1
Behind the dumpster, Daros controlled his breathing. The gas cans were positioned near the woman's SUV trunk, exactly as he'd promised. The helpful, friendly attitude had been an improvisation that surprisingly worked. He needed to calculate his next steps now.
Things had gone very wrong that night. Very wrong indeed. The place was a mess. He was showing symptoms of a cold, feeling his nose block up. He'd barely smelled the coffee when he'd served himself from the thermal carafe inside the store, over an hour ago. The aroma, which should have been invigorating by nature, had arrived muffled and distant, as if filtered through a piece of canvas. And to make matters worse, someone had appeared out of nowhere.
He told himself to stay focused, feeling his two-day stubble as he ran his hand over his face. He'd been in much worse situations. It was just that he hated losing control of the situation. How long had it been since he'd left a witness behind? Years, maybe almost fifteen. He was getting sloppy, and that was a death sentence in his line of work.
From the improvised hiding spot, he could observe the woman's every move. The bruises on her face hadn't escaped his notice. The most common cause of injuries like that was getting involved with the wrong guy. That wasn't her profile, not at all. And there was still the mark of a missing wedding ring on her left ring finger. An empty, pale space that she kept rubbing.
The stranger's manner was cautious and distant, the delicacy of her gestures masking an innate distrust. She was running from something. Or someone. And she was afraid.
Daros watched as she lifted one can into the trunk with difficulty. Face contorted with effort, she stored the second one. Leaving her purchases on the ground, she went back to the store. Probably to pay for the gas.
Interesting, he assessed. An honest fugitive.
That's when the realization hit him like lightning: in her rush, she'd left the car completely open.
2
Greta stopped with her hand on the car door handle, stunned by a thought: the groceries. The only reason she didn't forget her head was because it was attached to her neck. She hesitated. Flooring the accelerator without looking back was the only sensible plan. But her throat scraped, dry as a coffee filter, and she thought about the liters of water. She had no idea when she'd find another safe place to stop.
hy the hell didn't I buy cigarettes?, he thought, running her tongue over her dry lips. She'd quit smoking five years ago, but she doubted anyone had ever needed a cigarette as badly as she did right now.
Need won over fear. She unlocked the car.
She was putting one leg out when her mind caught it, tensing her muscles. There was an invisible tension nearby. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up in warning.
The sickening smell of cheap perfume returned. It was much closer now: it was coming from the back seat.
Her eyes widened with the terror of realization, but it was too late. Like a tentacle from an octopus out of a nightmare, an arm rose from behind the seat, grabbing her neck.
The air fled from her lungs. Greta tried to scream, but only managed a muffled wheeze. She pushed against the car floor with her feet, desperate for some leverage to free herself from the grip. Her soles slipped on the rubber mat.
The arm squeezing her neck was a steel cable, firm and merciless. She dug her nails into the attacker's flesh, trying to claw her way out of the prison while throwing all her body weight forward.
The attacker seemed more interested in keeping her under control than killing her, but that was no relief. The terror running through her veins was absolute. Every inch of Greta cried out for air, for movement, for escape. Every second immobilized brought her closer to the end.
With her right hand, she groped blindly, trying to reach the purse on the passenger seat. If she could just stretch a little... If she could reach the gun... Her fingers brushed the soft fabric, and part of her felt a thread of hope. But the attacker soon pulled her back with renewed force, throwing the victim's body against the seat, the impact muffled by the upholstery. A stab of pain spread through Greta's spine.
She felt her head throb with lack of oxygen, her vision already beginning to darken. She forced her body to relax, yielding to the pressure on purpose. The plan was to deceive. If the attacker believed she'd given up, maybe he'd loosen his grip. It took a superhuman effort to resist the urge to fight, but the tactic worked: the pressure weakened. The intruder's arm grew heavy and dropped his guard.
"Shhhhh," the man whispered behind her, trying to sound calm, almost affectionate, but his voice had the tremor of threat.
Greta moved her arm slowly. Every inch was a battle against the instinct to struggle. With her muscles throbbing in pain, she kept her focus on the purse. Her fingers touched the fabric again. The metal clasp slid open easily. The almost inaudible sound seemed deafening in that dense silence, but the man showed no reaction. Just a little more...
The arm pulled her back again, less firm now. Her fingers, which hadn't moved far from the purse, advanced with a mixture of desperation and precision. Finally they passed through the open gap, and Greta threw her body to the side with all the energy she had left, like a rope stretched to its limit.
The purse slipped.
The passenger door opened with a snap.
And her only hope slipped into the darkness of the night.
Game over. That was it. Escape became a distant dream. Defeat burned more than the pressure on her throat.
That's when she felt, more than saw, the man being ripped away from behind her by a sudden force. Air invaded her lungs in a violent tide, waves of pain and relief converting into a dry moan.