The Hero She Needs (Unbroken Heroes Book 1)
Anna Hackett
CHAPTER ONE
She didn’t want to die.
“Oh, my God. Oh, my God.” Gemma had no idea where she was. Her head was fuzzy, and she couldn’t think.
She slapped some branches out of her way, running as fast as she could.
Darting between some trees, she ignored the pain in her bare feet. She’d stepped on something, and cut herself. Where were her shoes? Panic and fear hit her like bricks.
She had no shoes on.
She didn’t know where she was.
And someone—several someones—were chasing her.
Air sawed in and out of her lungs. She looked around. Nothing but trees as far as she could see. She sagged briefly against a tree trunk, trying to catch her breath. Trying to think.
In the distance, she heard shouts.
They were looking for her.
Hunting her.
Fighting back a sob, she pushed off the rough bark and kept running.
“I’m not going to die.” She bit her lip. “I’m not going to die.”
Her head throbbed with every beat of her heart. She couldn’t remember anything. It was like there was fog wrapped around her memories, filling her head, obscuring her thoughts. And she was so thirsty.
More shouts.
Keep moving, Gemma.
She had to find a way out of these trees. No one would be coming to help her. She frowned. Her family…
God, she couldn’t remember them. Why was she so sure they wouldn’t be looking for her?
Suddenly, she tripped and slammed into the ground. The air rushed out of her lungs, and she whimpered.
Despair wrapped around her like rope.
She was so alone.
“Get up, Gemma.” She pressed her hands to the rotting leaves on the damp ground. “Get up.”
She pushed to her feet, and the world swam drunkenly. There were colored leaves all around her, which, if she wasn’t running for her life, she’d think were gorgeous. She turned her head, trying to find a path, but everything became a whirl.
She sure wasn’t in LA anymore. She rubbed her forehead. That was home. Her heart thumped against her chest. She should be in LA.
This damn forest wasn’t home. Or were they woods? Wait, what was the difference between a forest and woods, anyway?
She bit back a whimper and shook her head. Focus, Gemma.
A twig snapped nearby.
Close.
Too close.
Her already laboring heart lodged in her throat, her pulse thundering in her ears. She took off running.
“She’s over here!” a man yelled.
No. No.
Fueled by fear, she ran faster. Branches hit her face and body, her breathing sawing in and out in frantic gasps. Running was not something she did often, she remembered that.
If she made it out of this, she’d swap a few yoga sessions and lattes for running and green smoothies.
All of a sudden, a man dressed in black appeared to her left from behind a tree.
She gasped. It was one of them. Black cargo pants, hard face, mean eyes.
“You have nowhere to go.” His voice sounded like gravel. “We’ll drag you back to the car, and I’ll make sure you don’t get free of your ropes again.”
Dizziness hit and Gemma bumped into a tree.
The man smiled. “The drug is still slowing you down. Just give up. You aren’t getting away.”
She stepped back, and a stick crunched under her bare foot.
She looked down. It was a decent-sized stick, with a sharp point on the end.
As her captor advanced, she crouched, and her fingers closed around the wood. She’d learned that you didn’t always get what you wanted from life, but the chances increased if you took action yourself.
When you fought for yourself.
With a grunt, she surged upward, swinging the stick.
Right into the asshole’s face.
“Fuck!”
He toppled backward, and Gemma leaped over him. She took off running again.
She didn’t stop. She didn’t look back.
Her heartbeat echoed in her head.
Run. Escape. Run.
She heard water running nearby and tilted her head. A river, maybe?
A gunshot echoed through the trees.
With a garbled cry, she took off like a sprinter. She raced through some more damn trees, then she tripped once again. She hit the ground hard.
Pain throbbing through her, she tried to regroup. Were they going to shoot her? Her vision swam, her fingers digging into the dirt.
She needed a plan, but her head was too heavy. It was too hard to think.
She was a baker, for God’s sake. Her best skills were caramelizing sugar and making perfect macarons. Not self-defense or hand-to-hand combat.
Just keep moving.
That, she could manage.
Pushing to her feet, she took off at a jog. Her left leg hurt now, and she was half limping. There were more gunshots, and she flinched. Raised voices echoed through the trees.
Were they getting closer?
A sob tried to escape her, but her chest was too tight, her heart was racing too fast.
“Found her trail,” a man yelled. “This way!”
No. She bit her lip hard enough that she tasted blood, but she ignored it and pushed for more speed.
How much longer could she keep running?
Gemma shoved through some more trees…and came out at the edge of a river.
Oh, God.
One second the ground and trees were right there, and the next, her foot hit nothing but air.
She windmilled her arms, trying to stop her momentum. She had a brief moment to take in the tree-lined river and all the colorful leaves, then she was tumbling down the riverbank.
She might’ve screamed, she wasn’t sure. Something hit her head, and pain exploded through her skull.
She hit the water. It was a shock of cold.
After that, there was nothing but blackness.
“Okay, you stay in the truck.” Boone Hendrix turned off the engine and pulled out his keys. “I won’t be long.”
A low whine sounded from the seat beside him.
He turned to face his dog.
“I’ll be quicker by myself. We only need a few things. If you come, you have to flirt with everyone and explore. I want to get home so we can maybe do a bit of fishing before it gets dark.”
Atlas, his German Shepherd, whined again and edged closer. He butted his head against Boone’s side.
Boone let out a gusty sigh. “Fine.”
Atlas lifted his handsome head, his tail wagging.
“Manipulative, you are.” Boone opened the door and slid out. He held it as Atlas jumped down.
The German Shepherd was big, fit, and well-trained. He’d worked as a military dog until his handler had been killed in combat. Atlas hadn’t coped well and couldn’t go back to work.
Boone understood that feeling.
Atlas had come into his life just as Boone had left the military. When an Army friend had called, asking if he was interested in a dog, he’d said no. At the time, he hadn’t been interested in anything.
But he sure as hell hadn’t been able to let a dog—who’d served his country, no less—be put down.