CHAPTER THIRTEEN

                                    

                                          
I have no idea how he snuck up on us, how he found us, how he was able to go undetected all this time. Obviously he'd waited until Nate disappeared, knowing that he was the only one who was armed – leaving me and Emmi vulnerable and easy targets. 
                          
Of course all my worries were realised. I curse Nate and every other fucking person who isn't me.
                          
His gun points at Emmi, but thankfully he's still a good few feet away from her. And when he sees that he has my attention, he abruptly turns the weapon on me. 
                          
"Give her the dog," he instructs, gesturing with the weapon. "Then you come to me."
                          
He looks to be just under six feet, shorter than Nate, with greasy blond hair and a short ginger beard. He's lean, closer to starving, and his skin is weathered and cracked. 
                          
I do as he orders. I give Emmi Dog, who looks nothing short of petrified, her eyes almost as big as saucers. She shakes as like she has a cold, and her fingers struggle to take Dog from me. Once he's secure, once I give Emmi an imperceptible nod that I hope she notices, I slowly and warily approach the man with the gun. He could be late twenties, early thirties; it's hard to tell. 
                          
He does a quick search of me, dirty hands roaming all over my body. Once done, he whirls me around, his free hand gripping my arm like a vice. "Now, I want you to make me a happy man."
                          
"What–"
                          
He presses the gun against my temple, the cool metal biting my skin. "Bitch, shut that goddamn mouth of yours." His hand moves from my arm to my shoulder and he pushes me down and onto my knees. 
                          
My shoulder sings with pain, but it's what he wants me to do that worries – scares – me more. Hysteria rises up through my body like a living thing, and it's difficult not to cry out or lurch away with horror. I do the latter, however, a knee-jerk reaction that I can't control, and he grabs a fistful of my hair to keep me in place. 
                          
"Do you want me to kill the kid?" the man exclaims, and he waves the gun around like a mad man – probably because he is one. "I'll shoot the kid, I really don't care."
                          
I reach a hand up to his own holding my hair, to try and help alleviate the pain. It doesn't work, but it forces his attention back to me, thankfully. "Don't touch her," I manage to ground out, and the man only looks at me with amusement, like we're playing a game. 
                          
"If you do what I ask, then she'll be alright," he says. 
                          
"Who's to say you won't kill her anyway?" I demand, and I'm surprised by this courage, by this need to stand up to this guy. I'm asking for trouble. He's the one with the gun. Talking too much has consequences.
                          
I cop a fist to the side of the head, knocking me sideways and off balance. Dazed, ears ringing, vision blurry, I'm hauled back to my knees by this stranger, and only his harsh grip keeps me upright. Vaguely I can hear Emmi crying and Dog barking, a tiny yap that is nothing more than annoying. 
                          
"Do you want to try that again?" the man snaps. 
                          
"Don't make her watch," I choke out, voice hoarse. Horrible images float around in my mind, all with terrible outcomes. But there's one shining light through it all, no matter what – I can't let this man do anything to Emmi. To me, certainly. To her, never. "I'll do whatever you want."
                          
The man yanks on my hair the same time he leans towards me until his face is inches from mine. "Fine," he says, "only because I want you to hurry up."
                          
He pulls away. I look past him to Emmi who cowers nearby, tears streaming down her cheeks; Dog tries to work his way out of her arms. 
                          
"Emmi, look away," I say, and I hate how this would look to her, this man who has forced me to my knees, who has hit me, is prepared to kill me. Hopefully she has no idea what he wants me to do. Hopefully she thinks of him as nothing but a psycho who wants to hurt or kidnap me. "Emmi, turn around," I continue, and I try to keep my voice unaffected and normal. "Whatever happens, whatever you hear, don't turn around." And thankfully, without argument, Emmi nods and turns around on shaking legs, sobbing quietly, silent tears falling.
                          
This exchange sees the man turn to look at Emmi as well, and it's these valuable seconds, one, two, three, four, five, six, that allows me to reach down to my boot and collect the knife hidden inside. I slip the knife up my sleeve just as the man turns back to me, his eyes alight with delight.
                          
There's a single gunshot from inside the house, followed by silence – then there's a roar as gunfire is exchanged, bullets exploding. I can make out three, maybe four guns, each bullet fired at different intervals, all of them only seconds apart.
                          
It was an ambush, and we walked straight into it. I feel sick, bile rising to sit at the back of my throat. Nate's in trouble, if not more than my current predicament. I want to throw up, I want to cry, I want to punch this dick in the face. More than anything, I want to grab Emmi, grab Dog, and get the two as far away from here as possible. 
                          
The cool metal of the gun presses into my temple again, bringing me back to the here and now. "Bitch," the man growls, and he smacks me across the face to get my attention. "Hurry up and get that pretty mouth of yours working."
                          
All I need is one chance, one shot at this. An eerie calm washes over me as I straighten. It all plays out in my mind, my exact movements, what will happen to this creep, where the gun is, where it's pointed, how much space is between me and him, how much distance is between us and Emmi. All I need is a three to five second window, six max, and I can do it. 
                          
It's not difficult to pretend to struggle to get his belt buckle, because my fingers are slick with sweat. The leather gets caught and slips through my fingers. I try again, fingers cramping and aching, willing myself to keep fumbling. My gaze narrows on the task at hand, at the man standing before me, his feet planted firmly on the ground because he's all but ready to experience an intense moment of pleasure.
                          
I'm hit in the side of the head again by Creepo. There's enough force behind the strike that a wound opens right beside my eye, but thankfully, it doesn't knock me sideways; it only jumbles my brain, and I have to blink to get my vision back. 
                          
"You stupid bitch," the man grates as he reaches for his buckle. "Don't think I don't know you're trying to buy yourself some time."
                          
The angle of the gun in this instance doesn't matter anymore. As long as it points in my general direction, everything'll be fine. 
                          
It's slow going for Creepo, his fingers not quite grasping the metal and leather because of the gun. But that doesn't matter, because I've got my six second window.
                          
The knife slips from my sleeve and into my hand. With his head down, concentrating on getting his pants undone, I jerk forward and plunge the knife deep into his belly, and slice the blade sideways.