“Run,” he whispered. “Rex has a gun.”
I covered him with my jacket.
“They forced me to unlock my phone,” he rasped. “Rex sent the message. They threatened you.”
He told me everything: how he caught his in-laws trafficking drugs through his trucking business, how his father-in-law Frank Moreno smashed him from behind, how Rex broke his leg for “calling the cops.”
They planned to inject him with drugs—to turn him into an addict, destroy his credibility.
Footsteps crunched outside.
Rex’s voice sang drunkenly.
I hid in the dark.
He burst in, bottle in one hand, gun in the other. As he raised the bottle, I struck—shattering his wrist, knocking the gun away. He charged me, choking me to blackness.
I opened my knife.
One clean slash to his thigh.
He screamed and fell.
Daniel grabbed the gun with his bound hands.
I finished Rex with the iron bar.
We escaped in one of their trucks, bullets chasing us into the dark. Daniel bled, fading. I drove straight to a small clinic in Oak Hollow.
The staff treated him—but local police arrived too fast. The commander smiled and whispered, “Rex is my drinking buddy.”
They tried to arrest me.
I barricaded us in the ER, borrowed a nurse’s phone, and went live.