Page 80 of Elite Metal: Warriors

“Our forefathers were criminals in the eyes of the British, you know. Traitors. Conspirators. Look what that villainy built.”

“This is hardly the same. Ralley is plotting to overthrow the government.”

“A government that is dysfunctional.”

“That doesn’t justify his actions.”

“A man like Ralley doesn’t need to justify his actions. Power is the only justification he needs. And he has it.” Jonas glanced at her again, his features arranged in mock pity. “It’s a shame you didn’t stay loyal. You could have found yourself working for the President of the United States.”

Something cold coiled in her belly at the thought of a man with no moral compass at the helm of the most powerful nation on Earth.

Jonas laughed at her expression. “Such an innocent. Did you not deduce the grand scheme? Not such a brilliant analyst after all, are you?” He turned to the man beside her and nodded, and before she could respond or flinch or protect herself, the brute clouted her on the head and everything went black.

* * *

She woke up in a dingy office, lying on a smelly couch. She was still tied. Even though her hands were bound before her, her arms ached from the strain. She levered up and peered out through the blinds on the window into a large, empty hangar. One of her captors—the fucker who’d shot Ben and hit her—sat in a chair outside her door, cleaning his fingernails with his knife, but the other two weren’t visible.

She glanced toward the hangar doors and noticed, by the position of the sun, that most of the day had passed. It was early evening. A cloud of smoke wafted by the open doors, so she deduced the other two were outside having a cigarette.

With great effort, she pushed away her welling rage and grief over Ben—she could mourn him later—and plotted her escape. No one was coming to help her. No one even knew where she was. If she was going to be saved, she was the only one who could do it.

Crouching low, she quietly, stealthily, scudded over to the desk and eased open the top drawer. It was empty. Damn. She slid open the second. Nothing. In the third, she found what she needed. A pair of old scissors wedged in the back.

Keeping one eye on her guard, she snipped the zip ties on her ankles and then started working on the ones around her wrists. These were harder, because she couldn’t move her hands. She managed to use one blade of the scissors to saw through the plastic.

She wanted to crow when the bonds fell away, but decided it wouldn’t be wise.

Holding the scissors like a knife, she crept to the door. She popped up and peeped through the window, getting a quick bead on the guard. He was leaning back in his chair now. The knife was back in his belt. How fortuitous that his nails hadn’t been too dirty.

She sucked in a deep breath, eased open the door, and sprang. In one quick move, she rushed him, kicked the legs out from beneath him and buried the scissors in his chest as he fell to the floor. It was a shame he rolled to the right. She missed his heart and hit him in the shoulder.

He howled and launched to his feet, but before he could get his balance, she landed a brutal round kick in his belly. He oofed and flew back. She followed, landing punches and blows on all the pressure points she could. She slammed her palm into his nose and reveled in the satisfying crunch. Blood gushed. Then she chopped him in the throat. He grabbed it and made hacking noises. He staggered back, but she didn’t stop.

All she could think was, he shot Ben. He shot Ben.

Another kick. A kidney punch. A whack to the side of the head.

She’d never been so furious, never so bloodthirsty. Certainly never felt so violent.

But he had done this, this man. He’d turned her from a mild mannered analyst into a savage hulk who wanted to do him damage—all with the squeeze of a trigger.

When he finally fell, in a thundering thud, it was something of an anticlimax.

She wasn’t done.

Her blood was still high.

As she bent over him to retrieve her scissors—she might need them later—a slow clap, echoing through the hangar stilled her.

Slowly, she looked up. Her gut roiled as Jonas strolled into the cavernous structure…with Ralley at his side.

“Impressive, darling,” her erstwhile boss purred. He was exquisitely turned out, as usual, in a pristine and expensive three-piece suit, his hair elegantly coifed, his expression smug.

God, she hated him. Hated him with a passion that burned. Her fingers tightened on the scissors. What she wouldn’t give to bury them in him.

Just once.

Ralley wagged his pistol at her. “Please. Drop the…scissors.” He shot a look at Jonas. “Seriously? You gave her scissors?”