drift (Preacher Brothers 3)

I had no idea why I said it out loud, but it was already out, hanging between us like the damn Grim Reaper. This wasn’t her fault. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I couldn’t leave her, let her go to the cops. I couldn’t have her identifying us.

Here we were, her in the back of my SUV, Wilder bleeding out on her lap, my frantic, quick actions making a fucked-up situation even worse.

But there wasn’t any other way to do it. I wasn’t a good guy, and the threat of my twin dying made me nothing more than a heartless bastard.

For her sake, I hoped he survived, because if not, she’d be the first to feel my wrath, even if she was the last person to deserve it.

Chapter Four

Zoey

My heart was racing as I stared down with what I knew was an expression akin to full-on fear, but the man was clearly out cold. Or hell, was he dead, lying on my lap?

The smell of blood was so thick in the air that I actually gagged. It filled the interior of the SUV, and I tried to take short, shallow breaths out of my mouth so I didn’t have to smell it. But all that accomplished was it coating the inside of my mouth in a tangy, coppery flavor that reminded me of when I’d bitten my tongue.

I lifted my focus to the driver. Intermittently, he looked at me through the rearview mirror, the shadows of darkness and flashes of light from the streetlamps as we raced passed them making him seem even more ominous and sinister.

“This is wrong,” I whispered, and there was a huge hitch in my voice, as if I were trying too hard to convince my kidnapper of that fact.

He didn’t say anything for long moments, so long that I didn’t think he actually would respond.

“I know.” He glanced at me in the rearview mirror again. His voice was so hard and cold, so apathetic. “But I don’t care.”

I looked back down at the man who had his head resting on my lap. It was as if the initial shock started to wear off, because I realized he was an exact replica of the man driving.

Twins.

He had short dark hair, a face that was brutally handsome, severe in his attractiveness. His head was turned toward the front of the car, and I could make up the sharp lines of his jaw, the masculine cut of his chin. I moved my gaze up to his full lips, along his strong, straight nose, and stopped at his closed eyes. His eyelashes were dark, crescents that fanned out along his far-too-pale skin. Even I could see how pasty his complexion was, no doubt from all the blood loss.

“Keep pressure on the wound,” the driver said harshly, and I could hear the note of worry in his voice no matter how much he tried to hide it.

I found myself pressing my hand down harder on the wound.

I was surprised I wasn’t a sobbing mess. It was a survival instinct, the need to stay sane and alive in this situation. And because of that, I didn’t hesitate at all. I continued to stare down at the unconscious man’s face, and something tugged at my heart. I had a very sick feeling he wouldn’t make it. He was losing too much blood, had already lost so much.

I took my other hand and placed it right under his ear at his pulse point, seeing if I could feel a pulse. For a moment, panic settled in me as I felt nothing, but then there it was, very small and faint. I was going to tell this man to take his brother to the hospital, because I had a very strong feeling he wasn’t going to make it otherwise, but I kept my mouth shut. It was pretty obvious these men weren’t law-abiding citizens, not if they were behind a bar, no doubt making back alley deals, and definitely not when bullets were flying.

I swallowed, my throat hurting, tight and so damn dry. This was just my luck, my last night at work, about to start over, go somewhere else, be a new me, when this shit happened. Adrenaline moved through my veins, but I knew I was in shock. I had to be, right? I felt like I was in a dream, some out-of-body experience. I was hovering close, watching as I followed this dangerous man’s orders, knowing that at the end of it, I probably wouldn’t make it out alive. I’d seen their faces, seen the shooting. If he was crazy enough to kidnap me, wouldn’t it go to reason he was crazy enough to kill me so I could never identify them?

“I’m almost there. Have shit ready. He’s bleeding out.”