Now able to move I shimmy out from underneath him. Just as I’m about to run his hand clamps around my ankle. One hard yank and I’m eating the grass and dirt.
Still, I fight.
I kick at his hand with my other foot but his pain tolerance is higher than I anticipated.
He snatches my other ankle leaving my legs immobile.
Not giving up I then army crawl. I dig my elbows into the earth and pray with all the upper body strength I have that I can gain momentum.
But it’s futile. Tears of frustration, rage and fear burn at the back of my eyes.
So fucking close to freedom and I feel it slipping through my fingers quicker than sand.
Yanking my ankles he drags my body back. The loose branches tear at my clothes and break skin. Little minor cuts that burn when air hits.
As he flips me over I attempt to free myself for I know it will be the last time. I punch him in the eye but the bastard doesn’t even wince. Quickly I then take the palm of my hand and thrust it upward against his nose. A sickening crunch comes. Water brims at his eyes followed by a low grunt. The watery eyes are a common reaction to a broken nose.
At least I can own that satisfaction. I broke his damn perfect nose and blackened that eye of his.
“You’ve surprised me, Imogen,” he says and I freeze the moment he says my name. It sounds eerily intimate. “I don’t like surprises.”
I can’t hold the bite in my tone. “Well, I’msosorry.”
“Sarcasm,” he says definitively this time. “You are aware it’s the lowest form of wit.”
I finish the quote. “But the highest form of intelligence.”
“Oscar Wilde.” Silence greets us then but something unspoken passes between us.
“Are you going to kill me?”
“No.” A one word response that should bring relief. But there are far worse things than death. Staring in the eyes of my assailant I know this to be true. Reaching in his vest he retrieves a syringe. I eye the drug that I know will render me unconscious.
As he brings the syringe to my neck I ask him one last time, “Who are you?”
Maybe he hears the utter fright in my voice. Maybe he can see the sheer terror in my eyes. Something makes him concede.
His finger lazily strokes my neck. Given the circumstances it’s insane for how soothing it is. Almost as if he’s trying to lull me to sleep before the drug can.
“Rico,” he answers and the name clicks in my head like a gun.
Before fear can take hold the syringe pricks my neck. The last thing I remember before the world fades to black is being carried in his arms.
CHAPTER 7
Rico
“En route. Target secured,” I confirm on the phone to Constantine over satellite.
“Si. I heard from Pietro you’ve gotten quite the makeover.”
I cut a glance over to Pietro who hasn’t stopped snickering every time he takes a look at me.
This time I’m well aware of said makeover.
Imogen Murphy was a damn surprise. One I don’t like and one I don’t need.
Her fighting skills are impressive. Against the many men I’ve fought she’s not only one of the most ferocious, she’s also one of the most tenacious.
