Desperate times called for desperate measures, and Erika knew that as she rushed up the stairs and tore open her sock drawer to find the gun. It nestled in there nicely, cushioned on either side by two pairs of winter socks she never wore. In fact, she’d probably gotten more use of the gun over the past few months, disposing of plaything after plaything. She’d been given no choice, each of them coming closer and closer to getting taken away from her.
But they wouldn’t take her Mason.
Gripping the gun tight, she hurried down the stairs and into the garage. Time was limited, and she knew it. If Morgan Young knew where she lived, how long was it before the cops came kicking down her door? Why had he been there anyway? Did he not think she’d recognize his voice? It was the same deep, cocksure voice that Mason Black once had, only with a little more intelligence and a little less firmness. All the same, he’d interfered, and later on he’d pay.
Right now, she had business to attend to.
Setting the gun down for only a second, she spun the valve wheel and sprung open the hatch. Mason had his back to the wall again, huddled into a corner with his face buried in his hands. He didn’t look up until she thumbed the hammer on the pistol.
“Get up. We’re going for a ride.”
Mason sneered at her. “What makes you think I’m going anywhere with you?”
“Because if you don’t, then I’ll put a bullet in each of your limbs, and then I’ll find your daughter and bury one in her spine. How’s that?” Erika glanced at her watch. Only three minutes ago she’d been on the doorstep with the private investigator. If he intended to have her arrested, her time was running short. She reached for the detachable ladder and tossed it down to him. “I won’t ask again.”
Mason slowly climbed to his feet, though it was unclear if it was due to reluctance or instability. It’d probably been a while since he’d eaten, and the conditions were hardly sanitary. It was no wonder he wobbled and stumbled as he got to his feet, reaching for the ladder and resting it against the wall, knocking it twice to test it wouldn’t fall.
“Nice and slow,” Erika said, her heart thundering. “Don’t try anything.”
He took his time getting to the top, and by then she’d run out of patience. Speeding the process along, she grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him to his feet. He was even heavier than she remembered, which said a lot considering he was over six feet tall with the muscles to match. He also stank of something old and stale—another reason to keep her distance, as if his tendency to act out wasn’t enough.
“Where are we going?” he said, his gruff voice reduced to a mutter.
“Just for a little ride, darling.” Erika jabbed the lip of the barrel into his back, encouraging him forward. Slow and stubborn, he trod through the house, stopping to examine the rooms. Erika had no patience for this and had to shove him until they arrived at the back door. She made him open it.
Mason stopped in the doorway, cold air seeping in while he laughed. It was a coarse noise, his shoulders bobbing up and down as he chuckled to himself.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“Just that we’re going outside. You think I won’t call for help?”
It was Erika’s turn to laugh, though she thought hers was more of a sweet, subtle sound. It was a laugh she’d used repeatedly in order to woo men. There was no measure to how far a feminine giggle and a twirl of the hair could get her. “You can call for help if you like, but you forget who has the gun. Do you honestly believe you’d last more than two seconds if you did? Forget it. I’ve killed people for far less.”
Mason stood in silence, his large frame still blocking out the sunlight while he stood staring out at the cold, concrete yard around the back of her home. He groaned as if to accept his fate and then finally took one short step. “At least tell me where we’re going.”
But Erika was in too much of a hurry. She guessed she had five minutes or less before the cops arrived at her door, and she couldn’t go to jail—wouldn’t. Not for killing the others. Not for sticking a knife in that asshole cop’s chest. Certainly not for taking Mason Black; he was her rightful property, and who were they to tell her different?
They had to hurry.
Erika reached inside her jean pocket for the car key and gave it a little jingle. “We’re going to get out of here, and if you want to live through this, we’re going to do it real fast.” She shoved him forward with her heel, holding a firm grip on the pistol. “You don’t mind if we take your car, do you? I seem to have misplaced mine.”
She laughed under her breath.
Mason didn’t.