The three men froze. They slowly turned to face her. The torch had fallen to the forest floor and caught a bit of brush on fire. The fire spread slowly but it was enough to illuminate the men’s actions. She had the benefit of the cover of night, however, since she remained in the shadows in front of them. But how long would it be before they realized she was just one person? They most likely still had pistols, too.
“Put up your hands,” she demanded in English.
“Oo ez et?” the ringleader asked in English. He squinted into the darkness.
“Hands up, first,” she replied in as gruff a voice as she could muster.
All three of them complied and Daphne nearly sighed with relief.
She stepped forward a bit more but ensured that she remained hidden in shadows. The ringleader squinted at her still.
A whizzing noise sounded above her head as something flew over it. Daphne’s eyes rounded. Her heartbeat shook in her chest. One of them had just thrown a knife at her. Its blade wiggled in the tree not three inches above her head. Her breathing sped.
“What are you doing?” one of the men asked, in Russian, speaking to whoever had thrown the knife.
“Apparently, he’s short,” another answered back in the same language. “That was our only knife.”
Daphne closed her eyes and internally breathed a sigh of relief. That knife had come entirely too close.
“How many of you are there?” the ringleader asked, in French this time.
“Four,” she answered with as much confidence as she could muster. “And we have pistols.”
“I don’t believe you,” came his reply.
She moved forward far enough to allow the pistol to enter the ring of firelight so that they could see it. She prayed they would believe that the others were just in the shadows.
“He’s lying,” one of them said in French.
“I’m not lying,” she answered back in the same language. “And I’m a crack shot.”
“He is lying,” one of them repeated, this time in Russian.
“I may be lying,” Daphne answered in Russian, raising her chin, “but which one of you wants to take that chance?”
CHAPTER FIFTY
An owl hooted in the velvety black night sky. The stars were out but the little light they provided barely filtered through the dense foliage of the forest. The scent of evergreen and leaves lingered in Daphne’s nose. She could barely hear over the sound of her own heartbeat. It throbbed in her ears, momentarily blocking out all other noise.
And then she heard them. Heavy footsteps thundering through the underbrush behind her. Thank heavens. She nearly sagged with relief. The sound surely heralded the return of her friends.
But how many and who?
What if only one of them had lived? What if Rafe was dead? What if the Frenchmen decided to call her bluff and run? Her breathing was fast and shallow. Her arm ached but she kept the heavy pistol trained on her enemies.
“Grey?” Rafe’s voice rang out.
She nearly sobbed with relief. Rafe was alive.
“I’m here,” she called.
Rafe’s footsteps changed direction and he came running. By the time he arrived she realized Grim and Salty were both with him.Thank heavens.
“Are you hurt?” she called.
“Salty’s been shot but he’s all right.”
Daphne took a deep breath. Her prayers had been answered. Thank God they were all alive. “I have something to show you.”
