Ruby.
There’s a moment where she pulls close enough that I can see her face. Can see the flicker of her eyes that tells me to get ready and, for the briefest moment, she forms her hand into the shape of a gun, before setting it back on the wheel.
Terrified, I look to Slade and the other man. Neither of them have seen her. Why would they care about some old woman who happens to be following them this early in the morning? Ruby always looks like she’s off to the country club to eat scones and biscotti and gossip with her rich old friends while the men in their group chat about 401Ks and the sorry state of the world. No one would ever suspect a woman like her to have the heart of a killer.
But she does.
And she’s getting closer.
I need to be ready.
My heart is racing. My breathing come in gasps. But Slade and his friend don’t pay attention — they think I’m just freaking out because I’ve been kidnapped.
Closer still she comes. They stay silent. His friend behind the wheel, and Slade in the front seat, his gun resting in his lap.
He’s the one I need to go for.
There’s a long stretch of road ahead. An endless straightway through the desert, probably leading to wherever it is they will keep me hostage.
We hit that stretch.
Except for Ruby, there’s no other car as far as the eye can see.
She accelerates.
“What’s this bitch doing?” The driver mutters.
“Look at her — she’s probably late to fucking church or something,” Slade says.
She pulls alongside. Turns, smiles.
Then raises her gun.
That’s when I strike.
“Oh shit,” the driver screams.
I scream, too. Wordless. Fury. And I dive for Slade, aiming to scratch his face. I gnarl my fingers around his ear and I plant both my feet against the back of his seat and I pull for all I’m worth, feeling flesh rip and tear, blood soak my fingers.
Slade roars. “You fucking bitch, I’ll kill you.”
A window shatters.
A bullet pierces the driver’s skull with pinpoint accuracy, going in one side and out the other. He slumps forward; the wheel swerves to the left, and — for a heart-stopping moment — I’m weightless as the car dives into the ditch and then up the other side.
We go airborne.
Turning, twisting, spinning in air, until the roof of the car lands hard on the ground. Until my teeth clack together a hundred times with each bone-shaking thud.
I scream again and again, but I stay conscious.
And the second we stop rolling, I grab the door handle and pull. It flies open. I scramble out.
Ruby’s coming, her car going down and up the ditch, driving across the hard-packed desert terrain right toward us. Feet away, she stops. Gets out, gun raised.
“Get back, Addie.”
Slade is right on my heels.
“You’re dead. Fucking dead,” he roars.
But I don’t run. Even though I should.
Maybe it’s the adrenaline. Maybe it’s the hate for this man and everything he represents — the turmoil that’s rocked my club, that’s brought me together with Snake only to have us ripped apart — but I attack him.
Kicking. Screaming. Clawing.
Every bit of rage that burns inside me.
But it’s not enough.
I scratch his face; I kick him as he crawls free of the overturned car; I stomp and I bite and I howl, and he keeps coming, though he’s missing an ear and blood is streaming down his face, he keeps coming.
“Addie, get out of the way. I can’t get a clear shot,” Ruby yells.
It’s too late, now.
Slade puts his hands on me, lands a skull-thrumming punch to my face, pulls me tight to his chest as a human shield.
“Put the gun away,” he orders Ruby.
She keeps her gun raised. Her voice is cold as ice.
“You think I can’t hit you, boy?”
Slade puts a squeeze on my throat. My sight goes black, I thrash and spit and feel my blood pound in my ears. “If you even think about pulling that trigger, you’ll find out what Addie here looks like with a crushed larynx. You think you could get her to the hospital before she drowns in her own blood?”
He squeezes again. My head throbs in agony and, when he lets up, I spit mucus and blood at my feet.
“Please, Ruby,” I gasp.
“You silly girl,” Ruby says, but she lowers her gun.
“Drop it. Kick it toward me. And throw me the keys to your car.”
“You thuggish buffoon. You want my car, too? Do you know how much this ride cost me? Fucking yokel, you don’t even deserve to suck the fumes from its exhaust pipe.”
Slade squeezes me again. My head is swimming with pain. “Keys. Gun. Now.”
Ruby drops her gun to the ground and kicks it away. Then she tosses her keys to the ground halfway between us. “Pick them up yourself, you son of a bitch.”
Growling, Slade hauls me forward, then drags me lower. “Pick them up for me, bitch.”
It’s hard to move with his hands on my throat, my head is pulsing and I’m fighting for air. But, as I bend over, I catch Ruby’s eye. There’s a glint there. A tenseness in her jaw.
This isn’t over.
I put my fingers around the keys. Then I slip one key between my fingers and make a fist. At the same moment, Ruby drops to her knees — so quick for her old age — and she grabs a handful of dirt and throws it at Slade’s face.
In the same breath, I turn, ram the key into his
