by Meghan March
Nothing.
She couldn’t see a damn thing.
A quick rush of relief, and then a burn tore through her ankle as she pitched forward. Ro threw her hands out to catch herself just before her face made contact with the ground.
Ro squeezed her eyes shut and bit the inside of her cheek. The coppery tang of blood filled her mouth, but it kept her from yelling.
Good Jesus, that hurt like a son of a bitch. The sharp pain in her ankle had the MRE she’d eaten for lunch threatening to reappear.
The simple reality of the situation hit her like an openhanded slap to the face. If she couldn’t run, she was screwed. If she couldn’t walk, she was screwed.
Brilliant, Ro. Ten points for stating the obvious.
She pushed away the image of the creepy trio coming up behind her and forced herself to her knees. A twinge shot through her right wrist. Even better. Must have strained it catching her fall. Apparently Ro needed ‘90s-style rollerblade wrist guards for a walk in the woods.
Working as quickly and quietly as she could, Ro dropped onto her right hip and kept her left ankle off the ground. Shrugging the pack off her shoulders, she dragged it around beside her. There was an ace bandage and an instant ice pack in the first aid kit. Trying to keep her movements silent, Ro unzipped the backpack and pulled out the smaller red bag that contained first aid supplies. She paused just before squashing the instant ice pack between her palms to start the chemical reaction. Was she supposed to take off her hiking boot and wrap the ice around her ankle before shoving it back into the boot and then trying to walk on it? Or was she better off leaving it tied up tightly in the high, leather hiking boot? At times like this it was clear that med school would have been a much better investment than law school. Ro rubbed her face with both palms in frustration, before realizing her hands were covered in dirt from catching herself as she fell. And now so was her face. Ro tried to take a few deep, calming breaths, and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Dead tired, running from crazy, scary, possibly murdering rednecks, and likely suffering from a sprained ankle. What a fucking disaster. She’d been so proud of herself for making it this far. Rather than lose her ever-loving mind, Ro opted for the mental pep talk: Maybe it’s not that bad. Just a slight sprain. I could just pull some brush around me for cover, lay low for the night, and hope like hell the creepy trio gives up looking for me. And be on my way well before they could possibly find me in the morning. Good Lord, that sounded like a whole lot of hope, and Ro much preferred to deal in realities.
Brush rustled. Ro froze. Oh fuck. They’re here. Ro waited, heart pounding, to hear another sound that would indicate the presence of another person. Nothing. A gust of wind barreled down through the woods. The leaves clattered, and the trees swayed. Ro couldn’t discern any other unusual noises. Come on nature … throw me a bone here. Her eyes darted right and left, trying to make out anything in the darkness, holding the rest of herself completely still. And then she felt a presence behind her. She went for the Ka-Bar strapped to her belt. But before she could reach it, a large hand clamped over her mouth.
Fire watch was the most boring fucking job of all time. Before the events of the last week, Graham hadn’t kept watch in years. Just one more reason it was good to be in charge. No shit jobs. But after the grid went down, every man living at Castle Creek Whitetail Ranch pulled his weight on fire watch. No exceptions. Which meant Graham was back on rotation. With ten men, and three or four on watch at all times, no one got a pass on that shit. It wasn’t easy to patrol the ten-foot perimeter fence that surrounded the 660 acres of woods, hills, fields, creeks, and living compound that made up one of the most exclusive, if rustic, whitetail deer hunting outfits in the state. With the security system they had set up and a few other tricks, they were pretty well locked down. But Graham knew they couldn’t afford to take chances. Especially six days into the biggest goat fuck anyone had ever seen in the good ol’ US of A. Inhabitants of third world countries might be accustomed to going without power and running water, but that was because they were either (a) too poor to have power and running water in the first place or (b) they’d had the shit bombed out of their homes. The average U.S. citizen was soft. Not used to going without the luxuries that had become so common and forgettable. Sure, everyone had watched the towers fall on 9/11, but from the safety of their living rooms, on big screen color TVs. Graham could imagine the chaos that had broken out in the last six days across the country—if, in fact, the whole country was affected by what he and his team were pretty damn certain had been an electromagnetic pulse, or EMP. The cause of the giant burst of electromagnetic energy that had knocked out the electrical grid and damaged unprotected electronics was still up for debate, though. It could have been a nuke detonated high above US airspace, or a solar flare that finally didn’t miss. The ham radio that Ty kept screwing around with stayed mostly silent. There’d only been a few transmissions in the last week, giving the term ‘radio silence’ a whole new meaning. Each one of those transmissions had confirmed what they feared: no functioning electrical grid reported anywhere.
Every fire watch rotation that Graham had taken during the last week had been uneventful, but tonight’s watch was shaping up to be a little more exciting. A signal had pinged in the command post, indicating that a sensor on the outermost perimeter, fifty yards outside the fence line, had been tripped. Command had radioed the men on watch, and everyone was on alert. Graham had climbed into a treestand that doubled as an observation post to try to get a better look at what was going down outside the fence.
Graham trained the night vision scope of his M4 carbine rifle on the break in the trees where he could hear snapping branches and crunching leaves. Whoever had tripped the perimeter sensor and headed toward the fence wasn’t even attempting to be stealthy about it. Someone was plowing through the woods like a gut shot deer. Either the person was an idiot or he had no clue he was running straight toward a fence that stretched for a square mile.
A body burst through the tree line just beyond the fence. Graham sighted in his shot, rested his finger on the trigger. A ponytail. Shit. Female. Sliding his finger away from the trigger, Graham kept her in his crosshairs. Spending any amount of time in the Sandbox taught you that women sure as hell weren’t all innocent. He’d seen more than one with a bomb strapped to her chest, hoping to take out as many American troops as possible. They also made good bait for a trap. This one wasn’t paying attention to where her feet were landing and went down hard. She didn’t get up.
Graham scanned the tree line behind her. No sign of anyone else.
“Got a live one about twenty yards out from the southwest perimeter fence,” Graham reported to the team through his radio. “Possibly injured. I’m holding position.”
Graham watched as she maneuvered herself onto her ass, clearly trying not to jar her left ankle. “Scratch possibly. Female is definitely injured.”
“Say again? We got a chick running around out there tonight?” Jonah’s voice shot back through Graham’s earpiece.
“Female. Either that or a smallish man with tits and a ponytail,” Graham said.
Graham’s finger eased back over the trigger when he saw her drag her backpack around. Was she going for a weapon? She pulled out a smaller bag … of first aid supplies. Okay. So she was either bait for some sort of trap or legitimately injured and in need of assistance.
“Outermost southwest perimeter sensor just lit up again. Same sensor as before. We’ve got more incoming. You copy?” Jamie, his teammate stationed in the command post, reported.
It could be a coincidence, the second part of the trap, or it could be the reason the woman was running through the pitch black woods like a bat out of hell. Graham sure as shit didn’t believe in coincidences.
“Copy that. I’m going to retrieve the female. Can someone get over here to cover me?” Graham asked. Usually, rescuing damsels in distress was more Zach’s M.O., but Graham figured now was as good a time as any to wear the sucker
sign. He might be a dick most of the time, but the woman had been running for all she was worth when she took that header. It was a risk, but a calculated one. He could always shoot her later if it turned out to be trap.
“You sure about that, G-man?” Jonah asked through the radio. “She could be bait or a poacher.”
“Not a fucking idiot,” Graham replied. “It’s my call, and I’m making it. Cover me like you’ve got a pair if you’re so worried about it. I’ll be inside the walls in fifteen or less. Get someone out here to take my post.”
Graham climbed down the spikes protruding from the tree and headed for a barely perceptible gate that was built into the fence line.
Rescue mission or clusterfuck. Graham figured it could go either way at this point. Good thing he could handle either.
The hand that clamped over her mouth cut off Rowan’s scream and air supply. A really, really big hand. It covered half her face. Then the hand’s owner spoke low in her ear.
“I’m going to pick you up, and you will not give me any shit, and you will not struggle. When I move my hand, you will not scream. Get me, woman?”
The voice was deep and so close; Ro felt his words more than heard them. The hand not covering her mouth was slipping the Ka-Bar from the sheath on her belt. She was now officially incapacitated and without a weapon.
Apparently he wanted some indication that she did in fact “get him,” because he pulled her head to the side to make eye contact. Even though she was pretty damn sure he wasn’t Red, based on the fresh pine scent emanating from him, seeing dark eyes and a face smeared with camouflage paint was a relief. Momentarily. Because then he spoke again.
“I said, get me, woman?” he repeated, sounding annoyed. And scary. “When I take my hand off your mouth, you’re going to keep it shut like a good little girl. We clear?”
Ro wasn’t sure how he expected her to answer when she couldn’t even breathe. He shook her, as if trying to get her attention. Like he didn’t already have it.
“Are we clear?” His low rumble had turned into a growl.
Ro didn’t get him, and she wasn’t clear. As far as she knew, this guy could be worse than the creepy trio. After the six-day march on Ro’s personal trail of tears, the scene she’d witnessed less than an hour ago, the pain shooting from her ankle, and the asshole currently barking orders at her, Ro hit her limit. Her survival instincts were screaming at her to do something to get free. So she decided to go for the backward head butt. WWE Smack Down-style. Classy-like.
Something in her movements must have telegraphed her intent, because before her head could connect with his nose, the hand across her mouth tightened, and his other hand palmed the back of her head, pulling in the opposite direction of the hand over her mouth.
“I could snap your neck in less than a motherfucking second. I don’t have time to fuck around. We’re moving.” Without waiting for a response, he tossed her up over his shoulder like a bag of feed. From her upside down perch, Ro saw him snag her backpack and throw one strap over his other shoulder. He paused for a moment before trotting in the same direction Ro had been running before she’d taken a header into the forest floor.
Apparently Conan the Barbarian, as Ro had dubbed him, liked to manhandle women. God only knew what he had in mind for her. Why am I not fighting back? Am I going to make this easy for him? Ro considered trying to drive her elbow through his back and then recalled his threat about snapping her neck.
Fuck it. How much worse could things really get? After all, she’d just added being kidnapped to her list of life experiences.
She elbowed him in the back as hard as she could. His muscles felt like slabs of concrete. He didn’t even pause his easy jog when she landed her strike. Not even a hard exhale. The helpless feelings began to mount. The second time she was determined to make sure he’d feel it. She rammed her elbow between his shoulder blades and thought she heard a grunt.
Ro was congratulating herself on a least scoring a hit when a large hand came down on her ass in a hard smack.
Conan had just spanked her! Oh, hell no. Rather than being subdued, Ro’s temper flared white-hot. No one had spanked Ro since her beverage container of choice was a sippy-cup. And Conan the Barbarian with the camo-painted face was not getting away with it. Ro wished for the acrylic claws the Mistress of Evil had for nails. The ones she’d trailed down Ro’s cheek in that über creepy way that made Ro struggle not to projectile vomit. The memory made Ro shiver. Focus on now. I am not helpless. Not then and not now. So Ro did the next best thing she could think of. She bit him.
“Motherfucker!” Graham wanted to rage, but the word came out as a low growl. Operational security required silence. The bitch and her bony elbows and vampire canines weren’t going to fuck up Graham’s simple mission.
He smacked her round little ass again, harder this time. She squeaked and jabbed his back with one of those pointy little elbows. At least she couldn’t yell with her teeth embedded in his back. That had actually kind of hurt. Not that Graham would ever admit it. He probably should have been more pissed about the bite mark that he was going to be sporting, but he found it a little hard to condemn the girl when she was probably scared out of her damn mind, and her instincts were ricocheting between fight and flight. It didn’t take much combat experience to become intimately familiar with the human instinct to survive. How many combat virgins had Graham seen run at the first sounds of live fire? Or duck when they heard mortar rounds whistling into camp? Too many to count.
But still, Graham wasn’t a fan of teeth marks on his back. Fingernail scratches sustained during a marathon three-way? Perfectly acceptable. But teeth marks while fully clothed he could do without. Thoughts firmly in the gutter, as usual, Graham’s cock twitched. Little fucker didn’t know or care whether now was the appropriate time to stand up and take notice. Graham slipped back through the gate and turned to make sure it was latched.
He started a brisk jog toward the walled compound that housed their living quarters, which was located about forty acres in from the southwest corner of the spread. Her struggles ceased in favor of gripping Graham’s back to hold on. Graham still had no idea why she’d ended up near his fence, but he was damn curious to find out.
From her upside down vantage point across Conan’s back, Ro watched another man close, bolt, and bar a small porthole-like door in a giant steel wall topped with razor wire. It closed silently, but it might as well have slammed like a cell door. Panic rose as Conan strode farther into the camp.
Ro renewed her struggles. And she didn’t keep quiet this time either.
“Put me down! Let me go! Umpf—” Ro’s words were cut off as her still-stinging ass landed on a picnic table bench.
Conan got in her face. “You’re in no position to be giving orders. And until you answer my questions, you aren’t going anywhere except where I put you.”
Ro opened her mouth to let out a scathing reply, but snapped it shut when she realized she could see the angles and planes of his painted face in the glow of artificial light. She hadn’t seen any working lights in the last week and was shocked to see one now. It was amazing how quickly things she used to take for granted became oddities. But back to the face in front of hers. He had lowered himself into a crouch in front of her. He looked like G.I. Joe come to life. But even bigger than the Channing Tatum version. His face was covered in smears of brown, black, and gray, and a black long-sleeve t-shirt stretched tightly over linebacker-esque shoulders. He looked as if he was easily twice Ro’s size. The bulging muscles and defined pecs briefly distracted her, but the rifle held casually in his grip, barrel pointed in her general vicinity, caught and held her attention. An M4, the smaller, more compact version of the M16, if she remembered her dad’s lessons clearly. Her eyes darted between his face and the gun, trying to figure out her best course of action if he decided to unload the thirty round magazine in her direction. Nothing. There wasn’t a damn thing she’d be able to do if he decided to use her for target pra
ctice. And the look on his face wasn’t inspiring any confidence that he wasn’t intending to do just that. His piercing dark eyes cataloged every detail of her appearance. Thinking it was best to present as small a target as possible, Ro wrapped her arms around herself and shrank back until the edge of the picnic table dug into her spine.
Under the camo paint, his dark brows furrowed, as if he was confused by her actions. He followed her eyes to the gun and lifted his dark gaze to hers.
One brow arched sardonically when he said, “You do know that I’m not planning to shoot you.” Ro couldn’t help mentally tacking on a “yet” to the end of his sentence.
She decided it was time to unearth her lady balls and stop acting like a scared little girl. Decision made … Ro couldn’t stop her snark.
“No, as a matter of fact, I was not aware that you weren’t going to shoot me when you’ve got the barrel of a gun less than twelve inches from my face. And after you mentioned snapping my neck, I’ve developed the impression that my continuing to breathe isn’t exactly a priority of yours.” Ro held his stare, unwilling to show any more weakness or fear by breaking first.
Wasn’t there some animal you were supposed to stare down to show you’re not afraid? Or was that what you were not supposed to do? Yet another instance where law school failed to teach her practical skills. Like how to stare down a giant, camo-painted man who comfortably held an assault rifle as if it was a part of his daily uniform. A man with too-long, dark brown hair that curled over his ears and the base of his neck, making him look unbelievably sexy.
Wait. What?
Ro must have hit her head when she’d fallen. That was the only logical explanation for the errant thought.
Standing, he propped the gun against a four-by-four beam that supported the porch covering the area surrounding the picnic table. He lowered the barrel and resumed his crouching position in front of her.