Hitchhiking into Hell - Chapter 8: Chapter 8
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Before I could get another word out, Hank MacMillan's hand cracked across my face. The sting burned through my cheek as he grabbed my phone and crushed it under his boot with a sickening crunch.
"Goddammit, this bitch made a call!" he snarled. "Who knows if she dialed 911? Move your asses—we gotta vanish, now!"
The truck was already idling by the roadside. I was dragged back toward it, but this time, no front seat for me. My wrists were wrenched behind my back, bound tight, and I was tossed into the cargo hold like a sack of grain.
Daniel Evans tried to take the wheel, but Hank shoved him aside.
"Outta my way. I'm driving this stretch. And don't ask questions—just keep your damn mouth shut."
A rancid rag was jammed into my mouth, choking my screams. Through blurred vision, I saw Zoe Laurent—the influencer who'd been riding shotgun earlier—being manhandled into another truck's hold. Our eyes met for a split second, and in that flicker, I saw the same raw terror, the same gut-wrenching regret.
The truck lurched forward, plunging us into darkness as the road turned rougher, each mile rattling my bones. Time blurred. Just when I thought I'd break, the engine growled to a stop.
We'd pulled up to a nondescript building by the roadside. Five stories, a dozen rooms per floor. Next to the ground level sprawled a parking lot packed with seven or eight big rigs. A flickering neon sign buzzed above the entrance: Roadside Diner.
A truck stop? Maybe. But something about it felt wrong. No ordinary diner had upper floors that looked more like a motel. And out here, miles from civilization—who the hell stayed in a place like this?
Hank hauled me out of the truck. One of the goons who'd helped tow the rig earlier lunged at me, his hands groping before he even got close, already fumbling with his belt buckle.
"Damn, Hank, we ain't had a piece like this yet," he panted. "You're just handing her over? What a waste. C'mon, man—let me take her into the woods for a quick ride first."
I thrashed, pleading with my eyes, shaking my head violently. The rag muffled my screams into choked whimpers.
Hank shoved him back. "If you're that hard up, pick one inside. Virgins fetch a better price. No losses."
He hammered on the door. Zoe was dragged over beside me.
The door swung open, revealing a woman in a skintight, low-cut outfit. She looked us over like livestock at auction, eyes raking every inch of us. Finally, she gave a curt nod.
"Good. High quality. You'll get top dollar for these. See the accountant for your cut."
Then her gaze sharpened, locking onto Hank. "But you'd better make sure there are no loose ends. If this comes back on us, neither of us walks away."
Hank dipped his head like a scolded dog. "Don't sweat it, Scarlett. My deliveries are always clean. You know that."
Terror had scorched my tears dry. I writhed, spitting out the filthy gag.
"You monsters! I already called the cops! They'll be here any minute!"
It was a reckless lie—but before I could take it back, a mountain of a man lunged from the shadows, slamming me to the ground with brutal kicks. Pain exploded through my ribs as I curled into myself.
Dazed, I lifted my head—and there was Daniel, lingering by the truck, his eyes locked on me. But the second our gazes met, he looked away.
Scarlett's voice cut through the air like ice.
"Lock them up. We'll deal with them once they've learned their place."
"Goddammit, this bitch made a call!" he snarled. "Who knows if she dialed 911? Move your asses—we gotta vanish, now!"
The truck was already idling by the roadside. I was dragged back toward it, but this time, no front seat for me. My wrists were wrenched behind my back, bound tight, and I was tossed into the cargo hold like a sack of grain.
Daniel Evans tried to take the wheel, but Hank shoved him aside.
"Outta my way. I'm driving this stretch. And don't ask questions—just keep your damn mouth shut."
A rancid rag was jammed into my mouth, choking my screams. Through blurred vision, I saw Zoe Laurent—the influencer who'd been riding shotgun earlier—being manhandled into another truck's hold. Our eyes met for a split second, and in that flicker, I saw the same raw terror, the same gut-wrenching regret.
The truck lurched forward, plunging us into darkness as the road turned rougher, each mile rattling my bones. Time blurred. Just when I thought I'd break, the engine growled to a stop.
We'd pulled up to a nondescript building by the roadside. Five stories, a dozen rooms per floor. Next to the ground level sprawled a parking lot packed with seven or eight big rigs. A flickering neon sign buzzed above the entrance: Roadside Diner.
A truck stop? Maybe. But something about it felt wrong. No ordinary diner had upper floors that looked more like a motel. And out here, miles from civilization—who the hell stayed in a place like this?
Hank hauled me out of the truck. One of the goons who'd helped tow the rig earlier lunged at me, his hands groping before he even got close, already fumbling with his belt buckle.
"Damn, Hank, we ain't had a piece like this yet," he panted. "You're just handing her over? What a waste. C'mon, man—let me take her into the woods for a quick ride first."
I thrashed, pleading with my eyes, shaking my head violently. The rag muffled my screams into choked whimpers.
Hank shoved him back. "If you're that hard up, pick one inside. Virgins fetch a better price. No losses."
He hammered on the door. Zoe was dragged over beside me.
The door swung open, revealing a woman in a skintight, low-cut outfit. She looked us over like livestock at auction, eyes raking every inch of us. Finally, she gave a curt nod.
"Good. High quality. You'll get top dollar for these. See the accountant for your cut."
Then her gaze sharpened, locking onto Hank. "But you'd better make sure there are no loose ends. If this comes back on us, neither of us walks away."
Hank dipped his head like a scolded dog. "Don't sweat it, Scarlett. My deliveries are always clean. You know that."
Terror had scorched my tears dry. I writhed, spitting out the filthy gag.
"You monsters! I already called the cops! They'll be here any minute!"
It was a reckless lie—but before I could take it back, a mountain of a man lunged from the shadows, slamming me to the ground with brutal kicks. Pain exploded through my ribs as I curled into myself.
Dazed, I lifted my head—and there was Daniel, lingering by the truck, his eyes locked on me. But the second our gazes met, he looked away.
Scarlett's voice cut through the air like ice.
"Lock them up. We'll deal with them once they've learned their place."
End of Hitchhiking into Hell Chapter 8. Continue reading Chapter 9 or return to Hitchhiking into Hell book page.