Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 439(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 439(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
“Taryn?”
“Yes. She called us after she got Ryan’s alert—our territory was closer to your location, so she asked us to go to you. She wanted to get to Frankie. Apparently Cam called Taryn to tell her that Cruz was keeping Frankie and Lydia trapped in the basement of her old cabin. If she’s been shot, Taryn will heal her.”
Reaching the top of the incline, Trick made a beeline for the nearest vehicle. “She’s hurt and she’s scared. Taryn hasn’t healed her, which means Cruz still has her at what I’m assuming is fucking gunpoint, considering she’s been shot.” Trick spit on the ground, grimacing at the tastes of sand and blood. At least his pain had lessened. “I need a phone so I can call Taryn.”
Just as Ally handed him her phone, the others joined them.
“If Frankie’s been shot, we’re all going,” declared Trey, chucking Trick’s clothes at him—it was only then that Trick realized he was naked.
Quickly, he dragged on his shirt and jeans, and then everyone packed themselves into the two SUVs. The badly injured went in one SUV with Ally to be healed; the rest of them hopped into the other.
Riding shotgun while Zander drove like a madman, Trick used Ally’s cell to phone Taryn. He put the phone to his ear and waited. And waited. He frowned. “She’s not answering.”
“Try Cam,” Trey advised.
He dialed the wolf’s number and then waited, fists clenched. When Cam answered, Trick immediately asked, “Cam, what’s going on? Where’s Frankie?”
“She’s still trapped in the basement with Lydia,” Cam said, distress in every word. “We can’t get inside. Cruz rigged the front and back porches; both collapsed and blocked the doors. The explosions weakened the cabin, and I don’t think it’ll stay standing for much longer. Marcus tried to get inside, but Cruz lost his shit and threatened to shoot Lydia and Frankie if we try. Then . . . I don’t know what happened. We heard a gunshot.”
“He shot Frankie in the stomach,” Trick managed to grit out. Her pain pulsed down their bond, and his wolf raged inside him.
“Oh Jesus. Trick, we can’t get in there.” There was muttering in the background, and then another voice came on the phone.
“Trick, it’s Marcus. Man, I’m so fucking sorry. Cruz paid some juveniles to distract us; they didn’t know why he did it, they thought he just wanted to yank our chains, but—” He swore. “God, Trick, I really am so fucking sorry.”
He didn’t blame Marcus, he didn’t, but he also didn’t have any words of reassurance to give him while panic and anger were clawing at him. “I’m on my way. I’ll be there soon. Do whatever you have to do, Marcus, but get in there and get her out.”
Crouched on the floor beside Frankie, Lydia pressed her hands on the wound on Frankie’s stomach and let out a sob. “Oh God, Frankie, I don’t know what to do.”
“There’s nothing you can do,” said Cruz. “That was the whole point of me shooting the bitch.” He smiled down at Frankie. “I’ve heard that a gut shot hurts like holy hell.”
It did. The pain was unlike anything Frankie had ever felt in her life—it was as if something molten had exploded in her stomach. She didn’t know whether Lydia’s efforts were paying off or not, but warm blood had soaked her shirt and dripped onto the concrete below.
The wound throbbed with every breath until it was like one giant, aching pulse. Tears filled her eyes, and her lips trembled. Deep inside her, her wolf panicked.
Above them wood creaked and moaned. It sounded like frames were scraping against each other. The walls were becoming weaker and weaker. She heard a hissing sound. A broken pipe? She wasn’t sure.
Morbid glee dancing in his eyes, Cruz taunted, “That bullet tore through your stomach, which means all the acid and bile is loose.”
Bastard. She winced as Lydia’s hands pressed harder on her wound, and he seemed to absolutely relish the sound of Frankie’s pain. Her wolf sneered, wanting out, wanting the taste of his blood in her mouth.
“Cruz?” a voice called out. “Cruz?”
It was Clara. The glee cleared from his eyes, and for a single moment he looked lost and sad. But then his cheeks flushed and he shook his head. “You’re not here!” he bellowed.
“Son, please come out here,” Clara begged, sounding heartbroken. “Come on, everything will be fine.”
The hand holding the gun twitched. “No, it won’t! Nothing’s been fine for a long time!”
“Cruz, we can fix whatever is wrong. We can. Just come out. Please.”
He shook his head again. “It can’t be fixed! You can’t bring Christopher back! No one can!”
“Let the girls go, Cruz. They haven’t done anything to hurt you.” She paused. “Let me come in and talk to you.”
With a roar Cruz fired at the ceiling. “No one comes in here!” He fired again and again and again. Debris rained down on them, stinging Frankie’s eyes and pounding at her skin—