I don’t have a spare ten seconds.
She doesn’t understand what’s happening, though, and begins to thrash as best as she can. I’m thankful for the bandana across her mouth, muffling her screams.
The goddamn dogs are closing. We probably only got a jump on the distance because of their out-of-shape handlers.
It’s still too dangerous to speak, so I put a knee into her backbone—to hold her still, for Christ’s sake—and get the lock opened.
Carefully but hastily, I free her arms. She moans softly with the pain of having them mobile after such a lengthy incarceration behind her back.
When I take hold of her this time, I put her back to my front and use my left hand to keep her chin above the waterline, while my right hand keeps my Glock trained into the night, ready to disable man or beast.
Fucking gators and water moccasins—I fucking hate those things! Who the fuck would want to live in fucking swampland Texas?
Gently, I slip us into the water.
Of course Farrington has other ideas. As if her life depends on it, she starts thrashing.
“Stop! You’ll attract every bad guy and man-eating creature in a ten mile radius,” I rage whisper.
She’s not stopping. I wrap the arm I was going to use to hold her mouth around her already weak arms, pinning them to her chest. Her legs are another matter altogether—they’re stronger now, and she kicks and bucks against me fiercely.
Get comfortable being uncomfortable. The SEAL motto is more than applicable in this situation.
Taking a full deep breath, I fill my lungs with air to keep us afloat and secure both her legs with one of mine. I launch us into the swamp’s slow current.
The dogs will still be able to follow us—all they need to do is chase down the dead skin cells—however, I’m banking on the commotion the war is wreaking to cause them a little confusion. And if we can survive reptilian jaws of death, I have a few more diversionary tactics to keep them from regaining our scent too easily.
We meander under the cover of dark, past the estate’s perimeter. The sounds of the dogs and battle seemingly float into the distance.
“Your name is Rachel Farrington. You’re the only witness to the murder of Drew Anderson at Tulane University. Eduardo Miguel kidnapped you to keep you quiet,” I tell her. Although I don’t understand why he didn’t just kill you. I leave that part out for now.
“My name is Ryder Axton. I’m a Navy SEAL trained bounty hunter. I found you and am taking you home,” I say. “Do you understand me?”
She doesn’t make a move.
“I’m the good guy here—you know, the dashing hero—so you’d do us both a big favor if you stopped fighting me tooth and nail every step of the way!” That last bit came out more impassioned than I planned for it to, as my hand is now throbbing. I continue, “If you promise not to scream, I’ll remove the gag.”
She still doesn’t make a move.
“Nod if you understand me.”
She does.
“Nod if you’ll comply.”
She does again.
“If you scream, you’ll give our location away.”
She nods a third time.
I decide I’m not going to untie it. I just pull it out of her mouth and let it drop around her neck. That way it’ll be there if I need to use it quickly.
When she doesn’t yell, I say, “If you’ll be calm, you can help us tread water.”
“There are alligators in here.” Her voice is shaking.
“Yes, there are, so let’s not be in here longer than we have to be.” That’s just to help her morale. Truth is, we’ll have to be in here longer than anyone would want to be. It’s deep and murky. The Neches River will be even worse—the fucking thing is a deep water pathway for ships—seventy-six feet deep, to be exact. But the water is our fastest mode of travel until we can get somewhere safer.
I continue scanning the shoreline for boats—especially canoes or two man kayaks.
When the fighting is over and Farrington’s nowhere to be found, if Miguel’s still alive, they’ll comb for miles and use the dogs to keep tracking her scent. They can’t allow her to make it out alive.
By my calculations, we’ve traveled about two miles downstream when she asks, “Where are you taking me?” Her tone is full of mistrust.
“I told you, home.”
“I don’t believe you,” she challenges quietly.
“Why the fuck wouldn’t you believe me?” I croak. “The fuck, lady! I just saved your life—so many times now, I quit counting!”
“Because this isn’t the first time I’ve heard your voice.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You work for Miguel,” she accuses me. “You were there, outside my door, but you spoke in a southern accent. So which is the real you?”
“That’s one hell of an ability for voice recognition.” I’m impressed.
“So you’re not denying it?”
“Why would I? I was getting the layout of the house.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”