Here she was, sitting vulnerable, waiting for Brandon exactly where he’d told her to be. She’d curled up in the darker shadow of a huge tree trunk, hoping she’d be less conspicuous. But she was exposed to the night breeze and the growing chill as the night settled around her. At first, she had debated internally, and then she’d removed the reflective cat’s-eye pieces he’d marked the tree with earlier in the day. He’d intended for them to serve as a marker for their “fallback DFP,” and they had helped her find the exact place where he’d wanted her to wait. Though the small reflective pieces were hard to see, she’d rather not give anyone other than Brandon a reason to come investigate her tree.
A few minutes—five, or maybe even ten—went by. She didn’t wear a watch and she didn’t have her smartphone with her. She’d have laughed if she dared, sitting alone as she was. Days without her phone and this was the first time she truly missed it, because she desperately wanted to note the passage of time, as if it would be of help to her. Calling for help would’ve made more sense. But no, the logical portion of her mind wasn’t in control at the moment.
She’d have given anything to know how long she’d been waiting. Or even to know for sure that she’d heard an animal noise earlier. Hopefully a dog? Hopefully not gunshots.
More twigs cracked, closer this time. And then silence did fall.
Her heart stopped for a long, agonizing moment as a silhouette became discernible against the backdrop of the dark trees. The figure approached, placing each step carefully as it climbed the bank.
Then her heart rate kicked up into overtime.
It wasn’t Brandon.
She shrank into the tree trunk, trying to make herself as small as possible. Maybe they’d pass by.
But the footsteps stopped near her. She made herself look up to see the figure standing over her, raising its arms to point a gun at her.
Move.
She tried, started to rise to her feet, but pain streaked up her ankle into her knee, and she fell backward onto her butt. Scrambling backward, she tried to utter a plea, a request. Something.
She wanted to live.
Wind rushed through the trees and the trees groaned. The mud under her seeped damp cold through her pants. More leaves rustled.
A dark shape hurtled up the bank and into the man in front of her.
Her would-be killer uttered a shout of surprise, then there was a solid thud as he fell to the ground. Fabric ripped and the man cried out again, this time in pain. She struggled to her feet, managing to stand by clutching the tree trunk for support.
Peering through the dim night, she made out a black silhouette crouching over the man. It had hold of the man’s arm and was shaking its head back and forth. A wolf? No, it was a dog.
Haydn.
Sophie did sob then. Brandon couldn’t be far behind, not if Haydn was here. She was saved.
The fallen man swung his free hand at the dog’s head again and again, but the dog’s side-to-side head motions kept most of the blows from landing. Most. The butt of his waving gun connected audibly with the dog’s jaw, skull, and false leg, but Haydn refused to let go.
There was a sickening crack and the man’s curses turned into a scream of agony. Sophie could see the man fumbling with something on the ground. Hadyn was forced to shift his weight toward the man, who now seemed to flail with every fiber in his body. The dark, glinting shape reappeared in the man’s hand. With a grunt of manic delight he pressed the muzzle of the gun against Haydn.
“No!” She tried to run forward.
The gunshot split the night, and Haydn yelped in pain.
Cursing fluently, the man shoved the dog’s body aside and got to his feet.
Sophie didn’t think. She should’ve run the other way. Instead, she ran toward them and fell forward to her knees, wrapping her arms around Haydn’s broad form. The big dog grunted as she hugged him close. His chest rose and fell against her, and she dropped her forehead to his shoulder, letting her tears fall. She spread her fingers through his fur, searching for the wound. Her fingertips came into contact with hot blood and she hurried to apply pressure, slow the bleeding any way she could. She was keening, letting out a small desperate sound as the flow of her tears mixed with the flow of the dog’s blood.
“The fucking dog is the least of your worries.” The stranger’s voice was harsh, guttural.
She refused to look up at him this time. She’d freeze again if she saw the gun pointed at her face, and Haydn needed her now. She couldn’t outrun the man, but she could help the dog at least. For as long as she was still alive.
She was afraid. So incredibly terrified. And she didn’t want to die. But she wouldn’t go out as a coward. “Go to hell.”
The man paused and laughed at her, the sound mocking. “What a smart-ass little bitch. Do you know how much trouble you’ve been?”
“Thank you.” She struggled to keep her tone even, maybe somewhat confident, if a bit stuffed up and nasally from the still-flowing tears.
At least she could try.
“What?” A hand shot out and grabbed a handful of her hair before she could flinch. He twisted a handful, forcing her to turn her face up toward him. “For what?”
Keep talking. Even if it made the bastard happier, every minute he spent full of himself was another to give Brandon time to get to her. Don’t fight. Not yet. This man was a professional mercenary according to Brandon, better than the best of her self-defense classes. She’d need an incredibly lucky moment to get away from him. Think. Look for a way out. And keep him talking.