His Hostage

The wound is turning green and it doesn’t look good. “You idiot,” Rowan says. “You don’t pour vodka on a gunshot wound. You need legitimate medical care. Jeffco’s right. You should have gone to the vet to avoid the cops. They could have fixed you up.”

“Is it going to fall off?” he asks, voice turning a pitch higher. “I can’t have my leg get cut off. I can’t, guys.”

“You won’t lose the leg if you see someone soon,” Rowan says. “I swear, man. Sometimes I wonder how the hell you survived this long. It blows my fucking mind.”

“Tell me about it,” Jeffco says.

Andy’s face turns red and then pale with fear. Whatever we’re about to do, he’s not the strongest link of the bunch.

“Are you going to kill me?” I speak up one more time.

“No,” Rowan says, before any of the other two can yell at me again. “We’re just doing a little job. We’ll need you to stay in here.”

“Why did you bring me?” I ask.

“We weren’t going to leave you back there so you can escape again,” he says. “So, if shit hits the fan for us tonight, you’re in for a little fun.”

“Great,” I sigh, wondering how the hell I even got into this position, in the first place.

We pull off to the side, and we’re still in the middle of nowhere. It’s silent. The radio is off and the wind blows outside. The only sound that can be heard is the rustle from some bush nearby.

“Where are they?” Rowan asks.

“They’ll be here,” Jeffco says, holding his pistol in his hand, steady. He turns off his safety and cocks it back. “In the meantime, everybody arm up.”

“What the hell is going on?” I ask again, this time with more urgency.

Are they gearing up for an all-out war?

“Just sit tight,” Jeffco says. “And don’t say a fucking word if you want to live. This is some serious shit. You stay out of view, you hear?”

Andy exits the car and opens the trunk. The rumble of motorcycles can now be heard in the distance, and my heart beats with a wild fury.

Caroline, you’ve really done it this time.

The rumbling comes closer.

Closer.

Closer.

And then we see them.

The dark riders in the distance, dressed in leather, wearing black masks. I feel a cold chill run down my body.

On the back of each bike is a lit torch that refuses to burn out.

“Are those…” I whisper.

“The Hunters.” Rowan nods.

Each rider parks their bike. The leader of the pack is bigger than the rest. His muscles are huge, but they’re not appealing. They’re horrifying.

“You,” he bellows, wielding a large magnum. The barrel must be at least 12 inches long. “Get away from the trunk.”

Andy doesn’t back up. He stands his ground. I can tell this is making Rowan and Jeffco uneasy.

Rowan whispers, “Come on, brother. Do what they fucking say.”