“I would ask that you do the same,” one of the men said.
Though he spoke, Cassandra was certain he wasn’t the one in charge.
Rather, she looked at the other, the older of the two, though not by much. He was filthy—Cassandra would have called him slovenly—and his dark eyes had a sliminess that she couldn’t mistake, one that made her stomach drop.
“So, what now?” Jack asked.
If she hadn’t been busy trying to keep her knees from buckling, she would have looked at Jack, wondered at how he sounded so calm and composed when she was on the verge of breaking down.
But she didn’t dare look away.
The gun was still trained on her, and more importantly, she got the awful sense that it would do her no favors to take her eyes off the other man.
What she would do if it came to that, she wasn’t sure.
For now, she hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
“I ask the questions here,” the older of the two said.
“Fair enough,” Jack responded.
He slowly lowered his hands, and though the younger man appeared to want to argue, he stayed quiet.
“You don’t look like locals,” he said.
“Just passing through,” Jack said.
“This is a toll road,” he said.
“Got nothing to trade,” Jack responded.
“I disagree,” the older man said.
The shiver that ran down Cassandra’s spine threatened to shake her entire body, but she fought the feeling back. She’d been in enough prisons to know how these dominance games worked, and she wouldn’t let these two cow her. It didn’t matter how she felt on the inside, how terrified and how stupid, what mattered was what they saw on the outside.
And all they would see from her was pure, unyielding calm.
Her eyes still on the younger man, the one with the gun, she lowered her hands, risking a quick glance out of the corner of her eye at Jack and adjusting her stance to match his.
She was certain she didn’t portray quite the same look as he did, but that wasn’t important. What was important was that they had momentarily slowed what could be a very bad situation.
“Do you know what’s happening?” Cassandra asked.
The younger man, who had been looking at Jack, shifted his gaze to her. He seemed surprised by her question, not what she had intended but something that she would take advantage of.
“No, do you?” he asked.
“Have you seen those…things?” she asked.
The younger man looked pained, agony crossing his face. “Mama—”
The younger man cut off when the older looked at him and then to Cassandra.
“Enough conversation. Give us your shit,” he said, his voice taking on an edge that was simultaneously bored and menacing.
From the almost bewildered-sounding nonresponse, Cassandra sensed he wasn’t taking Mama’s demise as hard as his brother.
“We don’t have anything,” she said, repeating what Jack had said earlier.
“You have something, honey,” he said.
Cassandra didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to know what he meant, and to her surprise, rather than scaring her—scaring her more than his tone of voice—his leer pissed her off.
Probably not the best thing, but Cassandra wouldn’t kowtow to bullies. Even when it was a good idea.
“We told you we don’t have anything,” she said, keeping her voice firm. “And now that I can see that you’re not hurt, we will be on our way.”
The one with the gun looked at her, took a step closer.
“You will?” he asked.
“Yes, we—”
“Down, Cassandra!”
She wasn’t even sure that she had consciously processed Jack’s words. Instead, she moved, flinging her body against the hard ground and then quickly scrambling out of the path of the shotgun.
Jack had moved with almost preternatural speed. One moment he had been three feet away from her, and the next he had launched.
By the time Cassandra looked back, she watched as Jack drove the man the older man with the shotgun into the ground, his shoulder buried in the other man’s chest as he gripped the barrel of the gun.
“Get him!” the older man yelled at his companion.
Cassandra had almost forgotten he was there, and then watched as he ran toward Jack, a wicked-looking club in his hand.
Cassandra again found herself moving on instinct, this time springing up as quickly as she could and intercepting the attacker.
He attempted to swing, but Cassandra crashing into his arm changed his trajectory.
Rather than hitting Jack as he had intended, the man’s blow struck his companion.
It was exactly what they needed.
Due to the shock of the blow and his own surprise, the man’s fingers loosened, and the gun fell out of his hand.
Jack held the barrel, the weapon facing toward him with the trigger still toward the man.
The first shot was loud, breaking the silence and surface serenity of the day.
Cassandra was busy grappling with the younger man, a battle she was swiftly losing, but she couldn’t help but watch in horror as the older man again reached for the trigger.
She almost cheered when Jack pulled the weapon out of his reach and then tossed it aside.
Her mind was moving so fast, she could hardly process what was happening, but she guessed it wouldn’t be too hard to completely wrangle control, so Jack was taking the weapon out of the equation.
The stinging blow against her head reminded her exactly what that equation consisted of.
Her hearing was muffled in one ear, the ringing that was a result of the blow crowding out everything else.
She turned and froze for just a moment as dizziness threatened to overtake her.
But when she had pushed it back, she focused on the younger man.
He had her in a tight hold, one hand clamped around her neck, the other holding her fist.
Unless you counted a sixth-grade gym class fight, Cassandra had never been in a physical fight before.
Her mind was racing—the fear, anger, all of it, threatening to make her sick.
Still, she was able to pull from something primal, that inborn instinct for self-preservation, and went for the vulnerable spots.
She clawed at the man’s face, could feel his skin and flesh giving way as she dug and pulled.
“You bitch!”
That he screamed told her she was doing something right. That he still had the concentration to make words told her she needed to work harder. So, she dug more, shifting her hand until she hit the thin skin of his eyelid, and the firm orb underneath.
Cassandra pushed and thought she would vomit when she felt that orb give way.
But she didn’t stop.
No, she kept clawing, scratching, ignored his high-pitched screams, ignored nauseating feel of his blood on her fingers.
When she heard the soft pop, felt a rush of fluid, she knew she had won this battle.
He had been holding her tight, one hand locked around her throat. He screamed in pain again, but this time he let go.
Cassandra took the opportunity to scurry away but didn’t make it too far. She was on her back, and when she looked at him she saw the blood rushing from the scratches and mixing with the fluid leaking out of his wounded eye.
He was still screaming, but rather than backing away, he charged toward her.
He landed on her, his heavy weight pushing her into the road as her breath expelled from her chest.
Cassandra had been triumphant, but that triumph was short-lived.
Still holding his injured eye, the younger man reached toward her with the other hand. Though he was wounded, he was still strong, driven by rage now.
He clamped his hand around her throat and began to squeeze. Cassandra followed her first instinct and reached for his wrist. She tugged, and had she had the breath, she would have screamed out her frustration. He didn’t budge.