Wounded Birds (The Grayson Series Book 1) (29 page)

Michael glances at me after shutting off the radio. “It appears we may be snowed in,” he says with a playful gleam in his eyes. “Josh added a fireplace to one of the guest rooms a month ago. I’m sure we’ll find plenty of wood in his shed to keep us warm for the night.”

I reach over to caress his cheek. The prickly stubble forming over his beautiful face grazed my skin. “Hmm, I wonder what I’ll do isolated in a big house. Trapped with a strong, strapping young gentleman,” I purr with a faint blow in his ear, surprising him with a swipe of my tongue.

I stifle a satisfied laugh as Michael quivers from my touch, his nostrils flaring with anticipation and want. “Miss DiMarco, please contain that sweet tongue of yours, or I may need to give you a quick demonstration of what you’ll be enduring,” he growls out.

“Okay, I surrender. Keep your pants on, bad boy,” I say, laughing, enjoying our time together. I lie my head on the headrest, staring at the snow cascading over us like white pearls.

I gasp as the car takes a slight skid, causing Michael’s tension to radiate throughout the vehicle. His eyes become more engaged on the road, and hands bind tighter around the steering wheel.

My anxiety level rises as the violent wind blows against the SUV, causing it to sway. I’m getting dizzy from watching the wipers operating at high-speed, keeping the windshield clear of the rapid snowfall. The knots in my stomach confirm we’re in for a long ride.

“Are you okay?” Michael asks, and I can tell he’s worried driving in these treacherous conditions.

We should have gone back to my place, but then Chica, Josh’s little Maltese, would be home alone. We couldn’t leave the poor, sick, defenseless animal by herself.

I turn my gaze away from the road and face Michael. “No worries here. I have complete confidence in your driving ability,” I say, reassuring him.

Both Michael and I are startled when a loud pinging sound, like a gunshot, reverberates in the car. “Shit,” Michael yells out, and his expression changes to full-blown panic.  He glances in the rearview mirror. His hands grip tighter around the steering wheel to keep it steady.

Another pinging sound rings through the SUV. “Shit, Ariana, get down. We’re being shot at.”

My heart jumps into my throat, cutting my air supply. My mind swirls in a billion directions. Michael pushes the S.O.S. button above us, which links us to Safety Connect. A woman’s voice comes through the speakers. “Hello, my name is Victoria Hanson, how may I help you Mr. Grayson?”

“There’s a motorist chasing us. He is trying to run us off the road and is shooting at us. Please notify the police immediately,” he rushes out.

“To confirm your location, you’re on Route 684 near Byram Lake Reservoir, heading north. Is this correct, Mr. Grayson?”

“Yes,” Michael answers with a brisk tone.

“One moment, please.” There is a long pause before Victoria comes back on. “I placed a call to the police and an ambulance,” she rushes out.

“Thank you,” he blurts out.

“The calls been dispatched throughout the area, Mr. Grayson, unfortunately, there are severe accidents blocking both roadways. I’ll stay on the line if you like?”

“No, that won’t be necessary Victoria, that will be all, thank you.”

“I’ll continue to stay in touch if that’s all right with you, Mr. Grayson,” Victoria asks.

“Thank you, we would appreciate it,” Michael rushes out and disconnects the call.

“Why didn’t you keep her on Michael?” The fear of dying begins to suffocate me. Having Victoria on gave me some comfort.

“I need to concentrate, Ariana,” he explains. His voice strained.

Another shot rings out, and I scream.

“Stay down, Ariana,” Michael yells out.

I place my head between my knees, lying low as instructed. I glance up at Michael. His expression is taut and serious. His knuckles match the color of his pale face. Michael’s foot is molded to the gas pedal, the wheels spinning and skidding on the slick snow and patches of ice.

“Stay down, Ariana,” Michael orders.

“Oh, Michael, it’s him, isn’t it, the damn psycho? He’s trying to kill us,” I sputter through bated breath. I rake my fingers through my hair. This is turning into a total clusterfuck, and poor Michael is caught in the middle. I could never live with myself if anything happens to him.

I let out a scream when the back window pulverizes into a million pieces. Shards of glass blast over us like razor-sharp blades piercing through our skin. A forceful gust of wind whistles through the SUV like a freight train whipping my hair in my face and sending a frigid chill down my spine.

I sit up with a gasp as a round of gunshots pulsate through the metal. A bullet grazes across my head, missing me by an inch. “Jesus,” I yell out as I clasp my hands against my chest, keeping my heart from bursting through.

“Get back down, Ariana,” Michael shouts through gritted teeth. “I won’t say it again.”

I get down, wrapping my arms around my legs. Another shot rings out rupturing one of the tires with an explosion. Michael’s hands slip off the wheel, causing us to veer toward the embankment. He regains control, and a loud scraping resonates from the metal rim of the tire.

I turn to see the gaping hole that once was the back window, and an explosion of horror tears into me.

“Michael . . . oh my God, Michael, he’s getting closer,” I shriek out. My head spins to look at the main road then to Michael and back to our attacker. I swallow hard around the big lump still lodged in my throat. I’m cold, scared, and dizzy.

“Ariana, sit up. Make sure your seat belt is securely on and move your seat as far as it can go,” he rushes out in one breath.

I scurry up quickly and pull my seat belt to check it’s snapped in place. “Move my? I don’t . . . ” Michael explodes before I can complete my sentence.

“Damn it, Ariana, do as I ask, trust me on this. I don’t want you so close to the dashboard where the front end and the air bag smashes into you if we collide into a tree.”

I’ve never heard Michael this upset. I do as he says, and I push the seat as far as it will go.

Chapter 27

I’ve Come For You

I let out a shriek as the vehicle slams into us from behind, triggering Michael and me to jerk forward with a hard blow. The seat belts snap us back against the seat, causing Michael to lose control. We skate across the road, heading straight for the railing, lining an embankment that leads deep down into a full line of trees.

We dive over the railing. The nose of the SUV rams into the ground, deploying the airbags and the sounds of crushing metal and glass shattering echoes in the car. We flip again, plummeting down the embankment.

“Michael!” I scream out, feeling the impact of the air bags against my face and chest and death upon us.

“Hello, hello, Mr. Grayson? Can you hear me? Is everyone ok? This is Victoria Hanson.”

I gasp. “I must be hallucinating because I’m beginning to hear things.”

“We’ll get through this baby,” he rushes out and takes my hand and squeezes it for reassurance.

I squeeze my eyes tightly and my body and head toss around, forward and back, my head banging against the headrest then swinging side to side. I sense a burning sensation from the seat belt rubbing across my chest.

“Hello, hello, Mr. Grayson? Can anyone hear me?”

I steal a glance at Michael. His body is tense, hands still gripped on the steering wheel, and he’s partially lifted off the seat, standing with his legs embedded to the brake. The worst part of it is, is that he can’t see a damn thing because of the air bag in his face.

I feel an enormous amount of panic course through me. I can’t do this. How are we going to get through this? I gasp, there’s that sound again. It has to be the radio.

I scream as the SUV flips over, suspending us upside down. We slide down the embankment and crash into a tree. My head slams against the side window causing the glass to explode into tiny fragments. I cry out, placing my head between my hands to ease the sharp, piercing pain penetrating through my skull. My elbows hit the crumpled roof just inches away from our heads.

A wave of nausea hits me as the SUV sways, teeter-tottering over the snow-covered ground.

I pinch myself, hoping this is all a horrific nightmare, but to my dismay, it’s not. I am grateful for the seat belts, which prevented us from tossing about like Ping-Pong balls.

“Hello, he . . . Mr. Grayson? Can you h . . . me? Is everyone ok? This is Vict . . .  H . . . son from Saf . . . Connect. I placed another cal . . . to the police and an ambulance. They called in for a helicopter, waiting for it to come back from another emergency. Hello, hello, I’ll continue to stay on the line.”

There’s that sound again, like a soft whisper, but I can’t establish where it’s coming from because of the loud buzzing in my ears. I glance around the dark SUV. A cold current of air sweeps through the smashed windows, making me shudder and tremble. Soft, white flakes whirl in like plush cotton. I’m hit with a wave of dizziness.

The sounds—the hums of metal creaking, wheels still spinning, and loud hisses from the engine—only add to the eerie, bone-chilling atmosphere. I squeeze my eyes shut as I realize we’re trapped, lost and abandoned deep in the woods.

I jump out of my skin when a flash of lightning and a loud clap of thunder rumble over us. A prickling sensation comes over me as a peculiar smell lingers in the car.
No!
The alarm bells go off in my head
when the all-too-familiar scent registers in my brain.
Gas
. I begin to panic. We need to get out of here.

“Michael,” I cry out between rasping breaths. “Michael!” I say, amplifying my voice. No response. I quickly push the air bag out of my face. I wait for the whirling in my brain to stop. I rub my arms for warmth and circulation, and I go still when I feel a large tear and wetness over my sweater. I pull my shaky hand away and recoil at the blood dripping down my fingers.

“Hello, this is Victoria, from Safety Connect. Is everyone all right?”

I start and realize the faint sounds I’ve been hearing was Victoria’s voice. “Victoria?” I choke out.

“Yes, this is Victoria Hanson. Who am I speaking with?” She asks.

“Ariana DiMarco,” I say all dazed and confused.

“Are you and Mr. Grayson the only ones in the vehicle?”

“Y-yes,” I stutter.

“Help is on the way, a helicopter will be in route shortly. Are you and Mr. Grayson okay?”

“Yes. I think.” I turn quickly, swinging slightly off my seat, and my heart takes a dive. Michael is hanging from his seat belt, unconscious, his arms hanging above his head lying against the crushed roof. His breathing is irregular. I watch as he exhales stuttering breaths of mist into the frosty air. “Oh, Michael.” I wince as I hear him struggle for every breath. His wheezing alerts my gut to something alarming, possibly a collapsed lung.
Oh God, no, please let him be all right.

I break into a cold sweat and nausea courses through me when I see an object piercing through Michael’s deflated airbag.

“Michael, Michael.” I place my hand over his arm, gently shaking him. A gut-wrenching pain pierces through my chest when he doesn’t respond.

“Ms. DiMarco, is Mr. Grayson okay?” Victoria’s voice resonates throughout the SUV.

“It’s difficult to see,” I cry out.

“One moment Ms. DiMarco, I’ll take care of that for you.”

Relief flushes over me as the car interior lights illuminate. Thank God. This device is a Godsend.

“Thank you, Victoria, please give me a moment.”

“Yes, of course, take your time, Ms. DiMarco.”

I stare at Michael’s chest with shock. I gasp, cringing at the sight as fear and dread wash over me. Oh Jesus, help us.

Piercing through the air bag into Michael’s chest is a thin tree branch. Blood oozes out, saturating his white shirt with a dark crimson red. My eyes follow the path of the limb, and my breath hitches because, the other end is attached to a tree.

“Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God, please help us,” I cry out. “Victoria, you have to get help. Continue to call them, do whatever it takes. Mr. Grayson has a tree branch pierced through his chest.” I shout loudly in a heat of panic.

“Is Mr. Grayson unconscious and breathing?” Victoria calmly asks.

“Yes, and he’s bleeding. He needs medical attention,” I desperately plead.

“Please, do not move him. I’ll place another call, and give them the status,” Victoria rushes out.

I wiggle around, tugging desperately at the seat belt. “No,” I cry out. The belt is stuck. Damn. I grab hold of the door handle, only to have it slip from my cold, numb fingers. I try again, this time with a tighter grip. I pull and push, using every ounce of strength I have left to pry it open. “Ahhh, the damn thing is jammed too.” Shit. I blow out a frustrated breath.

I desperately bang on the door numerous times, screaming for help. I turn to face Michael, my tears burning and trickling to my forehead, my fingers and toes numbing. You would think all my shouting would have aroused him, but no, not one twitch. Unless he’s . . .
Ariana, don’t even go there. He’s alive
.

I sigh, releasing a frustrated breath. I’m cold, tired, and in pain. I squeeze my eyes shut, praying for help. “We’re trapped,” I whimper through chattering teeth, my body trembling from the freezing air lashing in. I sputter out a cough and choke as thoughts of our final hours together may end in flames or the frigid temperatures.
Grab a hold of yourself Ariana.
Victoria placed the call to the police. They’ll be here soon. She even dispatched for a helicopter.

Faith begins to bloom. Trent! I need to call Trent. I need my phone. Where’s my phone? I hunt frantically for it. The contents from my bag are scattered everywhere. I quickly glance at Michael and watch the blood continue to spread throughout his shirt, and I clutch my painful chest. Oh God, what if he bleeds to death?

No! “Michael, wake up, please wake up. Don’t you dare die on me, you big bully,” I screech out, hyperventilating, and a flash of panic and distress slams into me like the pounding winds from a storm.

“Ms. DiMarco, help should be arriving ten to fifteen minutes. They are clearing the accident. How are you doing? Is Mr. Grayson’s breathing normal? Has he regain consciousness?”

“Barely and no,” I choke out.

“Michael, I love you, please wake up!” I cry out, shuddering from the feeling of impending doom. I gently shake him, trying not to aggravate the branch penetrated in his chest. I touch his face with tender strokes. “Damn you, don’t you dare die on me, or I’ll kill you. Wake up, Michael . . . please,” I beg and plead. The floodgates open up, and I begin to sob uncontrollably.

“I have to relax. My losing control is not going to help our situation. Michael needs me; he’s counting on me. There has to be a way to rip this seat belt off. I can easily climb out from one of the windows, ” I say out loud.

I inhale a deep cleansing breath, clasping my shaky hands together, regaining my composure. I listen intently for the sirens, but only the grinding sounds of crushed metal, blustery wind wailing, and the creaking of tree branches snapping off echo within the SUV.

Another gust of wind whips into the car triggering it to rock. I whimper silently from the harsh, cold air nipping at my skin and suddenly fear frostbite. I flail my arms and legs to keep the circulation moving.

I glance at Michael and fear washes over me as I watch him struggle to breathe and the blood continues to ooze slowly from his wound. His body begins to shiver, reacting to the blood loss and the fridge temperature. I scrounge around for his black leather jacket he offered me earlier. I swing my arm around from my seat. “Ahhh!” I cry out and my eyes begin to water from the sharp pain radiating from my right arm. Oh, God, please him me, I’m about ready to crumple.

“Are you all right Ms. DiMarco?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” I say faintly.

“I’m here for you, Ms. DiMarco.”

“Thank you, I just need a moment to myself, I’m a bit disoriented.”

“Yes . . . of course, I’ll check up on you again,” Victoria says compassionately.

I squeeze my eyes shut for a brief moment, shaking my head with disgust. I take deep a breath and try once again. I swing my arm back. I groan out loud from the pain shooting into my arm and the pounding in my head, but with relief I found his jacket and grab it, holding it tight within my hand. I tuck his jacket around his stomach just below the branch and beneath his legs. I hope this helps.

I bang on the rooftop of the car and kick the dashboard with my feet; annoyed that no one has shown up. Where are the police? I still when I hear the sounds of snow crunching beneath someone’s footsteps. Yes, yes, yes, help is on the way. Oh, thank God, but then my excitement deflates. What if it’s
him
? The psychopath.

I clasp my hands together to say a silent prayer. I jerk as the steps approach closer, and now a pair of legs with boots appears beside my door. The back of my neck begins to prickle. The person bends down, and I stare directly in his face.

My eyes grow wide, my heart skids to a stop and then leaps into the depths of hell. I wish the branch were entrenched in my chest instead of Michael’s. Any hope I had of being saved is now lost.

I go into shock at the face glowering at me. I am awestricken with panic, seeing my future death. I sit frozen against my seat, stunned. This night has turned into a total nightmare.

I glare at the six-foot tall, husky, blond-haired man with beady, little, cold brown eyes and watch the vapors flare through his nose and mouth.

“Danny,” I squeak out, swallowing past the lump in my throat. “You’re . . . su-su- supposed to be dead,” I stutter out, my body going into convulsions.

“Wrong, try again, baby doll.” His voice reeks of pure evil.

Wrong? Did I inhale too much gasoline or hit my head too hard against the window? I shake the fog off and take a closer look at the clean-shaven man who stands before me. There is no doubt this is Danny. So why does he deny his identity?

“I’ve come for you, my beloved sister-in-law,” he says, and his words rip into me like sharp blades.

“Sister-in-law? No,” I whisper. I search deep into his eyes, and a weird sensation bleeds over me. They may resemble Danny’s, but these eyes are so much colder and crueler, with an evil soul beneath them.

He moves his face closer until it is just inches away from mine and says, “I’m your brother-in-law. Let me give you a quick history. Danny, your dead husband, was my twin brother.”

Danny was a twin? Why didn’t he ever tell me?

“I shocked you, didn’t I?”

“More like traumatized,” I mutter to myself.

He smiles and continues. “We were both adopted. Danny by a loving, wealthy couple, and I by a couple of lowlifes who used me and the other children they took in as child slaves,” he explains, his jaw clenching tighter as he speaks.

“Wh-what does that have to do wi-with me? D-Danny and I di-divorced over three years ago,” I stutter with trembling lips as my body shivers out of control.