Beneath the Burn (13 page)

“Understood, sir.”

“Charlee will go with us.” He patted her head. “How’s that sound, beautiful girl. A trip to New Jersey?”

Like she had a choice. Leaving Nathan’s vigilance rammed her heart to her stomach. She suspected he’d watched her on the cameras over the previous two weeks and that knowledge alone had made her feel protected and less lonely, despite the depraved situations he must’ve witnessed. “Yes, Sir.”

“Very good. Salvador, make the preparations and find that fucking mole.”

15

That night, Roy caned Charlee harder than ever before. Perhaps because he anticipated little opportunity to beat her on the trip or maybe it was punishment for Henry and the mole. She limped to bed on heavy feet, nursing even heavier thoughts. The reason for his brutality didn’t matter. Nathan was in danger, and she didn’t intend on leaving him.

As Roy showered, she gathered the chain beneath her pillow, one link at a time and hoped the movement wasn’t caught by the cameras.

He joined her in bed and wrapped his body around hers. She lay still.
Please don’t stretch an arm beneath the pillow.

He settled, and she stared into the dark, listening as his breath slowed into the rhythmic pulse of sleep.

Thirty minutes passed. If she waited any longer, she’d wimp out. She could do this.
Do it now
.

At least one of the cameras would be infrared. They would see her but wouldn’t reach the room in time.

She clutched a length of chain, her hands concealed under the pillow, her movements slow and precise. He was on his back, his chest rising and falling with even respiration.

The garrote was ready, taut between her fists.
Breathe, Charlee
. Three…two…one…

She slipped it from the pillow, shoved it beneath his chin, and crossed her fists behind his head.

Sirens blared and the overhead lights flickered on. Damn it to high heaven. She hadn’t thought of that.

His eyes popped open, and his hands shot to hers. “Charleeeeee.” His roar was a bad sign. Very bad. It meant she hadn’t yanked hard enough. He could still breathe…and scream.

He wrestled her for the noose, and the stomping of footfalls exploded through the door.

Pull tighter, dammit
. He was gasping, hacking. His eyes rolled back in his head. It was beautiful.

A fist shot through her periphery, slammed into her eye. Then another. And another.

She couldn’t breathe. She clawed at her throat. The chain. Oh God, the chain was wrapped around her neck and a heavy weight crushed her chest. Roy stared down at her, his face a manifestation of hell itself. Even if she survived, she wouldn’t recover from this.

“Your eyes,” he whispered. “That’s the first thing I noticed about you the night Craig Grosky brought you to my doorstep. Big open windows.”

She couldn’t speak, couldn’t take a breath. Her lungs burned. The dark crept in from the edges.

He cinched the noose tighter, his face raging above her like a wall of nightmares closing in. She swiped a hand at him. He grabbed her flailing arm, bent it backward. Something cracked, and pain jolted through her shoulder and chest. Another blow landed in her side, and her lung burned as if stabbed.

She couldn’t scream, couldn’t moan, couldn’t inhale. Her eyes throbbed. She blinked through the wet darkness, tried to open them as wide as possible and fill them with her words.
Would you survive my death?

He stared at her. His brows slanted in a
V
, the angle of his clenched jaw severe. She wasn’t getting through to him. He was going to kill her. It was there in his glare.

The part of her brain capable of processing her own end grasped onto a thread of optimism. He wouldn’t survive her death. She was certain of it, and the thought made her smile, as much as her contorted face would allow.
Do it. Kill me.
She was so fucking ready.

His eyes widened, but he wasn’t looking through them. They were glazed and far away. Had he come to the same realization?

He flung himself off her, and the sound of his footsteps marked his clumsy retreat.

She gasped for air, her throat on fire, her lungs straining. No punctured lung? Broken rib, maybe. She could no longer see through her swollen eyes.

“Everyone out. Salvador, ready my plane. I’m leaving now.”

She pulled the noose from her neck and gathered her useless arm close to her body. She cried out, miserable with pain.

“Now, Mr. Oxford? It’s two in the morning.”

A body thumped against the wall, followed by a gasp.

“I don’t give a fuck what time it is.” Roy’s voice bellowed from down the hall. “Get me the fuck out of here. She stays. No one goes in that room while I’m gone.”

The door slammed shut, and the quiet crept in. The prior minutes settled over her in a heavy fog of pain.

She made a mental perusal of her injuries. Swollen eyes. Broken arm. Possible broken ribs. She still had her teeth. She might’ve laughed at that if her throat wasn’t so damaged. Her body throbbed and burned as if on fire, and the sad thing was, the pain was beginning to feel just a little bit normal.

Maybe she should worry about her injuries being left untreated in Roy’s absence, but the buzz in her head weighted her eyelids. So fucking tired.

16

Charlee awoke to the bed jostling, lurching. How long had she slept? Darkness shrouded her vision and nausea rolled through her gut. Why couldn’t she see? She was so damned tired, drifting in a furry sort of haze. Or was it fuzz? Yeah, fuzzy.

Something pulled on her ankle and her leg felt lighter…free.

“Shhh. This might hurt.”

That voice. She knew that voice. She’d made it to heaven.

Steady hands tucked her arm next to her body. Stabs of pain skated through her shoulder, and she moaned.

Bedding wrapped around her, chin to feet. The mattress fell away and her body was lifted, cradled against a hard chest. Was she going somewhere?

“I…” She swallowed past the hurt in her throat. “Can’t…see. Book.” She jerked her chin in the vicinity of the table.

The forward motion stopped. “Got it.” He walked through the room. “We’re heading into the hall now. Don’t make a sound, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.
“Noah.” She melted into the arms holding her so gently and pressed her face into his neck. “You came.”

He tightened his grip and shifted into a sprint. Just like her dream, he’d come to save her. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to bawl like a baby.

Footsteps emerged behind them. He jerked right, stopped, and pressed her mouth harder against his neck. A warning to keep quiet?

Where were they hiding? She pictured the penthouse’s layout. A closet, maybe?

“Aren’t you supposed to be in the monitoring room?” The unfamiliar voice was far enough away she was sure whoever it was couldn’t see them.

“Matthew let me step out for a smoke.” Another voice she couldn’t mark.

Her exhales were coming out so loud. She couldn’t help it. The damn injury in her chest was igniting with her panic. Could they hear her? She couldn’t stop shaking.

“Where’s Matthew now?”

“He’s still in there. It’s fine, man. Mr. Oxford put him in charge.”

The pain in her shoulder hammered. The trembling grew more violent, reaching deep in her bones.
Please, leave. Shut the fuck up and leave.

“Mr. Oxford also said two guards should man the cameras at all times. And don’t forget. While you’re monitoring her, he is monitoring you. Get the fuck back there.”

The voices faded. He inhaled deeply. Then they were moving, around a corner, and…climbing? Stairs? What was up? The roof.

Metal rattled. Crisp outdoor air washed over her. In the distance, the
whump, whump, whump
of a helicopter approached. Fast.

“This might go to shit. Just hang on, okay?”

She tucked in, her body paralyzed with shock. Noah, the rescue, it was a dream. She was dreaming.

The wind picked up, and the whine of the helicopter’s rotor announced its descent.

He ran. She held her breath, tried not to pass out from the agony of her injuries battering against his sprinting body.

A gun fired. More followed. Behind them. In front of them. Footsteps and shouting rang out in every direction. She couldn’t see, couldn’t fight, and her consciousness ebbed and flowed with his ducking movements.

Clutching her to his chest, he lowered to a squat. The gun fight waged. Minutes felt like hours as she tensed against the pangs gripping her body. She soothed her nerves by picturing them concealed behind a wall, out of the path of the whistling bullets.

How much time had passed since Roy left? Was he turning his plane around that very moment? A barrage of questions piled up her damaged throat. Holding herself as invisible as possible, she waited.

Finally, he shot to his feet and dashed several paces, zigzagging left to right, setting her teeth on edge with pain. “Get this thing in the air.” He panted. Skidded to a stop. Twisted them, leaping forward, and landed on his back. “Go, go, go.”

The sheet unraveled enough to free her good arm. She tried to sit up, but he held her tight. The floor shifted below them, wobbling with the shift of the helicopter. The gunfire died down and fell quiet. A collective sigh released through the cabin.

“How?” She swallowed, flinched. “This rescue?” He’d accomplished the impossible, and if she had the strength, she’d pinch herself.

He lifted her and settled them into a seat, tugging straps around them, stabbing pain through her chest and arm. “Marines. I called in a favor.”

The helicopter vibrated, and she gasped against the agony. “Nathan okay?”

His body tensed and caused hers to do the same. His hands were on her, but she could no longer feel them. A terrifying anticipation of something ugly and awful curled her fingers into a fist. She unclenched her hand, forced it to reach up and brush over his face.

Her touch met wiry hair from cheek to cheek. She didn’t understand at first. Her hand raked back and forth through the full beard she knew Noah couldn’t grow. If she rubbed it long enough, maybe he would pull her hand away and tell her it was fake. He didn’t. Instead, his chest began to buck and a sob escaped his throat.

She jerked her arm away and choked, “Nathan?”