“Fuck, where’s the white people? You must really be loving that red cock to stay out here so long.”

She didn’t answer. Shock was starting to replace fear, and she was paralyzed. Until he looked toward the children playing under the pavilion. Then rage like nothing she’d ever felt reared up inside of her.

“Lets get this shit over with. I got cash to count and pussy to bang. Which one is he?”

Adrenaline flooded her. She’d have one chance. Ricky didn’t know the first thing about being a dad, and there was no telling what her son would be exposed to in the time Ricky had him. Not to mention trouble followed him like stink on shit. Whoever he’d stolen that money from would want it back. And they wouldn’t care who got in their path. Both things scared the life out of her.

“You’re not taking him.”

He smiled again, slick as oil, and it made her skin crawl. How could she have ever have been so stupid as to give her body to him?

“Baby, why fight it? You know I’m walking away from here with that boy.” He took a step closer. She held her ground. “But let me tell you what. I’m in an accommodating mood. Why don’t you swing by the house tomorrow? Bring a bathing suit and visit the boy for a few. Will that make you feel better?”

He scribbled an address over a torn Happy Birthday napkin and handed it to her. She took it carefully, like he was handing her a live grenade.

“Why not now?” she begged.

“Take what I give you, bitch. Tomorrow. And bring a bathing suit. I’d love to see that body again. Having a kid doesn’t look like it caused too much damage. Your tits are a little bigger, thank goodness. Fuck, I might even take that pussy for a spin. Be sure to shave it. You know I like it shaved.” He gave an exaggerated wink and finger-gun wave.

She couldn’t think about tomorrow. Today was what mattered. And the fact that the next twenty-four hours of her life were going to be the most miserable of her already miserable life.

“Please, Ricky.”

He ignored her. “Come to daddy, boy,” he called out and then whistled into the general arena of children.

It was by process of racial elimination that he chose Jack. Confused, Jack’s willful reluctance broke Abigail’s heart.

Ricky zeroed in on Jack and said, “Come here, boy. If I tell you again you’re going to feel the sting of my belt.”

“Don’t you dare put a finger on him,” Abigail said, positioning herself between Ricky and the boy.

Jack ran up behind her, pudgy arms outstretched, and wrapped them around her knees. Whimpers of distress were interspersed with his cries for mama, and she put a comforting hand on his head.

“It’s all right, baby,” she soothed. “It’s all right.”

“Fuck this shit,” Ricky said, reaching toward the kid. He jerked him away from his mother and lifted him so he dangled by one arm. Jack screamed in pain, his little legs kicking as he reached back for Abigail. The look of terror on his face was her undoing.

Abigail let out a momma bear roar and charged Ricky. Her body hit him square on. Her fists pounded his chest. “You’re hurting him,” she screamed. “I’ll fucking kill you if you put one mark on him.”

She hadn’t had the strength to fight for herself but fighting for her son, she was a demon possessed. A raging machine with no thought other than to protect what was hers.

Ricky flung the boy to the side and swung his elbow to get Abigail off of him. He spun and drove his fist solid against her left eye socket. She blacked out momentarily, rolling along the contour of the Z-28’s frame. He jerked the passenger door open and yanked his son up in a tight grip beneath his right shoulder. Jack screamed for her, each cry for mama piercing her soul. Ricky tossed Jack into the car seat and buckled him in while she crawled on hands and knees toward the car.

Blood clouded her eye and ran down her face. Bile rose in her throat, but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. In Jack’s three years on this planet, she’d not gone one single day without seeing him. It was something she was proud of—and would not end this day if she could help it.

Her nails tore and her fingertips bled as she dug into the hard-packed ground to find a rock—anything—to use as a weapon to stop him. She clutched his leg as he rounded the hood heading for the driver’s side. He took two steps dragging her as Abigail punched his thigh.

“You wanna fight, bitch? Lets fight like the good old days,” he growled.

She let go of his leg, but too late. He wrapped his left hand in her mangled hair and swung her head back and forth until her scraped knees kicked up a dust cloud. Before she found her feet, he unleashed a flurry of vicious right punches to her ribs.

Her breath seized. She clawed her nails down his face. Found satisfaction in his scream of pain. Spots danced in front of her eyes, but she couldn’t faint. She was Jack’s only hope. Ricky tossed her to the side like a used napkin and got behind the wheel of his car.

The engine sputtered to life. Abigail froze in terror as her worst nightmare became real.

The Z-28 lunged forward. She rolled out of the way in the nick of time. She wasn’t sure where the burst of energy came from—maybe from a higher power she’d stopped believing in—but she managed to get to her feet and stumble after the car.

Ricky waited at the highway entrance for traffic to clear. Three big rigs heading east blasted their air horns in a makeshift Happy Birthday to You as they sent the party balloons dancing around their strings.

Abigail latched onto the whale tail of the old sports car and beat her bruised fist onto the trunk. “Give me back my baby!”

She tried to make eye contact with an old farmer who crept on his tractor along the highway. He had traffic backed up, but he either didn’t see her blood-soaked face or didn’t want to.

Abigail saw the reverse lights blink then felt the rear bumper slam into her thighs. The blow took her feet out from under her, but she held onto the trunk. She stumbled and grasped at the passenger side door as the car lurched into traffic.

“Fuck off, whore,” Ricky screamed like a man possessed.

He spun the wheel. The car swerved and Abigail lost her grip. She rolled into a ditch as ten matte-black and chrome motorcycles thundered over the horizon, following the same direction as Ricky. The roar of the engines caused a rattle in her chest. She sucked back tears as cars screeched and swerved to avoid them.

Four leather-clad riders steered by balance only. They looked like the four horsemen of the apocalypse—conquest, war, famine and death. Abigail tried to scream but no words escaped her lips. The riders held glass bottles with burning rags cascading from their narrow openings.

Intuition rocketed her to both feet. She knew instinctively who their target was. Fuck Ricky. She hoped he burned in hell. But Jack was innocent. He was her baby. She ran into traffic, dodging cars along the busy Nevada state highway. She waved her arms furiously for someone—anyone—to help. No one did.

Ricky’s car had only traveled a short distance thanks to the tractor that poked along. She pumped her elbows and knees but wasn’t getting any closer on jelly-like legs. Bottles smashed against the Z-28. Flames crawled at first but quickly exploded into an inferno across the windshield, hood and out the passenger’s side window.

Blood clouded her left eye, but she swiped it away in time to see the old muscle car lurch from right to left into the opposite lane of travel. Her lungs rasped as she sucked in the broiling Nevada air. Her chest burned with the exertion toward Ricky’s car and her baby.

Flames licked against her skin. The car’s faded brown paint and metal frame blistered and bubbled. She had to save Jack! Take me instead, she prayed, covering her face with her forearms. Flames poured from the car’s interior, licking at the sky—ash-black smoke mixed with brilliant oranges and reds. She reached, had to get him. Then right in front of her, the car erupted. The concussion caused her bowels to explode. She shit herself right there in the middle of Highway 578.