Russian Boss’s Secret Baby by Bella King

Ch 27

MIA

The sirens are getting closer.

I never get a moment of peace, ever.

My legs have regained little strength, but it’s enough to get me up off the ground and away from the scene before the cops get too close.

I’m hobbling down a makeshift dirt path that’s been formed by teenagers smoking weed on their work breaks, hoping to blend in with whatever normalcy I can absorb before someone questions me. I know I need medical attention quickly.

I continue limping down the path, my right ankle screaming at me to stop. I’ll add that to the running tally of injuries I need to assess once this nightmare is over. I refuse to even think about whether or not the baby is okay. The mental anguish that the baby’s death would cause me would render me completely helpless and useless to my own survival.

As I continue down the path, I notice that I’m approaching a large parking lot only about fifty feet away. The sirens grow louder and advance to howls as fire engines and ambulances race to the scene.

By the time I’m out of their line of sight, I can hear the first responders unloading from their vehicles, assessing the crash to understand what the fuck happened. Their confused voices join together in one horrified chorus as they find Katie’s body, a quadrant of her skull strewn about the vehicle.

Fortunately for me, the confusing and macabre scene at the crash provides enough distraction to the first responders, giving me the chance to sneak off into the parking lot and eventually meander into a drugstore without being seen.

As soon as I’m in the store, I’m self-conscious of my appearance under the harsh light of the LED bulbs. I walk past a makeup display and notice that my nose has been bleeding, two brown streams streaming down my face and all over my neck and ears when I was unconscious.

People are going to freak out if they see me. I need to hide myself from them too.

I steal a pack of makeup remover from the display and try to casually make my way toward the back of the store where the bathrooms are. A woman glances at me, briefly breaking her concentrated stare into the tampon selection. She doesn’t seem to be perturbed by my bloody face, though, and I’m able to sneak into the bathroom without being seen by anyone else.

I rip open the makeup remover pads. Trying to scrape the blood from my face is agonizing. My nose is broken as well as, I assume, my left orbit. I’m terrified to take off my clothes at any point, positive that I’ll find my organs trailing out from behind each other at the rate I’m finding new injuries.

Some of the blood comes off a bit at a time, and I’m careful not to reopen any existing wounds. I probably should have stolen some antibiotic cream or something else, too.

Without warning, the door opens suddenly with considerable force, and four men dressed in all black enter the bathroom.

“What the fuck? Get out of here,” I exclaim, ready to kill again if someone tries to interrupt me.

“We don’t have to do that,” responds one of the men as he quickly places a black hood over my head.

“Let go of me,” I scream, doing my best to resist capture with my injuries. I try to make myself heavier, I try to bite the men through the hood, I kick and scream and whip myself into them, but nothing works.

One of them grabs me from behind and begins to choke me, not enough to pass me out, but just enough to keep me quiet while I’m hauled out of the store.

Why isn’t anyone helping me?

Do they just feel like it’s just none of their business?

I’m carried aggressively out of the store, trying as hard as I can to fight the multiple sets of arms that are grasping at me as I flail blindly. Eventually I can feel that we’re outside again, and deep panic starts to settle in again.

Are they taking me back to the crash? What’s going on?

I hear a heavy car door open, and I’m tossed in the back like a bag of laundry, hitting one of my hips on a blunt object as I land. I scream out loud from pain, unsure of how much more I can handle before I go into shock and begin convulsing.

I can’t tell if I’m blacking out with the hood over my head.

“You’re supposed to stay in the back with her,” says one man to another in a rushed, annoyed tone.

“I thought she wanted you back here!” replies the other man, holding back a more aggressive demeanor.

“It doesn’t matter, just make sure she doesn’t get out,” the first man says.

I can feel the vehicle start to move, and my stomach drops with panic. I can feel my skin turning clammy with shock and anxiety intermingled with low blood sugar. If this baby survives, it’ll be a miracle.

The driver is erratic and uneasy as he drives, stopping and turning quickly and without warning. At certain points, I can feel the vehicle speed up to what feels like ninety miles an hour, weaving in and out of traffic.

You’d think that criminals would try to project the most law-abiding behavior possible, but I suppose I was wrong.

After what feels like four hours of brake checks and manic speeding, the car slows down. The driver parks haphazardly along a curb, nearly driving over it.

The side door next to me opens, and the man who has been assigned to keeping me in place jumps out and grabs my arm. “Get the fuck out of the car,” he growls before I am even able to find my footing.

“I’ll get out when I’m not about to fall out of the car and bash my brains in,” is what escapes me in my moment of terror and fury. Is this karmic penance for saving Slate’s life at the club? Should I have just let both of us die?

The man doesn’t react. He simply grips my arm tighter and pulls me out of he vehicle.

I’m able to catch myself on my left foot, but I’m still extremely disoriented, so my knee gives out, and I fall the rest of the way out of the car.

“Jesus Christ,” the man hisses as he pulls me back up from the concrete.

I’m walked quickly down what feels like an alleyway, as the shadows grow darker outside my black hood, and we’re walking straight on from the car instead of to the right or left of it. My suspicions are confirmed until I hear elevator doors open.

From the outside?

I’m shoved inside the elevator as it opens, tripping on my own shoes as the ground transitions from concrete to carpet with no warning.

“Can you please take this hood off? I can’t breathe,” I ask, attempting to buy myself some time as well as establish my humanity with these men.

“No fucking way, sweetheart,” says an unfamiliar voice behind me. He must be one of the other men that carried me out.

I can feel my blood pressure getting lower the longer I’m forced to stand. I’m afraid that if I pass out, I’ll never wake up.

The elevator stops and opens again, and I immediately feel at least five degrees colder, like there’s a window open in the middle of a midwestern winter. The elevator didn’t feel like it was going up, though.