The clock in my head kept ticking, counting down to some unknown deadline. Every minute that passed was another minute Oliver’s hunters could be closing in.
I waded across a shallow section of the river, cold water soaking through my already-wet shoes and numbing my feet. The current tugged at my legs, and I had to brace myself against the rocks to keep from being swept downstream. The ruined dress dragged in the water, heavy and clinging.
On the other side, I paused to catch my breath and check my bearings. The river continued upstream, the terrain growing slightly less vertical. Maybe I was getting close. Maybe?—
There.
Through the trees, maybe a hundred yards ahead, I saw it. A bridge. Old wooden planks spanning the river, leading to a gravel road that disappeared around a bend.
Relief hit me so hard my knees nearly buckled. I almost sobbed, my throat closing around a sound that was half laugh, half cry. I’d made it. Twelve miles of brutal, terrifying wilderness, and I’d actually made it.
I started scrambling toward the road, new energy flooding my exhausted body. The gravel road meant vehicles. Vehicles meant escape. Meant help. Meant maybe, just maybe, getting out of this alive.
I was halfway to the bridge when I heard it—a branch snapping somewhere behind me in the tree line.
I spun, and my stomach dropped straight through my feet.
Oliver emerged from the tree line maybe fifty yards back, moving at a controlled pace that said he had all the time in the world. His clothes were pristine—how the hell were his clothes pristine?—and his expression held that cultured satisfaction I’d learned to hate. Behind him, Bishop moved with military precision, already breaking into a run when he saw me looking.
They hadn’t been chasing me through the wilderness. They’d anticipated where I’d come out. Cut me off at the pass like I was nothing more than a stupid animal following a predictable path. I had no idea how they’d known I’d be here, but it didn’t matter.
No more time to think.
I ran.
And prayed. If that vehicle with the cavalry wasn’t at that road, I was finished. I was totally reliant on people I’d never met before in my life.
Every ounce of energy I had left poured into my legs. The gravel road was so close—fifty yards, thirty. I could hear Bishop’s footfalls now, too close, gaining with every second. He was military trained, fresh, not exhausted from twelve miles of brutal terrain in the dark.
Twenty yards.
My lungs screamed. My legs threatened to give out. The road stretched in front of me like a finish line I might never reach.
Ten yards.
I hit the gravel just as Bishop’s hand closed around my arm.
He spun me around with brutal efficiency, fingers digging into my bicep hard enough to bruise. His face was cold, professional—this was just a job to him, collecting the prey for his boss. But there was something else there too. Something that looked like anticipation.
“Oliver’s going to enjoy this.” His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. “Running that far only to get caught right at the finish line.”
He was confident. Why wouldn’t he be? I was just a photographer. A woman in a ruined dress, exhausted and bleeding and completely outmatched.
But I remembered Coop’s instructions. Remembered his hands guiding mine through the movements, his voice in my ear as we practiced the self-defense moves for entirely different purposes than self-defense.
Throat. Eyes. Groin. Don’t hesitate.
I didn’t.
My fingers drove toward Bishop’s eyes. He deflected—of course he deflected, he was trained for this—but I was already following through with my knee, driving it toward his groin with every ounce of force I could muster.
Not a perfect hit. But enough to make him double forward slightly, his grip loosening for just a second.
I slammed my palm into his nose.
Something crunched under my hand. Blood spurted, hot and wet against my skin. Bishop released me with a grunt of surprise and pain, one hand flying to his face.
I didn’t wait to see if he went down. I ran toward the road.
