The guy holding me lets my legs fall to the ground and my feet touch the earth before his arm moves away from my back. The next sequence of events happens so fast I almost wonder if they happen the way I think I see it.
My captor grabs the gun with his left hand, pushing it down to the side. When the bullet is released from its chamber it tears its way through the earth in a spray of dirt and mud. He hooks around the gunman’s right arm and, with a powerful fist, pummels the guy in the jaw as he rips the gun from his hand.
They exchange savage blows until the gunman lunges at my carrier with a knife.
Cringing, I remember with all too much clarity what happened the last time a knife was pulled.
I can’t get enough air to breathe properly, let alone run. Trying to crawl again, I’m struck by the piercing rawness of my knees, legs and feet. I’m not going to get far.
Frantically, I scan what’s around me—if I could get under some cover and hide . . . but I’m crushed by the probability of being at my captor’s mercy.
With two quick and deliberate turns, my assailant is around the back of the gunman and plunges his blade up and into the guy’s throat—directly in the crook beneath his chin where it meets his neck.
Blood sprays out of the hole when he yanks the knife down and out. He steps to the side, and the other guy drops, dying, his eyes wide and wild.
My captor comes at me, still holding the knife. The scream that’s been welling up in my bruised and swollen lungs finds its way out of my mouth.
He grabs my face hard to close my mouth, and my jaws clamp, bearing down on his hand for all I’m worth.
The taste of his salty flesh combines with the rust of his blood.
He’s silent as he lifts my arms up towards my shoulders until they feel like they’ll break! I have no option but to let his hand loose.
Bracing myself for the fierce blow he’ll inflict, I’m surprised when he simply ties the soaking wet cloth back around my face, then throws me over his shoulder again and runs away from the second dead body left in his wake.
Ryder
I’m seriously considering killing Rachel Farrington myself! She’s nearly gotten the two of us caught or killed multiple times now.
I’d really love to sit for beers and chat with her about exactly what is going on so she doesn’t fuck up again, but the area is crawling with Miguel’s men and whoever else is in on the action. And unless she’s deaf, she hears the dogs coming too. Dogs that are going to seek us out and rip our flesh off if I don’t throw them off our scent—which is nearly impossible.
Christ. Can’t she just shut up, stop drowning and stop being a target and a fucking pain in my ass for one goddamn minute?
I’ve never had a rescue mission turn so exceptionally bizarre! Fucking bites my goddamn hand, runs away and shoves me off a boat—as if I’m one of them.
Oh Jesus! She thinks I’m one of them!
A branch snaps at our eleven o’clock.
Pulling Farrington to the ground, I crouch to blend into our surroundings better. We’re both full of mud and dirt and well camouflaged.
I get a glimpse of Miguel’s henchmen as they close in around us—about three of them, but they haven’t spotted us. The henchman leading the charge sends the other two in a semi-circle to fan out. Their automatic weapons are poised and ready for murder.
“Don’t. Move,” I barely breathe across her ear.
Henchman—now at our five o’clock—squeezes in and is about to trip over Farrington when I move in front of her to block his path, stand up swiftly and shoot him through the heart twice.
Holding him carefully, I take all the dead man’s weight before quietly lowering him to the ground.
One down, two to go.
Movement about one hundred yards away catches my eye, along with a swatch of red—more men. But these aren’t Miguel’s goons. These are entirely different goons flying gang colors.
I need to get Farrington out of the brush.
The road ceased being an option when the conflict broke out—it had been my original unguarded exit route—until every direction was cut off by Miguel’s opposition.
Perfect timing, Ryder, I berate myself. A half hour earlier I could have found the girl and made exodus like I was planning to, with the cartel lord.
But truth of it is, these guys are betting men, like me. They’d learned of his alias and knew the window to kill or capture him was closing fast.
Wondering which they chose to do to him, kill or capture, I lift Farrington again and move as fast as possible to the edge of the swamp. We’re going to have to take to the water.
Keeping to the muck at the edge of the waterline keeps our escape quiet, unlike our enemies who have now found each other and are hacking away to make sure there are no survivors.
It’s the only way now . . . but I have to get this iron bar off her or we’ll sink like a couple of rocks.
I put another thirty feet between us and the men, put Farrington on her belly and retrieve my tools. Padlocks like these are pretty simple to open when you have a spare ten seconds.