The car stops suddenly, and I roll forward and then back at the abruptness. Quieting, I listen for any clue. I hear a loud creak and then a clang. I know that sound, any country person does . . . it’s a gate swinging open, the chain and lock jangling against the metal of the pole fence. The car door slams and I’m moving again.

I remember advice I heard once, from where I don’t know, that said ‘don’t let them take you to a secondary location’. It’s way too late for that, so what’s my next option?

Fight like hell, Zoey. Whatever happens, when that trunk opens, you need to be ready to fight and run.

I swallow down the bile that threatens to come up at the idea of what I might be fighting against and running from and take slow, deep breaths to oxygenate my blood for both fight and flight. I take a firm grip on the bag because while it doesn’t have any traditional weapons, it’s all I have, and I wait.

The car stops once more, and I freeze, listening for steps to come around to the trunk.

Ready? Three, two, one . . . nothing happens and I don’t move. Just when I think I’ve been forgotten, the lid opens, swinging up. It’s still dark, but with my eyes adjusted to the inside of the trunk, I can see the moonlit silhouette of my kidnapper. They’re smaller than I expected somehow, my fear making them seem larger than life in my mind.

A veritable Sasquatch of horror, but this shadow is basically my size or even smaller. I throw the bag with a yell of fury, scrambling out of the trunk as quickly as I can.

I push past the shadow and run, screaming as loud as I can, “Help! Help! Help!”

I know I only have moments before the kidnapper is hot on my heels. What I’m not expecting is the voice that yells, “Get her!”

That’s got to be the kidnapper, but who is she talking to? She? Yes, definitely a woman. Heavy footsteps come up behind me, faster than I could hope to escape, but I try to dodge and zig zag. Loud breath steams on my neck, and I know my chance at flight is gone.

I spin suddenly, planting one foot and bringing up the other knee toward my pursuer. I’m hoping to hit gut, or maybe a good ball shot that would drop him to his knees. What I find is a wall of iron-hardened muscle that hurts my knee more than the other way around.

I am rewarded with a deep, guttural grunt, though. “Fuck. Be still so I don’t have to hurt you.”

I must be really losing it because I snort, a derisive laugh coming out of my nose instead of my mouth.