“I don’t know.” It takes no skill to act bewildered. I have no idea what Scott did with it.
The one who almost shot me earlier sneers, whacking the barrel into my head with a sickening crack.
Pure agony is followed by blessed blackness. When I come to, blinding pain detonates under my eyelids. My stomach lurches. Shivering, icy water crashes over me. Lungs desperate for air, my body seizes.
I swear to God, if I get free, they’re mincemeat.
The one in charge slams Rob’s laptop on the puddle in front of me, jabbing a finger at the empty folders. “Who did you tell?”
“You’re delusional. We’re in a dead spot—no signal, no satellite. Try it yourselves.” I could say we sent the data to the FBI, but that would move up their timetable. Who knows what they’re planning with the ricin, but according to the spreadsheet, it’s days, if not hours away.
As they fumble with their devices, Iranians shout outside.
Wet, frozen to the bone, the draft from the open door guts me. When two lackeys toss an unconscious Hunt on the floor, my shivers turn to uncontrollable shakes, this time from terror.
He’s not gone. He can’t be—and yet he doesn’t move. His eye is swollen shut, his lip split, his broken nose twisted.
Mr. Freeze uncrosses his arms, then jabs his weapon at the firelit faces of his men. “What use is he? Huh? I need him awake, talking. Make it happen. Now!”
As my heart pounds, an idea sparks. It’s risky, but it might work. Bracing for another blow, I inch my hand up. “There’s a first aid kit in the kitchen. I can get it if you want.”
“You. See to it.” Their commander grunts at the teenager, who flicks open a switchblade.
Oh shit. I gasp as the sharp metal inches toward my face. Only when my zip ties fall to the floor do I exhale.
Please, Scott, come back to me.He jumped off a cliff to save me. Now, it’s my turn to take the lead.
On all fours, unsteady, I crawl to the sink, and yank the fabric curtain aside.
Turning to the young soldier, I point next to the sink. “There’s a butter knife in the drawer. I need something to pry up the floorboard.”
When the twentyish man hesitates, the commander shouts from where he stands near the other three mercenaries. “She’s not going to kill you with tableware. Hurry the fuck up.”
Terror claws at my throat. Palms shaking, my head under the basin, I lean forward.Courage isn’t the absence of fear. It’s pushing through it.
In the dark, my fingers grope the hollow space, wrapping around the gun’s cold steel.Thank you, Robert.
“Found it.” I lift the rusty white box with my other hand.
Raising it high, I let it clatter on the floor. As planned, all heads turn. Quickly I tuck the pistol in my waistband. With it hidden under my shirt, I back out.
Did anyone see?Sweat rolls down my spine.
Time ticks by.
Slowly, I let out my held breath.
Holy shit, I did it.
“What are you waiting for? Wake him up.” The young guy grumbles, kicking the med kit toward me.
Eyes lowered, I shuffle back to the fireplace where I flip the latches open.Thank you, Jesus.Underneath the bandages lies an ancient bottle of Ipecac. Trembling all over, eyes watering, Ibreak the tube of smelling salts, then wave the strong ammonia scent near Hunt’s face.
Wake up, Wildlife. I need you.
Under our captor’s watchful gaze, my FBI guy coughs. As soon as his eyes clear, I slip the syrup into my palm, sweeping it over his lids. His brows crease. A curt nod tells me he’s back.
Game on.
