Trucker Wife's Midnight Stalker - Chapter 4: Chapter 4
You are reading Trucker Wife's Midnight Stalker, Chapter 4: Chapter 4. Read more chapters of Trucker Wife's Midnight Stalker.
The night erupted with the sudden sound of barking.
It grew louder, more frantic with each passing second.
"Damn it!" A strikingly handsome young fuel bandit snapped, his voice sharp with irritation. "I told you that drug might've expired. You should've finished it off earlier—now it's awake!"
In the distance, flashlight beams sliced through the darkness, sweeping closer.
"Run!"
The command sent the group scattering into the night like shadows fleeing the dawn.
As the fuel bandits vanished, a wave of relief crashed over me. Against all odds, I'd survived—this was nothing short of a miracle.
But my reprieve was short-lived.
Gasping for air, I realized some of the flashlight beams had landed on me. Instinctively, I raised my arms, trying to shield myself, but my torn clothes left little to the imagination. Panic surged through me as I scrambled into the truck—only to freeze when I noticed someone still standing nearby.
My body trembled with fresh terror.
Squinting through the dim light, I recognized him—the handsome young leader of the fuel bandits.
My breath hitched. Was he seriously planning to drag me away again?
I stumbled backward, my pulse hammering in my ears.
To my shock, he smirked.
"We'll meet again."
Even with rescuers closing in, he had the audacity to threaten me.
Through tear-blurred vision, I spotted my husband, still unconscious. I wanted to scream, to alert everyone—but before I could make a sound, the young bandit played his trump card.
Calmly, he waved his phone.
On the screen played footage—of me.
Him, taking liberties. Other bandits groping, tearing at my clothes. My body swaying in helpless provocation.
The worst moments weren't recorded, but it didn't matter. My stomach lurched, my heart slamming against my ribs.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
If this got out, my life would be over.
My scream died in my throat.
"Delete that," I whispered, my voice shaking. "You—this is illegal."
The young bandit shook his head, amused.
"Behave if you don't want your life ruined. Oh, and by the way—I'm Zachary Evans. I'll be seeing you."
With that, he sauntered away, vanishing into the night like smoke.
My face burned, then drained of color.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Footsteps approached. I remembered my disheveled state and dove back into the truck, hastily throwing on my husband's jacket.
When I emerged, two middle-aged men studied me with concern.
"Did you hear anything?" one asked. "My guard dog went wild—might've been fuel thieves." He glanced at my unconscious husband. "You should wake him. Those bandits might come back tonight."
The other nodded in grim agreement.
I mumbled a response, grateful the darkness hid my torn clothes and haunted expression.
Once they left, I collapsed onto the seat, my breath ragged.
I had to get out of here.
But with Vincent still drunk, driving meant risking a DUI.
Frustration coiled tighter in my chest. Zachary's threats churned inside me, the anguish so sharp I nearly choked on it.
The inner demon had vanished, leaving me hollow. Exhausted, I drifted into a fitful sleep—only to jerk awake again and again, haunted by nightmares.
Nearly three hours passed before Vincent finally stirred.
His throat dry from alcohol, he groaned, his voice thick with sleep.
"Water… get me some water."
It grew louder, more frantic with each passing second.
"Damn it!" A strikingly handsome young fuel bandit snapped, his voice sharp with irritation. "I told you that drug might've expired. You should've finished it off earlier—now it's awake!"
In the distance, flashlight beams sliced through the darkness, sweeping closer.
"Run!"
The command sent the group scattering into the night like shadows fleeing the dawn.
As the fuel bandits vanished, a wave of relief crashed over me. Against all odds, I'd survived—this was nothing short of a miracle.
But my reprieve was short-lived.
Gasping for air, I realized some of the flashlight beams had landed on me. Instinctively, I raised my arms, trying to shield myself, but my torn clothes left little to the imagination. Panic surged through me as I scrambled into the truck—only to freeze when I noticed someone still standing nearby.
My body trembled with fresh terror.
Squinting through the dim light, I recognized him—the handsome young leader of the fuel bandits.
My breath hitched. Was he seriously planning to drag me away again?
I stumbled backward, my pulse hammering in my ears.
To my shock, he smirked.
"We'll meet again."
Even with rescuers closing in, he had the audacity to threaten me.
Through tear-blurred vision, I spotted my husband, still unconscious. I wanted to scream, to alert everyone—but before I could make a sound, the young bandit played his trump card.
Calmly, he waved his phone.
On the screen played footage—of me.
Him, taking liberties. Other bandits groping, tearing at my clothes. My body swaying in helpless provocation.
The worst moments weren't recorded, but it didn't matter. My stomach lurched, my heart slamming against my ribs.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
If this got out, my life would be over.
My scream died in my throat.
"Delete that," I whispered, my voice shaking. "You—this is illegal."
The young bandit shook his head, amused.
"Behave if you don't want your life ruined. Oh, and by the way—I'm Zachary Evans. I'll be seeing you."
With that, he sauntered away, vanishing into the night like smoke.
My face burned, then drained of color.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Footsteps approached. I remembered my disheveled state and dove back into the truck, hastily throwing on my husband's jacket.
When I emerged, two middle-aged men studied me with concern.
"Did you hear anything?" one asked. "My guard dog went wild—might've been fuel thieves." He glanced at my unconscious husband. "You should wake him. Those bandits might come back tonight."
The other nodded in grim agreement.
I mumbled a response, grateful the darkness hid my torn clothes and haunted expression.
Once they left, I collapsed onto the seat, my breath ragged.
I had to get out of here.
But with Vincent still drunk, driving meant risking a DUI.
Frustration coiled tighter in my chest. Zachary's threats churned inside me, the anguish so sharp I nearly choked on it.
The inner demon had vanished, leaving me hollow. Exhausted, I drifted into a fitful sleep—only to jerk awake again and again, haunted by nightmares.
Nearly three hours passed before Vincent finally stirred.
His throat dry from alcohol, he groaned, his voice thick with sleep.
"Water… get me some water."
End of Trucker Wife's Midnight Stalker Chapter 4. Continue reading Chapter 5 or return to Trucker Wife's Midnight Stalker book page.