by Julie Miller
“Yes?”
“Bring my men home.”
Chapter Eleven
Trevor Blackhaw’s voice crackled over the homemade radio in Bryce’s cell. “I knew you’d have something rigged up, Sarge. Sorry it took us so long to find you.”
Blackhaw and the rest of Big Sky, except for the colonel, were fewer than twenty miles away, camped out on the mainland and waiting to make their move. “I’m just glad this is finally gonna happen.”
“We’ll have the chemical agent on hand in twenty-four hours. You take out the perimeter alarm and we’ll be there tomorrow night with the gas masks. The storms should subside by then, so we’ll be able to get on the island undetected. If we can pull this off, we’ll keep casualties to a minimum. We are not going to lose another man.”
“Amen to that.”
The rescue plan was far from simple, but Bryce had faith that his friends could pull it off. As long as he could get his part accomplished as their point man on the inside. At midnight tomorrow, Trevor Blackhaw and a group of bounty hunters would sneak onto the island and deliver gas masks for all the hostages. After a signal flare warned the prisoners to suit up, a Special Forces unit would drop a chemical agent that would knock out every living thing that breathed the nontoxic gas. With Fowler and his men sleepin’ like babies, Big Sky and company could come in and round up the militia with far less danger of confrontation and a far better chance of getting everyone out alive.
“You’ll get word to the others?”
“Will do.” Bryce reached across the cot to take Tasiya’s hand. She’d been listening to the hushed conversation as carefully as he had. And though he suspected she hadn’t understood all the military jargon, he had no doubt she was ready to do her part. “I’ve found a pretty good friend here who can help us.”
“Someone you trust?”
Tasiya’s eyes widened in expectation of Bryce’s answer.
“Yes.” With that one all-encompassing word, she smiled, lighting up the gloomy cell and Bryce’s lonely world. “Blackhaw, I’ve got another request.”
“Name it.”
“That friend—we need to take her with us when we go.”
“Her?” He’d expected that kind of curiosity from Powell, Blackhaw and the gang. The teasing inflection, the hint-hint, tell-me-more tone.
But Bryce couldn’t brag about what wasn’t his, and he didn’t want anything to come between him and Tasiya during this precious time they did have together. So he overlooked the I’ve-met-someone-amazing speech, and stuck to business. “She works as a servant here. But she’s basically a hostage herself. I want her to be safe.”
It wasn’t every day that Bryce Martin talked about a woman, but Blackhaw took the hint. “No problem. We’ll get her a mask, too.”
Tasiya tugged on Bryce’s hand and whispered. “Remember, the militia cannot know I helped you, or that I have left with you. Even in prison, they will have contacts. If word gets back to Dimitri that I have betrayed him, then Papa…”
She didn’t have to explain how her father’s life would be forfeit. Bryce moved the radio to his lap and pulled her to his side, wrapping his arm around her strong, slender shoulders and pressing a kiss to her hair. “You hear that, Blackhaw? We have to make it look like she’s been killed so there won’t be any repercussions on her family back in Lukinburg.”
“We’ve done some witness-protection-program work. We could pull off something like that.” He paused in that unflappable, Native American way of his, and considered their options. “There are some herbs I know—a recipe from my grandfather—that can slow down the breathing and heart rate enough to fake death, unless you’ve got some medical equipment there to detect a trace pulse.”
“The only thing high-tech around here is the security grid.” He hugged Tasiya tighter. “Is it safe to take?”
“My ancestors used it on vision quests. Your friend might have some funky dreams, but she should come out of it okay. I’ll have a vial for her when she picks up the masks.”
“Understood. And Blackhaw?”
“Yeah, Sarge?”
“Thanks.”
“Are you kidding? Of course you had to do it the hard way, but you’ve given us the means to finally bring in Fowler and his men. If I never bring in another bounty, knowing we put that bastard away will be worth it.”
“Amen. Martin out.”
As Bryce dismantled the radio and hid the parts alongside his chains beneath the mattress again, he noticed that Tasiya seemed unusually quiet. She still put up her hair and cleaned up any trace of her visit the way she had each night before their recon missions. But quiet wasn’t Tasiya’s way—not with him.
“You all right?”
He barely touched her shoulder and she flinched away. She loaded her basket, unlocked the cell door and carried her things out into the passageway. For a minute he thought she wasn’t going to answer him. And when she turned to face him, her eyes were so big, so sad, that he made a promise he wasn’t a hundred percent sure he could keep.
“We’re gonna get out of here. You’re gonna be safe.”
“Tonight, we get the C-4. Yes?”
“Yeah. I’ll need it to knock out the generators tomorrow night so Blackhaw can get inside the perimeter and deliver the gas masks.” Was that what she was worried about? “An explosion will create enough of a diversion that you should be able to slip out and meet him and get back without anybody missin’ you. There should be plenty of time before things die down for you to take those herbs and fake your death.”
“So the explosives are imperative to your mission.”
“Our mission.” He slipped the stolen knife into his boot and followed her to the door. “You ready to play lookout?”
Without any guards in the locked-down prison wing at night, Bryce had discovered he could pretty much have the run of the place. But getting into the militia’s wing through the open breezeway was gonna be damn tricky, with sentries patrolling the grounds and Marcus Smith sleeping in the very room where Bryce needed to be.
“I will get it from Marcus Smith’s room,” she announced.
That’s what she was stewin’ about? Absolutely not. No way. “I’ll go. It’s too risky.”
“It is my freedom, too.” She was choosin’ now to be stubborn?
“What if he puts his hands on you again?”
“Then he will put his hands on me. It must be done.”
Hell. That’s what she was worried about. His reaction. She knew he didn’t want her in that kind of danger. Knew he’d fight her on this.
She pressed her palm squarely in the middle of his chest and shut him up when he opened his mouth to argue. “Do not think for one moment that his stinking breath and his foul fingers and bullying strength mean anything to me. Dimitri Mostek smells better, but he is no different beneath his skin.” Her fingers curled into the front of his jacket. “Sometimes I think my beauty is a curse, that no man will ever look inside me to see who I am, what I dream about, what I need.”
That sort of prejudice sounded achingly familiar. Maybe better than anybody he understood what she was sayin’. “Yeah. Sometimes it’s hard to get past what a person looks like on the outside.”
She slipped her hand up to cup the scarred side of his jaw. “You see inside me, Bryce Martin. For that I will always be grateful.”
Yep. Just what he wanted, gratitude from the woman. Sucker. He pulled her hand down and tried to break away from any connection to pity or gratitude. “Yeah, well, we’d better get started if we’re gonna do this. And just for the record, I hate it.”
But she twisted her hand and latched on to his wrist. He’d wanted her to talk, right? She wasn’t done speakin’ her piece. “I see inside you, too.”
What the hell did that mean? What sort of dreams and wants and needs did she think she knew about him?
Maybe the most private secret of all. The one he’d never be able to share with her. How pathetic. If she’d sensed everything he felt ab
out her…
Tasiya dropped her basket to the floor and reached for him. She framed his face between her hands and rose up on tiptoe to kiss him. His body lurched in an instantaneous, hungry response, and his hands automatically went to her waist. His pride was a little slower to catch up and deepen the sweet kiss.
But when her arms wound around his neck, her hands skimmed and clutched against his hair, and she moaned that needy whimper in her throat, Bryce snaked his arms around her and lifted her clear off the floor. He palmed her butt and grabbed a fistful of her sweater. He swept his tongue into her hot, honey-sweet mouth and took everything she offered. His blood caught fire and his heart pounded in his chest. If he could have consumed her on the spot he would have.
This was some friggin’ goodbye, and he wasn’t ready for it. He didn’t want to let her go. He didn’t want to lose her. Ever. Not to Marcus Smith, not to Dimitri Mostek, not even to the promise of the freedom she so richly deserved.
But when she pulled away, when she brushed her shaky fingertips across his sensitized lips and smiled that serene smile of gratitude, he let her go.
He set her back on her feet and looked away from her eyes only long enough to see the keys she pressed into his hand. “Give me fifteen or twenty minutes. Then come find me. I will be able to get in, but—”
“I’ll make sure you get out.”
If that was the only promise she wanted from him, he’d keep it. Or die trying.
Bryce watched her walk away. He held on to her hand, her fingertips, her gaze, for as along as he could. And then she was gone.
This plan stunk. Life stunk. Love stunk.
But, damn it all, it was the only way.
EVERY TIME THE THUNDER smacked against the sky, Tasiya jumped inside her skin. The storm outside was a blessing of sorts: the clouds blotted out any natural light; the rain and wind and angry waves muffled any suspicious sounds and kept the sentries huddled at their posts with their chins tucked in.
But she couldn’t help making a fatalistic analogy about nature’s fury and the retribution that would be unleashed if their escape plan failed. If she failed Bryce Martin.
Lightning flashed outside, spotlighting for one eerie moment the walls lined with deadly weapons and ammunition that surrounded her. Knives, guns, bullets, explosives. But the most dangerous thing in the room stood at the table beside his cot, pouring her a shot of whiskey she didn’t want.
Tasiya gripped the edge of the shelf behind her as the answering thunder echoed down around her ears. She wished she could think of a convincing reason for Marcus to open the door again, so she’d feel a little less like a helpless mouse caught in a trap, waiting for the slavering cat to spring upon her. But the wind off the breezeway had blown it shut, and the puddle of water already staining the doorway gave her no argument against Marcus’s claim that it would continue to rain in through the screen door until the storm subsided.
“Here you go, sugar.” He crossed the room through a path between stacked crates and handed her a dingy glass half-full of a potent amber liquid. She had to hold it in both hands to keep herself from shoving him out of her personal space. He clinked their glasses together, showing his yellow teeth in a suggestive grin. “Bottoms up.”
Unlike her conversations with Bryce, where he patiently answered every question she had about the peculiarities of the English language, Tasiya didn’t care that she didn’t understand the significance of Marcus’s words. He tipped his head back and emptied his glass in a single gulp. Then he wiped his lips and licked the residue off his fingers.
“Good stuff. Now, when you talk about repaying me for helping out your ugly friend, what exactly am I lookin’ forward to?” He frowned, nodding toward her untouched glass. “Drink up.”
She’d hoped to spot a potted plant she could pour hers into, but the militiamen had no such amenities. With Marcus standing close enough to smell the liquor on his breath and showing no signs of moving until she did as he asked, Tasiya had no choice but to raise the glass to her lips. Her eyes watered as the bitter liquid burned all the way down her throat.
“Oh, my.” She hoped that light-headed feeling was due to the huge gasp of air she’d taken and not the immediate effects of the alcohol.
“Smooth stuff, huh?”
Not exactly the description she would have used. But the horrid taste gave her an idea. She held up her glass. “Perhaps it gets better the more I drink. May I have another?”
“Happy to oblige.” He took her glass and returned to the table. With his back turned, Tasiya quickly went to work. “My old man used to work at a distillery down in Tennessee. Best thing he ever did for me was introduce me to the fine taste of whiskey. I went into the family business, too. But then I discovered I had a higher calling—one that paid better, too.”
Tasiya had positioned herself next to the boxes of C-4. She’d already managed to unhook the latch on the top box while Marcus had dug through his duffel bag for the whiskey and glasses. Now that he was consumed with his favorite topic and pouring her another drink, she could reach inside and move the paper-wrapped explosives into her basket. One brick would suffice, Bryce had said. Done. Two would be even better.
But Marcus was turning around. The second brick would have to wait. Tasiya covered the C-4 in her basket with a dish towel and pretended an interest in the guns on the shelf above her. “Do you know how to use all of these weapons?”
“Of course I do.” He walked up right behind her, making no effort to hide his arousal as he pressed against her bottom, trapping her between the shelf and his body. Tasiya closed her eyes and cringed, wishing she could walk through walls. “I’m an expert on firing things. That’s why Fowler recruited me.”
Tasiya didn’t have to grasp the language to understand the lecherous undertones in Marcus’s words. She should have told Bryce five minutes. She might not last fifteen minutes with this man.
She shuddered with the next clap of thunder and pushed away from the shelves, hating Marcus’s groan of satisfaction as she couldn’t avoid rubbing against him. “But there are so many different kinds.” She circled to the opposite side of the room, hoping to turn his attention away from the explosives and the basket. He set down their drinks and followed her. “What about this one?” She picked up a black steel rifle that was surprisingly heavy. The metal felt unnaturally cold, the weight of it, lethal. “What do you use one like this for?”
“Sometimes a man needs a big gun to make him stronger than his opponent.” He reached over her shoulder and plucked the rifle from her grasp. This time, she wisely scooted aside as he replaced it on the shelf. But she didn’t get far enough, fast enough. He snatched her wrist and pulled her back beside him. His overgrown beard tangled with her hair. “Sugar, are you here to talk or to give me some action? ’Cause I guarantee you, talking isn’t the payoff I had in mind.”
He nuzzled her ear. Tasiya’s breath lodged in her throat. “I thought I would bake you something special. Do you like cake? Pie? Cookies?”
He laughed and licked his way down her neck. “You’re the sugar I want.”
Tasiya tried to slide away but his hands locked around her hips. She wedged her arms between them and pushed. “What about Mr. Fowler?”
His mouth hovered over hers as he unhooked the snap of her jeans. “He’s asleep. I won’t tell if you won’t.”
Lightning flashed, giving her a frightening glimpse of his stained teeth and lustful intent.
“No.” She couldn’t take his groping hands and foul scent any longer. “No!”
Tasiya stomped down on the instep of his foot and shoved with every bit of strength in her. Marcus stumbled back a step and knocked over a crate. Tasiya didn’t waste any time dashing across the room to grab her basket and run for the door. “I am your cook! Not your prostitute!”
Marcus knocked over another crate as he pushed himself upright and propelled himself after her. “Uh-uh, sugar. No is not an option once you get me goin’ like this. You came to me. Yo
u will be whatever the hell I tell you to be.”
He grabbed her arm, jerked it in its socket as he swung her around. Thunder shook through the walls as Tasiya screamed. She slammed into a stack of crates and sent them flying before toppling into the midst of them. Ignoring the bruising jolt to her bones, she scrambled to her feet. She’d lost the basket! But as she knocked her shin on a crate, stumbling to retrieve it, she knew it was already too late.
She froze. The basket and its scattered contents were strewn on the floor between them, with the brick of C-4 sitting like a traitorous alarm beacon right on top.
“You thieving bitch.”
Marcus’s fist hit her square in the cheek, knocking her to the floor and swirling the room around inside her head. Waves of agony radiated through her jaw and skull. She was too dizzy to even steady herself on her hands and knees.
Marcus grabbed a handful of hair and yanked her upright. The zillion pinpricks of pain erupting across her scalp cleared her vision long enough to see the pistol he pulled from his belt and jammed to the center of her forehead.
“Don’t touch you, huh? I will touch you any damn way I want!”
Thunder crashed through the room. The door sailed open. The rain poured in.
But it wasn’t the storm.
“Tasiya!” A monster charged in from the darkness and plowed into Marcus.
Tasiya collapsed and crawled out of the way as Bryce knocked Marcus Smith clear across the room. They smashed into the shelves and hit the floor as an avalanche of heavy crates and weapons cascaded over their heads.
“Bryce!” Her screams were drowned out by the beating of the wind and the rain.
She learned that a fist hitting muscle made a terrible sound. A fist hitting bone sounded even worse. Boxes broke. Marcus cursed.
The rain through the screen door soaked her sweater and weighted her hair. But the hug of cold water clinging to her skin reminded her of the world outside this room. Though she wavered on her feet, Tasiya mustered the sense to close the door. With the cacophony of the storm, the fight might not be heard, but a man walking by might see.