Page 113 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

QUINN

The world becomes a violent blur as our car flips. I’m thrown against the seat belt, my body jerking in every direction. The roar of metal scraping gravel fills my ears as we roll once, twice, three times. It’s like being trapped in the world’s most vicious washing machine.

Glass shatters around us, raining down in a deadly shower. I instinctively cover my head, feeling sharp pricks as fragments slice my arms. The car continues its brutal tumble, and I lose all sense of up or down.

My stomach lurches with each rotation. I catch glimpses of sky, then road, then sky again as we spin. The seat belt digs painfully into my chest, barely keeping me in place as gravity seems to shift wildly.

Finally, with a sickening crunch, we come to a stop. My head snaps forward, connecting with something hard. Pain explodes behind my eyes and a high-pitched ringing fills my ears. I blink rapidly, trying to clear my vision, but everything’s fuzzy and distorted.

I’m disoriented and my head is throbbing as I try to make sense of my surroundings.

The world is still spinning, and I taste the metallic tang of blood in my mouth.

It takes a few seconds for me to realize that part of my brain fog is actual smoke that’s filling the air.

I cough, struggling to take in a full breath.

Fuck.

“Remy?” I reach over to where he’s slumped over the steering wheel. I can see blood on his face and he isn’t moving, even after a gentle shake. “Remy, can you hear me? We have to get out of here.”

Nothing.

I try to turn my head and check on the guys in the back seat, but I’m too restricted by the seat belt, the wreckage, and the fact that every muscle in my body is screaming in pain.

There’s movement outside the mangled wreck of our car. Muffled voices, then shouting. Footsteps crunching on broken glass. I blink hard, willing my vision to clear.

There’s no way an ambulance or even a patrol car has found us this quickly. The voices have to be coming from the bastards who ran us off the road.

I fumble for my sidearm, but my fingers are clumsy and uncooperative. I struggle against my jammed seat belt, hoping my desperation will give me the strength I need to get out of here.

The passenger door is wrenched open. Cold air rushes in, clearing some of the smoke, and I finally manage to free myself from the seat belt as my hand closes around the grip of my gun.

Before I can raise it, something cold and hard presses against my temple. The unmistakable feel of a gun barrel.

“Don’t even think about it, sweetheart,” a gruff voice warns.

I freeze, my fingers still wrapped around my weapon. The man leans in closer until I can feel his hot breath on my cheek. “That’s right. Nice and easy. Let go of the gun.”

Slowly, reluctantly, I release my grip. The gun clatters to the floor of the car. I raise my hands, palms out, showing I’m unarmed.

“Smart move,” the man says. “Now, let’s get you out of there.”

I’m yanked from the wreckage, my body protesting every movement. Rough hands grab my arms, dragging me across broken glass and twisted metal. My legs barely work, and I stumble, nearly falling.

“Watch it,” a voice snarls. “We need her in one piece.”

Before I can process what’s happening, a thick fabric bag is shoved over my head. The world goes dark, and I gasp, struggling to breathe through the heavy material.

“Stop squirming,” another voice orders. I feel something tighten around my wrists—zip ties, probably. The plastic bites into my skin as they’re cinched tight.

I’m shoved forward, tripping over my own unsteady feet.

I’m trying to ignore the pain and listen for clues, details, anything that might be useful.

So far, all I know is that I’m being half-dragged, half-carried across uneven ground.

I can hear the crunch of gravel underfoot, but that only tells me we’ve made it back to the side of the road.

I was too lost in my own thoughts before the wreck to know for sure how far outside of town we are, and I sure as hell wasn’t paying attention to the dark side roads once these fuckers started trying to run us off the road.

“Get her in the car,” someone barks. A third voice? I’m pretty sure they’ve all sounded different, but my head is throbbing and I honestly can’t be certain.

Hands push me down, forcing me into what must be another vehicle. A few seconds later, I hear car doors slamming and the rumble of an engine starting up.

We begin to move, and I strain my ears, still desperately trying to pick up any possible hint about where we’re going or who these people are. The bag over my head muffles everything around me, leaving me even more disoriented and panicked than I already was.

My mind is racing, searching for a way out of this nightmare.

But with my hands bound and my vision completely blocked, I’m fucking helpless.

I’m not sure if I could fully walk right now if they voluntarily let me go.

I damn sure couldn’t run, even if I could somehow manage to overpower or slip past three grown-ass men.

I’m trying to stay calm, to think rationally, but it’s hard when my head’s pounding and I can barely breathe through this fucking bag. Who the hell are these assholes? The Saint’s men? Some random crew of mercenaries? I don’t have a damn clue, and that terrifies me more than I want to admit.

My thoughts keep drifting back to the crash. To Remy slumped over the wheel, blood on his face. To the eerie silence from the backseat. Fuck. They’re probably dead. All of them. Some of my best men. My team. Gone.

A wave of grief rushes up, but I push it down, replacing it with anger. These bastards are going to pay. I don’t care who they are or who sent them. I’m going to make them regret the day they fucked with me and my crew.

I try to focus, to come up with some kind of plan. Maybe if I can loosen these zip ties… But before I can even start working on them, the car slows to a stop.

“We’re here,” one of the men announces. “Let’s move.”

Those rough hands grab me again, hauling me out of the vehicle. I stumble, my legs still unsteady. I hear the creak of a door opening, feel a change in temperature as we move from outside to inside.

The ground beneath my feet changes from gravel to what feels like concrete. The air smells musty and damp. Some kind of warehouse, maybe? Or an abandoned building?

All I hear is the echo of footsteps and the low murmur of voices too quiet for me to make out.

We come to a stop, and I’m shoved down into a chair. Metal, from the feel of it. Cold and hard against my aching body.

“Secure her,” someone orders.

More zip ties. Around my ankles this time, binding me to the chair legs. Then my arms are wrenched behind me, secured to the back of the chair.

I grit my teeth, fighting back a groan of pain. Everything hurts, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let these assholes see how much.

The bag is suddenly yanked off my head, and I blink rapidly against the harsh light that’s suddenly shining directly into my eyes. My vision swims, struggling to adjust after the complete darkness. As the world slowly comes into focus, I scan the faces surrounding me, my heart pounding in my chest.

My stomach drops. A wave of nausea washes over me that has nothing to do with my injuries.

These guys weren’t sent by The Saint. This isn’t some random group of mercs.

It’s the fucking Young Killers.

Even if I didn’t recognize their distinctive tattoos or the arrogant swagger in their postures, there would be no mistaking their leader.

Harlan.

Strutting toward me with a smug grin plastered across his face, there’s no way in hell I’d forget that cocky walk or the cruel glint in his eyes. He stops just a few feet in front of me, looking down like a cat that’s caught a particularly juicy mouse.

“Well, well, well,” Harlan drawls, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “If it isn’t the infamous Quinn herself. Gotta say, I expected more of a chase. More of a fight. This was almost too easy.”

I glare up at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response.

Harlan leans in closer, his breath hot on my face. I fight the urge to recoil as he grips my chin hard, tilting my face up toward him.

“When Enigma and the Princes of Carnage teamed up, I knew I couldn’t trust either of you fuckers.” His grip tightens until his nails are digging into my skin. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you? Coming to us for those so-called peace talks. Acting like you wanted to work things out.”

He releases my chin with a sharp jerk, nearly snapping my head back. “But you’re nothing but a fucking bitch and a liar. Did you really think we’d fall for your bullshit?”

I glare up at him, my jaw clenched tight. I want nothing more than to spit in his smug face, but I know that would only make things worse. Instead, I force myself to stay silent, to give him nothing.

Harlan starts to pace in front of me, his movements sharp and agitated. “You know what your problem is? You think you’re smarter than everyone else. You think you can play all sides and come out on top.”

He stops pacing abruptly, then whirls to face me, his eyes burning with anger.

“You know, we almost bought your little act,” he snarls. “Poor Quinn, assaulted by one of our guys. Such a convenient excuse for Nico to put a bullet in him, wasn’t it?”

My stomach drops. Fuck. That incident feels like a lifetime ago. It wasn’t even on my mind.

“But see, we started thinking. Started asking questions. And you know what we figured out?” Harlan leans in close again, until his face is just inches from mine. “That fucker never laid a hand on you. You made the whole thing up to cover for your husband.”

He waits a beat, staring directly into my eyes. All I can do is stare back. I’m damn sure not going to argue my case in front of him—not while he’s so certain of his version of the truth.

“What, no clever comeback?” Harlan taunts. “No more lies to spin?”