Page 34

MARGOT

S hrubs.

The only cover I have is fucking shrubs.

I hate the desert.

“Ready or not, here I come,” a man coos in a thick, Russian accent. Water drips from my hair as I crouch as low as I can behind a pathetic bush more stick than leaves. My drenched shirt clings to my body while my skirt soaks up the dirt it lays in.

The gaping hole in the concrete barrier of the bridge is clearly visible from where I hide, though the sun is just beginning to rise. It’s dark enough that the men have flashlights scanning the area in search of me. When a beam hits me, I hold my breath, but it continues to scan.

I’m gonna die.

Every moment for the past ten minutes—that have felt like an eternity—I’ve had that same gut-punching thought.

It was too late before I realized I was doing the men a favor by driving out of the city in favor of rural roads, but as soon as I did, I knew it was over for me.

Their SUV knocked into me over and over, nearly making me spin out of control before I shoved harder on the gas and prayed my car was faster than theirs. It wasn’t.

I saw the bridge up ahead, rolled down my window, and screeched as I jerked the car into the barrier and careened fifty feet into the lake. It felt like a suicide attempt the whole way down.

I don’t know what I was expecting when the car hit the water.

Maybe for it to rocket to the bottom, giving me seconds to climb out before I was too far down.

But no, when it hit, the car jolted to a stop.

It felt like I’d missed the lake altogether.

My face whip-lashed against the steering wheel, and for a moment all I could hear was a ringing in my ear. All I could taste was blood.

Then the car started to sink.

Rushing water awakened me from shock, and I hurried to unbuckle my seat belt. I waited until the car was submerged before abandoning it through the window and peering above the water.

I couldn’t see anything, not even the outline of people up high, but I knew they would be there. For a minute, maybe less. So I stayed beneath the surface, my lungs empty and aching.

Then a bullet sliced through the water a few feet away. I startled, twisting my body that way while another bullet joined it. And another.

My eyes wide and stinging from lake water, I swam away from the gunfire in a panic, staying as deep under as I could manage. I made it beneath the bridge before my lungs refused to go any farther.

I pulled up, gasping for air, and immediately started propelling myself toward the shore. They must’ve heard me because they haven’t given up their search ever since.

My one piece of good luck is that shrubs aren’t technically the only thing out here. There’s trash piled up beneath the bridge next to tacky graffiti signatures, a mattress, a trashcan, a hammock, an old tire. Junk. Junk that’s way too obvious to hide behind.

They searched for me there first while I crawled my way up the slope of the desert, feeling more and more exposed by the second. They haven’t found me, but it’ll be any moment now. The bullets into the water make me certain they don’t plan on letting me live.

I’m a fool.

That’s the other thought that strikes me, what a damn fool I am. I should’ve known leaving would never have been easy. I should’ve known they wouldn’t just let me walk away.

I should’ve known not to trust Nikita. Certainly not over Arseni.

I’m going to die with Arseni believing I left him … again. That I don’t want him, that I never wanted him.

For the rest of his life, he’ll think I ran away and got myself killed because I couldn’t spend another day with him. He’ll think I hated him.

He’ll have no idea that I loved him. That I wanted a life with him more than I wanted my freedom.

I should’ve waited.

I should’ve trusted .

Instead, I’m here wishing I was back in my captor’s bed, just so I could tell him that for the first time since my mother died, I don’t feel alone. And I never want to feel alone again.

The flashlight roams over me again, and I’m sure this is it. It doesn’t pause on me, but the man holding it draws closer. He’s maybe thirty feet away now, and if I don’t move, he’s going to stumble right onto me. If I do move, he’ll shoot me.

I collect dirt into my palm and prepare to fling it in his eyes when he approaches. It doesn’t seem like a great strategy, but it’s the only one I can think of.

Until I hear the siren.

I whip my gaze toward the blue and red flashing lights appearing on the other side of the bridge.

A cop.

Holy shit, a cop.

There’s no way the help is here for me, but I’ll be damned if I don’t take advantage. I peek at the man with the flashlight, his friends spread out searching for me. He’s turned away toward the cop car. It’s now or never.

As soon as the cop makes it to the bridge, I break off into a sprint toward the road, my assailants becoming aware of me one-by-one. I scream when gunfire blasts but force myself not to let a cower slow me down.

The chase isn’t over when I practically hurl myself onto the bridge, sprinting until I make it to the gaping hole my car made. It isn’t over, but screeching tires sound like safety.

It’s ironic that yesterday a cop was the last person I wanted to run into. I would’ve chosen the mafia.

But now, I fall to my knees crying tears of pure relief as the door of the car flies open.