by Lee Taylor
The attack left Grayson on the ground, dazed, with a bruise forming under his eye. She clamped her backup set of handcuffs over his wrists. The fight finished, she doubled over and threw up all over the floor. She felt terrible. Worse than terrible. As if her head was going to split open and her shoulder was the size of the house.
While fighting for a smooth breath, she plucked her father’s Glock from the floor. Once again, it sat comfortably within her soft grip.
“I should pull the trigger,” she forced out between heavy breaths, “just to let you know how wonderful a gunshot wound feels.” She lowered the gun’s aim until it was in line with his chest, just below his heart.
He didn’t answer. He lay motionless on the muddy, rough floorboards, and stared blankly up at her. Disgusted, she pulled him up by the collar and shoved him into the nearest chair. It creaked.
She kept the pistol trained on his chest. His eyes stayed locked on the gun. No fear. She wanted to see fear.
“Pull the trigger,” he said, taunting her.
Why shouldn’t she shoot the bastard? He had no problem hurting her—just like every other man in her life. Why shouldn’t she start hurting them back? Beginning with this one.
She tightened her finger on the trigger.
No one would question her. He was a danger to others, a menace to society. And it was her time to show them, show them all, she was as good as any man. Better.
Much better than any of those men who had told her over and over how she wasn’t good enough, strong enough…soft enough.
She heaved a deep sigh and let her hand drop.
“I’m not like you, Grayson. I’m not a killer.”
“I didn’t mean to shoot you yesterday,” he said quietly.
“And you wouldn’t have meant to blow my head off just a minute ago if I’d given you the chance?”
He shrugged after a long silence. “You’ll be the one killing me.”
She grabbed the shacks only other chair and moved it a safe distance away. Her arm and head were screaming, and her strength was threadbare. She just needed to sit. Just for a few minutes. Let her strength return before calling for backup.
“You did yourself in, Grayson.”
“If you believe that, pull the trigger. Carry out justice. What does it matter? Either way, I’m just as dead.”
She stared at him warily, tilting her head. “Why are you so eager to have me shoot you? What have you done to my gun?”
He turned his head away and refused to answer.
“It’ll blow up in my hand, won’t it?”
She pulled out the clip to study the damage he’d done to her father’s favorite weapon. She couldn’t believe what she saw. No bullets. The weapon was useless.
“Why?” She couldn’t stop herself from asking.
“I’m not a killer,” he said flatly.
“Tell that to your friend, Greg Harper. He’s pretty dead.”
“I’m not a killer.”
“And what about that poor bounty hunter? I don’t know many who wouldn’t gladly give up the reward money and kill you without a second thought just for what you did to him.”
He blinked.
“A bullet at point blank range? Not a killer, eh, Grayson? You were simply protecting yourself?”
“Which one?” he asked. His voice trembled. It sounded like rage.
“The third one. Pryor. His name was Pryor.” She drew a deep breath, fighting an urge to yell and scream at him. As if her anger would reform the evil buried deep within a man who could so cleanly profess his innocence. “He had a wife and two kids.”
He pinched his eyes closed. “Oh, God. I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t know he had a family? That would have made a difference?” she shouted.
“No, damn it.” He opened his eyes and stared hard into hers. “I didn’t know that they had killed anyone else.”
“They, Grayson? A conspiracy against you?” She returned his telling stares with one of her own. “Keep practicing that one. Someone somewhere might believe it.” She scanned the room. The bullets had to be hidden somewhere. “What did you do with them?”
“With what?”
“The bullets.”
He sighed, a long, tired sound. “You don’t need that damned gun, Vega. You probably would’ve gotten the better of me yesterday if you hadn’t been carrying that damn thing.”
She pushed the useless pistol into her coat pocket and leaned forward to get a better look at him. “And just how do you know my name?”
The air in the room grew noticeably stiffer. “Your wallet is in that box.” His hands were bound behind his back, so he used his head to gesture toward a rusty tackle box in the corner of the room.
To look in the box would mean turning her back on him. And since she hadn’t locked him down to anything in the room—not that there was anything substantial enough in the shack, the walls included, to hold even a child much less a fully-grown man like Grayson—turning her back on him would be suicide.
Curiosity chewed on her as she sat there waiting for the pain in her shoulder to notch down a degree or two. She was literally itching to know what else he had tucked away in that dirty little box.
Keeping a fierce glare on him, she backed toward the corner, crouched down, and lifted the lid to the box. A wicked stench rose into the room. Just a few quick glances into the interior were all she allowed herself—not much to see really. Her wallet sat nestled in a tangle of rusty hooks, her cell phone in a pile of freeze-dried worms—the source of the pungent stink. No sign of her missing bullets. She plucked the wallet from the hooks but left the phone with the stink. The battery would have been long dead by now anyhow.
“You robbed me.” She shouldn’t have been surprised her money was gone, yet the fact that he shot her, and then had the balls to rob her, threatened to burn a hole in her chest.
“Couldn’t help it, I needed time.” A red spot danced on the center of Grayson’s forehead. “The money was just a bonus—”
She tackled him, knocking him off the chair and onto the floor. The window across from them shattered. A jolt of air slapped her as the bullet sailed passed her ear. The sharp crack of wood splintering on the far wall was followed by an eerie silence.
“What did you do with the bullets for my gun?” she asked as calmly as she could manage while covering Grayson with her body.
“I dumped them in the swamp.”
“Why the hell would you do something as stupid as that?”
“You don’t need the gun, Vega.” He tugged at the handcuffs binding his wrists. “Free my hands.”
“Wouldn’t you like me to do that?” She wiggled herself off him and, crouched low, made her way to the shattered window.
“We’re probably going to have to fight our way out of here if we have any hope of surviving.”
“I see,” she said flatly.
“You don’t understand.”
She rose from the ground to peer out the window.
“Damn it, get down!”
“I don’t see anyone,” she said, lingering at the window. Slowly, she sank back to the floor.
“You won’t. No one ever sees them coming.”
Apparently, he was trying out his ‘I’m-innocent-and-someone-is-trying-to-kill-me’ spiel again. She chose to ignore it.
Vega moved away from the shattered glass on the floor and sat cross-legged to stare at Grayson. She kept her empty gun cradled in her hand.
Who could be out there with that high-powered rifle? “Could be the police. They’re pretty fed up with you.” She frowned at her Glock a moment, and then shoved it back into her ruined leather coat. A wide bloodstain covered the shoulder. “Wouldn’t be Fiona. Not at all her style.” More like Butch’s. Perhaps Butch or one of his buddies was out there prepared to blast Grayson into tiny bits in retaliation for killing a fellow hunter.
“It’s someone from Six-Star Enterprises,” he said.
“Ri-ight.” By the time
she handed him over to the police, he’d have perfected that conspiracy story of his.
Still crouched low, she made her way back across the room. “I don’t know who’s gunning for you. But, seeing how I’ve no desire to get shot again, I’m out of here.” She drew an uneven breath as her strength faded. Adrenaline could only do so much. “Since you’re my prisoner, I’ve no choice but to drag you along.”
“Give me a fighting chance, Vega. Unlock these.” He worked himself up to his knees. He twisted around and thrust his arms toward her.
Instead of unlocking the handcuffs, she grabbed the chain that linked his wrists and hauled him to his feet as she rose to hers.
He cringed, closing his eyes as if expecting a barrage of gunfire to explode in the room. She wasn’t too surprised. Some of the toughest men she’d picked up in the past had turned to jelly in the face of gunplay.
She gave him a not too gentle shove. “Let’s go out the back way.”
She stuck her head out the door and peered around the black cypress forest, assessing the situation. Off in the distance, she heard the distinct rustling of winter-dried leaves and twigs. Someone was advancing.
Without warning, Grayson shoved her aside and barreled out the door, presenting himself as a very tempting target.
“Are you nuts?” She dove after him, pulling him to the ground as she fell.
A bullet whooshed overhead, thudding into a tree several feet away.
She stifled a groan. Pain sparked through her shoulder, shooting numbing tremors down her arm. Her stomach roiled. She felt like she might pass out. Her shoulder burned as if it had been ripped wide open. Gasping for a smooth breath, she tried to concentrate on the situation and push her physical agony to the background.
She rolled over on her back and stared up into the dark forest. The sharpshooter’s red laser light bounced amongst the cypress trees, searching for its prey.
“You okay?” he whispered. He was sprawled flat on his stomach right beside her. He wiggled his legs to push himself closer.
“Um-huh,” she muttered. She couldn’t conjure speech, not with the incredible pain trying to rip her shoulder apart.
“You don’t sound okay.” He inched closer. “Were you hit?”
“Yesterday,” she managed between panting breaths.
He dropped his head to the ground and swore.
Why didn’t he make his escape while she was powerless to stop him? He could take the keys from her pocket for the handcuffs without too much protest on her part.
What was he waiting for?
“I can carry you,” he whispered. He hadn’t bothered to lift his head and the words sounded pretty muffled to her ears. So much so, her pain-seared brain wasn’t exactly sure what he was offering.
She turned to stare at him. His short, dark hair was shiny, even in the moonless light. Slowly, he lifted his head and their eyes met. His gaze held hers in a powerful grip. “We can’t stay here. That shooter won’t just give up and leave. We’ve got to get out of here before he decides to scout the area on foot.”
She nodded. She’d already come to the same conclusion. She dug into her pocket and retrieved a key.
“Move your hands over here,” she said. Her voice was much clearer now as her mind gained some control over the piercing pain.
He rolled over on his side and pushed his wrists toward her. Once free, he shoved the shackles into his pocket and vigorously rubbed his wrists.
“I’m not granting you freedom.” She felt the need to tell him, especially now that she’d lost control of her last pair of handcuffs. “I’m still turning you over to the police.”
Drawing a deep breath, she sat up. Unable to speak for a moment while her body protested, she gave a nod toward a large cypress tree not five feet away.
They both made a quick dash across the clearing. He kept a hand on her back, steadying her as they went. At the tree, they leaned into a deep groove in the ancient tree’s convoluted trunk.
Vega stared out into the forbidding swamp with no desire to wander into its depths without a gun, a lantern or a map. But, considering the situation, she couldn’t think of any other option.
“Shit,” she muttered.
Grayson moved closer. His arms snaked around her waist. Avoiding her shoulder, he pressed against her, using his body to shield her from the hidden shooter.
“I don’t need your protection,” she snapped. “This tree is between that rifle and us. The laser sight flitting around out there is giving his position away.”
“I know.” He didn’t pull away.
His warmth continued to seep into her, irritating her that his body heat was helping ease the pain in her shoulder and feeding her strength.
“On the count of three we’re going to make a run for it. Keep close to me,” she said, her complete focus turning to the next few seconds. “I’m going to zigzag through the trees about five hundred feet. The darkness should have swallowed any traces of us by then. At least, I hope so.”
“That’s exactly what I would do.”
That settled, she calmed her mind and prepared her muscles for a terrible trial. “One,” she said, beginning the countdown.
“Wait.” He cupped her chin with both hands and bit his bottom lip as if trying to come to a decision. “Wait.” He dropped one hand but kept the other clamped on her face. His rough thumb caressed her cheek. He glanced down at his pants as he fumbled in his pocket. “Here.”
He pushed a key into her hand, wincing as he did. “I have a truck hidden about a mile from here.” He let out a long sigh. “If you can get yourself beyond the reach of that sharpshooter, I can show you the way to the truck.”
Why in the world was he doing this? She felt her head spin. Once beyond the dangers of the rifle, he could easily lose her in the darkness. What kind of resistance would she be able to give him if he did? It was going take most of her strength just to get through the swamp. She wouldn’t have reserves left to chase after him.
But by handing her the truck’s key, he was assuring her that she didn’t have to worry. He was assuring her that he was going to get them both out of the swamp.
She jammed the key, clutched so tightly that the metal had bit into her palm, into her pocket. “Ready?”
He gave a quick nod.
Bullets sang through the air as they ran a haphazard path, weaving through the cypress grove, skipping over the knobby cypress knees that littered the muddy ground. Her foot splashed into a particularly deep bog, sinking into mud the consistency of fresh putty. She had to fight to keep her balance and her boot from being sucked right off her foot.
Grayson wasn’t so lucky. He tripped over a stump and went flying forward, she grabbed his arm and pulled him along with her, not letting him fall, not letting him slow his pace.
Several hundred yards from the shack, her eyesight began to blur again.
Give me a little more time; she begged her muscles, while drawing a series of slow, deep breathes. Just a little further.
Not even her heart-pounding fear of the creepy creatures waiting to devour her in this dark wilderness was enough to overcome the damage she’d done to her body.
Suddenly, her legs felt like weights had been piled on top of them. She no longer cared if she made it out of the swamp or not.
Grayson tugged on her arm. “Come on. We’re nearly there.”
She stumbled. Her knees crumbled beneath her.
That was it.
She sank into the thick, wet mud, not minding the damp or the cold, or the creatures.
She was done.
Grayson scooped her up into his arms. She cried out weakly. Her shoulder screamed in pain.
“We’re nearly there,” he assured her. He continued his dash through the swamp at a steady pace, giving a worried glance over his shoulder only once.
Vega struggled against him, but the pain had taken over. The best she could do was to bury herself against his warmth.
Whether she liked it or not, he ha
d her at his mercy. She couldn’t help but wonder if that was what he’d planned all along.
Chapter Six
Dark silhouetted loblolly and long-leaf pines lined the curvy road down on which Grayson steered his rusty red Chevy truck. The pine’s straight trunks reached up to pierce the black night while dawn smoldered low on the horizon.
Vega hadn’t spoken a word since he’d pulled her from the muck in the swamp. In the truck’s dim interior lights, he noticed almost right away the spots of blood staining his shirt and hands from carrying her. She needed to get back to the hospital—should have never left it so soon in the first place.
He flicked a glance toward the passenger side to check on her. She sat on the rotting plastic bench still as a statue, her gaze trained on the road.
“You okay?” he asked. She’d make what he needed to do much easier if she would just pass out.
She didn’t answer, didn’t hardly change her slow, even breathing. She just stared.
Gathering her strength, damn it.
If things scared him, this bounty hunter would rank high on a list of things to fear. He didn’t want to kill her.
The truck jolted over a deep rut. She didn’t flinch. Her focus was impressive—and dangerous.
After years of working from behind a desk, Grayson’s reflexes were not what they used to be. He’d let himself get soft, sloppy. At thirty-five, he’d been featured in Forbes magazine as one of the youngest executives. Out here, against a bounty hunter with a warrior’s training, he felt like an old man.
“You’re what? Twenty-four, twenty-five?”
She didn’t answer.
He wracked his memory as the truck bounced down a gravel path. He’d taken a hard look at her Detroit driver’s license. How old was she?
“The ripe old age of twenty-six, if I remember correctly. Soon to be twenty-seven.”
She gave no indication he was wrong.
One-sided conversations were too much work, so he clammed up and focused on the road.
At the first sign of man-made light, he made a hard right onto a paved road. The truck glided over the smooth asphalt surface, a welcomed relief from the tooth-jarring ride they were leaving behind. The pungent smell of salt rose in the cool, morning air. A few palmetto trees cropped up into the landscape now and then. They were very near the ocean.