Hardy

by Theresa Beachman

  “No, I—”

  Mathew grabbed her upper arm, his fist contracting around her bicep like a clamp. His face was only inches from hers. “This isn’t a discussion, bitch.”

  Georgina gasped as his grip on her arm tightened in a fiery band. She blinked, desperate to focus as the world kept juddering and sliding sideways. What had been in the soup?

  This was her fault. She’d insisted they stay and eat. She pushed against Mathew. Go fuck yourself. But her words only came out as a strangled grunt.

  She’d become lazy, letting Hardy look after her. Let her guard down. And now she’d put them both in danger.

  Mathew snagged a finger under her chin, forcing her to look him in the eye.

  She sucked in air and reached out for Hardy, but Mathew smacked her hand out the way and grabbed her wrist.

  Coldness lanced her arm as she twisted to escape. Mathew had a hypodermic flush to the inside of her elbow. His lips pulled back, exposing broken teeth as he depressed the plunger and ice flowed into her veins. “A little something to perk you up.”

  He released her and refilled the needle from a glass vial. The liquid was a different color this time but the label remained a blur of hazy symbols, no matter how much she squinted.

  Mathew shuffled on his knees till he was beside Hardy and positioned the needle in the crook of his arm. “This special one’s just for him and then the two of us can get back on the road.”

  Her stomach clenched. “If you hurt him, you’re on your own.” It was the only clear thought in her mind. Don’t hurt him.

  Mathew shook his head very slowly as if dealing with a child. “I don’t need him.”

  “No, you have me.”

  A flicker of doubt crossed his eyes. She had the upper hand. Shitty as it was. “But if you hurt him, I won’t help you.”

  “Seriously?” His eyes narrowed, but he still hadn’t injected Hardy.

  “Seriously.” She maintained eye contact, even as it made her skin crawl.

  Mathew stared at the needle in his hand. Weighing up his options. Hardy muttered and his head lolled. He was coming round and she was running out of time.

  “I can take you to where they are. But we have to leave him here. Unharmed.” She forced herself to focus on Mathew. If she looked at Hardy she’d cave.

  “Georgina?” Hardy’s voice was groggy.

  He wouldn’t give up. He’d come for her, putting them all at risk. This was her only chance. She blanked him, turned her full attention to Mathew. “I don’t need him. We’re more alike than you think. I’m a survivor, like you.”

  Mathew laughed. “You’re almost convincing.”

  “I’m not lying. I only just met him. I’m not stupid. The world isn’t what it was for women and sometimes you need to shift allegiance to stay alive.”

  He understood that. It was there in his eyes. He tilted his head, his eyes, lizard-like, unblinking. “Why do you care what happens to him?”

  She shrugged. “I’m a nurse. I help people. I’ve seen enough death. Just because I don’t want to be with him doesn’t mean I want him dead.” She dug deep. Lifted her chin. “Take me to your van.” Her heart was thundering now. “I’ll tell you where the others are when we’re alone.”

  Mathew stared at her, the needle hovering above the smooth bump of a vein on Hardy’s inner arm.

  “Don’t play games with me, bitch.”

  “I’m not.”

  The air between them snapped and he thrust Hardy to the side, capping the syringe.

  In two strides he was back on her side of the cave. He yanked her to her feet in a violent pull. “We’re walking out of here, now.”

  He shoved her, and she stumbled in the direction of the rocky entrance, her legs leaden and slow to respond. Hardy was behind her. Was he still breathing? Was he alive? A suffocating wave rushed through her, cramping her lungs. What if he died from the drugs?

  Mathew kicked the back of her knees and she staggered outside. She couldn’t think about that. At least this way, he might survive.

  Moonlight lit the way as Mathew shoved her back to the coastal path where he’d parked the van. He opened the rear doors and hefted her inside.

  He leered, all pretense gone, his face vulpine. “Better behave, bitch.”

  Then he flung the rear door shut and the lock engaged with a loud click. Georgina slumped on the van floor, unable to lift her head. Despite the injection, something slow and lazy still swam in her veins.

  The metallic scent of oil filled her nostrils, intertwined with an undertone of sour sweat she didn’t recognize.

  Not the comforting scent of soap and clean. Not Hardy. She held her breath, as her grip on reality faltered.

  She’d done her best. This was what she did. What she’d done all her life. Kept the people she cared about safe.

  Hot tears stung the back of her eyes. She just hoped she’d done enough.

  39

  Hardy surfaced through mental treacle that swamped his limbs. He powered forward, blind, with no sense of direction, only knowing that if he stopped, he’d die. There was no waiting here. It was fight or surrender forever.

  He opened his eyes and seawater washed over his face. He gagged, his head whipping up reflexively. Roaring, he broke the surface sucking in a lungful of air only to be hit in the face by another wave. Bone-numbing salt water engulfed him.

  What the—?

  He jolted upright and gasped, his body folding forward in an agonizing retch. He was lying in inches of seawater and the tide was coming in. Dizziness surged through him and he crashed sideways, his jaw hitting sharp rock, splintering his head with pain.

  Fuck. His arms were heavy and uncooperative, dead weights that ignored his command. Bound at the wrist.

  Another wave broke over him, drenching him. The water was leaching the last vestiges of heat from his body, chilling him to the core. He fought to breathe, his lungs locking under the assault of more freezing water.

  But his eyes were fucking open. Hardy blinked and wheezed, scanning as much of the beach as he could from his half-submerged position. The tide was coming in. He pursed his lips to slow the accelerated rasp of his breathing as he craned his head, searching the water.

  Georgina.

  She wasn’t here.

  And neither was Mr. fucking Hey-diddly-doody.

  He squeezed his eyes tight shut, blanking the burn against the back of his eyes. Why had he agreed to let Mathew take them to his cave? He should have insisted they leave. He was getting slow in his old age.

  Her words cut like a razor through his memory. Her voice had been so cold, telling Mathew she wanted to leave with him. But she’d avoided eye contact. Her actions had spoken far more clearly than her words. She’d been protecting him, like she’d protected her sister for years.

  And now she was in danger. The thought of her out there in the hands of an unpredictable psycho made his heart clench. When he’d felt watched, had that been Mathew? Had he been tailing them all along, waiting for the perfect opportunity?

  Fuck. He bent his head, tormented by the accusations his mind threw at him. He’d failed Georgina. He’d ignored his gut instinct and now he was paying the price.

  He didn’t know where she was. Didn’t know anything about the man who’d taken her.

  He opened his eyes and lunged forward, sinking knee-deep into tidal silt. Unbalanced, by the muddy suck against his legs, his face hit sharp edges of rock. Blood imploded in his mouth and he turned his head sideways and spat crimson liquid into the sea.

  He shook his head. Right. That was it. He wasn’t wasting any more time in the fucking mud.

  He bellowed and lunged onto one knee. Water sluiced from his body and his abdomen convulsed. He panted for a few seconds, catching his breath, then another deep stride and he was squatting, his head dipped between his thighs. Nearly there.

  Slowly, Hardy straightened. Everything swam round him in a whirl. He lurched for nearby rocks to lever himself forward, but his ai
m was off. Barnacled rock abraded his knuckles, drawing blood as he fought his way back to dry land.

  He ignored the grind of sand between his teeth as he staggered up the beach to the cave where he’d last seen Georgina and Mathew. He tumbled through the cave entrance, grasping the wall for support.

  The cave was empty, the fire a black mess of charcoal. Everything was gone, including all his fucking weapons. He dragged his hands across the top of his head, fighting to retain control.

  How long had he been out? He had no idea. He swung back toward the entrance, tripped, and landed breathless, flat on his back. He reached down, tugged his knife from his boot and sliced his wrists free.

  The coconut scent of gorse filled his nostrils. Salt nipped at the cuts on his face. Above, the stars were out, scattered pinpoints that led in all directions, none of them indicating which direction that fucker had taken Georgina.

  But he didn’t need guidance from the stars.

  Words came smashing back into his memory with the force of a sledgehammer. Knowledge sank deep into his bones.

  He knew where Mathew had taken her.

  Mathew knew Darr and Violet. And about the bombs at the CB. He’d rigged the CB with explosives and blown the place to shit.

  And then come after the survivors.

  The itch at the back of his skull? It was Darr. Darr describing leaving one of his captors for dead as he escaped from the quarry known as the Box. Calling him by name.

  Mathew.

  There was only one place he’d be taking Georgina.

  Brackla.

  40

  Georgina hurt all over, pitching from side to side on the filthy floor of the van. Her hands were tied behind her back, preventing her from protecting herself, as Mathew thrashed the ancient engine. A thick gag of cotton was jammed in her mouth. Her lungs clawed for air that she couldn’t drag in fast enough. Her chest heaved. She was seconds from full-blown hyperventilation.

  Fuckfuckfuckbreathebreathe. Tears squeezed out from her eyes.

  Hardy.

  She blew out a thin breath through her nose. In her mind’s eye, she visualized him, conjuring up his face when he’d saved her on the bridge. The determination that he wouldn’t let her fall or come to harm. No one looked at her like that.

  Ever.

  The pain in her ribs eased a little, and her breathing slowed.

  She stared at the ceiling. Her heart seized at the thought of never seeing him alive again. She’d only just met him. Only just seen through the grumpy, obtuse armor to the man underneath. The one he kept hidden, in case anyone thought he was a soft touch.

  The van shuddered and stopped. The driver’s door slammed. Mathew was coming for her. She’d already told him everything she knew. Brackla. The bunker. It wasn’t enough. He wasn’t going to let her go. She rested her forehead to the grimy floor. The prick of pins and needles in her arms was almost unbearable.

  The rear doors opened with a screeching wrench and the van rocked as Mathew climbed in. He picked her off the floor using the bindings on her wrists. Tearing pain wrenched through her shoulder, the tendons stretched to their limits. She gasped, crying through the gag, hot tears destroying her vision as he set her on her feet.

  She nearly tipped over, but she locked her knees, and stood on trembling legs, black smudges shimmering on the edges of her vision. She bent and retched against the gag, her jaw widening till she thought it would separate from her face. Her nose was clogged with snot and tears. Her vision fuzzed, the blurred colors of the world around her fading to monochrome.

  I’m going to die.

  Mathew snatched the fabric from her mouth, and sweet oxygen instantly flooded her lungs. She leaned backwards, allowing her diaphragm to expand to full capacity. Air had never smelled so good. She sucked in greedy breaths.

  Mathew’s lips were moving rapidly, but her hearing was dominated by the thud of her blood pumping through her ears. Her control flickered once more. The rational part of her brain had shut down, leaving her with panicked animal instincts.

  She widened her stance. Grounding herself. Hardy was gone. She was on her own. She’d made her choices and she’d protected him as best she could. She coughed, working to force some saliva into her mouth so she could speak. “Are we here?”

  Mathew ignored her and grabbed the scruff of her collar, frog-marching her to the rear of the van.

  Her shaking feet found the first step but missed the second, and she tumbled headlong onto a dirt track. Something cracked in her side, and agony exploded in her ribs. Georgina bit down, stifling a scream. She wouldn’t let him know he’d hurt her. She spat blood and lifted her face from the ground, slowly clambering back onto shaking feet. She was not down yet. No matter what Mathew might think.

  She glanced around, assessing her new situation, keeping her breathing shallow to minimize the rise and fall of her injured ribs. Dense trees surrounded her on all sides. Their trunks crowded together, hemming her in behind an impenetrable wall.

  She eyed Mathew. She had to escape and if he’d harmed Hardy, she’d kill him. It was as simple as that. The thought surprised her, but Mathew had crossed a line she hadn’t even known existed. She swallowed. She’d been so blind, focused on Janie, using it as an excuse to avoid living her own life. If colliding with Hardy had taught her one thing, it was to take everything the moment gave her. Good and bad.

  Mathew circled her, his eyes no longer wide and full of fish-sticks-bullshit but narrowed as he scanned her up and down. His tongue flicked at the edges of his mouth. She saw him for what he was now. A predator. He was no better than the Chittrix.

  “Let me go.”

  He shook his head. “Discussions are over. I checked the map. This road is the closest to the Brackla bunker you described, so this is where we get out and walk. Quietly. We don’t need any swarm of Chittrix dive-bombing us. If we do, the first thing they’re gonna see is you. Understand?”

  Georgina risked an upward glance. Through the canopy of budding leaves, the needle-like shapes of adult Chittrix pierced the sky. “Yes.”

  Mathew grabbed her elbow and urged her forward. “Walk.”

  She stumbled round the side of the van in the direction he pushed her. Ahead was a worn Ministry of Defense sign. It hung at an angle, one side ripped from its moorings, but the message was clear.

  NEWBRIDGE FOREST

  KEEP OUT

  MOD PROPERTY

  This is a Prohibited Place within the Meaning of the Official Secrets Act.

  Unauthorized persons entering the area will be arrested and prosecuted.

  Mathew tracked her line of sight and lifted an eyebrow in amusement. He slotted a handgun into a holster on his thigh that hadn’t been there before. Hardy’s pulse rifle hung off his shoulder, the Sweeper protruded from the top of his backpack. Everything about him was different. The change was subtle, but tangible. How had she not seen this before?

  He lifted the pulse rifle and stabbed the small of her back with the tip. “You walk in front. Don’t cause me any trouble. It makes no difference to me if you have a bullet in your head, but it will to you.” His soft lilting tones of only a few hours ago were gone, replaced with a harsh clip.

  “I said walk.” He jabbed her harder with the pulse rifle, and she limped onto the rutted track that curved up through a narrow clearing into the trees.

  She focused on her feet, on taking one step at a time, her mind racing.

  Escape.

  Killing Mathew.

  She said a silent prayer. Please let Hardy be alive.

  41

  Hardy ran.

  His limbs were still heavy with the drug’s aftereffects, but he pushed on, forcing his legs to keep going, his arms pumping. A stitch stabbed his side, but he ignored it.

  Georgina’s face blazed in his mind’s eye. She was all he could think about. What had he become? He’d shut himself off from the world, believing love was something that could only be used against you. He’d let her slip through his finger
s. Never again.

  Mathew had taken Georgina to guide him to the Brackla bunker. Perhaps as a bargaining chip. The chances were she was still alive. But for how long? That thought alone powered him along the warped asphalt as he headed toward Cardiff.

  His breath jarred through his body with every step, his soaking clothes only adding to the weight he was carrying. At his side, his fists clenched and unclenched, his torn knuckles stinging.

  Georgina.

  When the outskirts of Cardiff rose on the horizon, hope welled in his chest and he put on a spurt of speed. He’d seen no cars on this stretch of the road, but the chances were good he’d find something in the city center. He accelerated up a long incline and turned a wide, sweeping corner.

  His legs stuttered and he slowed to a jog, then a walk.

  Ahead of him by about three hundred feet, a car was parked at a crazy angle in the center of the road. A dark shadow topped the driver’s seat—the driver, but man or woman, it was impossible to tell.

  No big surprise there, but the side lights still glowed red in the dusky air and the white beam of the headlights was visible, cutting across the road into the dense undergrowth. Hands resting on his hips, he listened for any sounds against the thump of his pulse. Nothing. Damn. His stomach hardened.

  He wiped his hand across the back of his mouth, weighing up his options. In all likelihood, this was a trap. But, even if it was a trap, it was his best chance of finding Georgina. Just because he’d almost hit the city, didn’t mean he’d find anything useable there. This was too good an opportunity to miss.

  He pulled his penknife from his boot. The small blade seemed woefully inadequate after carrying a pulse rifle or the substantial weight of the Sweeper. He turned it in his hand and let loose a slow breath. He stroked the flat of the blade with the pad of his thumb. Ready.

  He crept closer to the car under the cover of overhanging trees and threadbare bushes. His view of the driver’s seat didn’t improve much. The passenger door was ajar, the driver still nothing more than a murky shadow behind the filthy side window.