Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 116708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 467(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 467(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
They jumped into action, tugging on her arms.
“All right. Gwen’s fine. Everything looks good to me. Let’s go,” Dylan said.
Lucille argued, “Did I say something wrong?”
“Just come on,” Angela hissed, dragging her away.
I could still hear her arguing as they disappeared down the street when I turned back to Truett. “I’m so sorry about that.”
His mouth was a hard slash as he stared over my shoulder in the direction they’d left. And just like that, he was gone again. Still standing in front of me, but this was the version of Truett West who had abandoned me after six years of marriage.
“You should go,” he grumbled, never meeting my gaze again as he turned toward the door.
“Wait,” I called as I hurried after him, but his impenetrable walls were already locked in place.
He yanked the door open and stepped inside.
Then, in the mother of all role reversals, I used his trick and caught the door with my foot. “Wednesday,” I told his back. “I’ll be there from noon until late, so come whenever you want. Okay?”
He didn’t move.
Nor did he reply.
But the way his strong body relaxed told me he’d heard me.
No sooner than I moved my foot did the door slam in my face.
Yeah. I knew that version of Truett West all too well.
And I fucking hated him.
Truett
Eighteen years earlier…
A river of blood carved its path at my feet as I sat frozen—ass on the tile, back to an overturned table—the past melding into the terrifying present.
The world around me blurred, paralyzing memories so vivid and relentless holding me captive.
In my head, I heard Nutz shout, “Vehicle’s not slowing, S’arnt!” The echo of his voice was as clear as if he stood beside me. A vise cranked down on my chest, making every breath more and more difficult until I longed for the reprieve of suffocation.
I was trapped in a war zone, the sound of cries and moans echoing around me.
“What the fuck is this guy doing?” Steve-O yelled.
My heart pounded in my ears, each beat feeling like the strike of a sledgehammer.
My skin crawled, every nerve ending firing on high alert.
“There’s four occupants, and I see two AKs, S’arnt!” Skytrash shouted over the chaos.
I couldn’t move—my limbs heavy, rooting me in hell.
“Take out the driver,” S’arnt ordered.
Gunfire—real or imagined—rocked me to the core. I flinched, curling tighter into myself.
Each second stretched into an eternity as I waged war with my mind.
I wasn’t back in Iraq.
But I was living an even more inescapable nightmare.
At six three, two twenty, I was trained in every form of combat the Army had to offer. But as I sat in that mall food court, bodies strewn around me, a gunman on the loose, killing everyone in his path, I was nothing but a helpless child, trapped in my own mind.
Suddenly, a man got up and darted toward the double glass doors. There was no point in running. They’d been chained together, trapping us like wild animals ripe for the hunt.
With one single gunshot, the man dropped to the floor. I slapped my hands over my ears to block out the sounds.
I couldn’t focus, but I desperately tried to use the grounding techniques they’d drilled into me during countless therapy sessions.
Five things I could see: lifeless eyes, bullet casings, abandoned shopping bags, terrified faces, the red-stained sneakers of the dead man beside me.
Four things I could touch: my shaking legs, splintered wood, the cold tile, so much blood.
Three things I could hear: footsteps of a madman, muffled cries, death-rattled breathing.
Two things I could smell: acrid gunpowder, metallic blood.
One thing I could taste: every single one of my failures.
This wasn’t happening.
Not again.
My whole body jerked when another gunshot sounded, marking the end of another life. My stomach rolled, bile crawling up the back of my throat.
I couldn’t do this.
I wasn’t scared of dying, but I wouldn’t be able to survive the aftermath of this.
I didn’t want to survive the aftermath.
Just as I’d convinced myself to stand up and volunteer as his next victim, two kids sprinted toward the pizza place. The lanky boy was older, no more than sixteen, while the girl with red ringlets couldn’t have been older than ten. I assumed they were siblings, but why hadn’t their parents stopped them? I answered my own question as I watched in horror as they held hands, leaping over bodies as they ran.
“Hey!” the gunman yelled.
I nervously leaned forward to see how far away he was. They had a decent head start, but bullets didn’t need to be close to hit their mark. He gave chase, the spray of his gunfire narrowly missing them.
I scanned the area, frantically searching to see if anyone was going to help them. They were kids; somebody had to do something. Somebody had to—
My heart stopped as her brown gaze collided with mine through the glass doors.