51
Chloe
Air rushes into my oxygen-starved lungs, and I swing my fist blindly, aiming at that smug face. He intercepts it with ease, brutal fingers catching my wrist and pinning it to the ground as he jams the barrel of the gun under my chin.
“Move again, and I blow your f*****g head off,” he growls, and I believe him.
I see my death in his flat, dark eyes.
“What the f**k, Arnold?” a second voice exclaims, and another man appears above us. Also armed with a gun, he looks to be some dozen years older than my captor, with receding salt-and-pepper hair and ruddy skin flushed from the exertion of the run. Breathing heavily, he orders, “Put a bullet in her and be done.”
“Not yet,” Arnold mutters, eyes glued to my mouth. “She’s pretty. You ever notice that?”
The other man’s voice turns gr
