Run to Me (4 page)

Fury replaced fear as Donald stomped down the stairway. Somebody better have a good explanation of how his home had been invaded. Heads were going to roll!

At the second-floor landing, he stopped and took stock. A man hung halfway over the railing. Again, one of his. Not bothering to check to see if he was alive, Donald continued down the stairs.

On the main floor, Donald treaded softly. Whoever had broken in was most likely either dead or gone, but he was too smart to take chances. Groans from one of the men on the floor added to his ire as he tiptoed toward his study. He inched his head in, saw no one. Nothing disturbed.

There was only one other reason for someone to break in. Rage bubbled and boiled. They’d come for the woman.

He ran out of the room, then jerked to a stop at another groan from the man in the foyer. Edwards, who’d been with him for over three years, lay faceup. Blood oozed from a wound in his thigh. Donald stooped down, nudged the man’s shoulder with his gun. “Who was it, Edwards?”

“Don’t … know.” He grimaced, took a breath. “Big man with long blond hair … scar on his face … took the woman.”

Donald straightened, weighed his options. Edwards wasn’t bleeding that much, but burying him would be less trouble than healing him. Besides, he’d allowed the bastard to take his woman. Hands no longer shaking, he pointed the gun at the wounded man’s head. Horror widened Edwards’s eyes barely a second before Donald pulled the trigger.

He ignored the groans from the man lying beside Edwards. Shooting his brains out would be gratifying but wouldn’t accomplish his objective. His people needed to see what happened when orders weren’t obeyed. His home had been invaded; valuable property had been stolen. There was only one creature he depended on to carry out their punishment. Everyone else would watch. Lessons must be taught.

But first he had a rescue mission to set up. His woman had been taken from him. His people would bring her home … or die.

“Be still.” Ethan smacked the shapely bottom of the squirming woman draped over his shoulder. Long strides ate up the distance as he ran down the road outside the compound and plunged into the overgrowth where he’d stashed the Jeep. Blood seeped from his side, the pain secondary to the shocked fury zooming through him. She’d tried to kill him. He couldn’t believe it, and if someone had told him this would happen, he would’ve called them crazy. But he’d seen her. Moonlight from the bedroom window had shone directly on her face. A lovely, ethereal countenance with a deadly, blank expression. She’d shot him and hadn’t blinked an eye.

If that sixth sense, telling him what was about to happen, hadn’t reared its head, warning him to move, he’d be lying on that bedroom floor in a pool of blood. Would that have fazed her? Would she have stood over his lifeless body and felt remorse, or would she have just shrugged and walked away?

Ethan opened the back of the vehicle and tossed the bound and gagged Shea inside. Yeah, she’d have some bruises, but damned if that didn’t give him a certain sense of satisfaction. Her bruises were a hell of a lot better than having a bullet in his gut.

Hand against his side to stanch the bleeding, he jumped into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Blasting out of the bushes, he roared onto the rut-filled dirt road, toward the small airstrip. Once they were on the plane, he’d rip the gag off and demand an explanation. Not that there was one he’d accept.
Holy hell, the woman had tried to kill him.

Things had gone so smoothly, he should have known there’d be a hitch. After spending hours studying the layout of the compound, he sat on his ass, at the top of a hill shadowing the compound, and observed. For two freaking days he’d watched people walk around the perimeter. One of those people had been Shea, and not once had she looked as though she was under coercion or threat.

The mansion, Spanish in design, was a Peeping Tom’s wet dream. Balconies, giant windows, and wide, arched doors gave him plenty of opportunity to view the inside. Only five guards were on duty, eight-hour shifts. He saw no reason he couldn’t practically march into the mansion and nab Shea with little resistance.

He waited till three in the morning, figuring the guard he’d seen nodding off the other two nights would be doing the same. And he had. Ethan found a sturdy tree limb hanging over a wall. Within seconds, he’d swung from the branch and been on the other side. On the way to the mansion, he’d slashed the tires of several vehicles and taken out three guards. Not killing if he could help it. No point in killing if it could be avoided. That was an LCR rule and one of the few he almost always followed.

Even her bedroom, on the second floor, had been damned easy to find. He should’ve known there’d be a wrench somewhere. He’d just never expected it from Shea. Good thing he’d brought clothes with him. If not, he would’ve had to search her closet. Something he’d definitely not had time to do. Putting shirt, pants, socks, and boots on a woman was a bit of a reversal, but he’d managed it in less than three minutes. Would’ve taken less time if he hadn’t been bleeding like a stuck pig.

As he turned onto a paved highway, he spared a look at the brightening sky. Would be dawn soon. They’d be long gone before—

Glass shattered. The backseat window exploded. Bullets slammed into the door. Damn! A white van was closing on them fast. The three men hanging from its side gripping high-powered rifles meant business.

Head lowered, Ethan floored the gas and zigzagged back and forth across the road in an effort to avoid as many bullets as possible. Another blast … passenger window shattered. Bullets hammered holes into the seat beside him. If Shea had been sitting there, she’d be dead.

His bloody hands gripped the steering wheel as he took a left on two wheels, tires squealing. “Dammit, Shea, when we’re out of this shit, I’m going to spank you till you can’t sit down. What the hell were you thinking?”

No response. Not that he expected one, since she was gagged. Besides, she was probably plotting back there, waiting for another chance to kill him. Damned if he’d let that happen.

His eyes flicked up at the rearview mirror. The road was empty. Good … lost them. Now he just needed to get to the airstrip, get Shea out and … The Jeep sputtered, slowed to a roll. Ethan glanced at the gas gauge. Empty. The tank had been hit. A miracle the vehicle hadn’t exploded.

With no other option, Ethan turned off the road. The Jeep nose-dived into a small ravine and shuddered to a stop. He shoved the door open and jumped out. In seconds he determined how far they were from the airstrip. Dense woods and jungle surrounded them. He’d made the run from the compound to the airstrip two nights ago … knew the area well. Shit, ten miles at least. No way would they make it in time. The pilot had instructions. If they weren’t there by five o’clock, he was to assume something had happened and leave. It was already four-fifty.

A distant sound … the roar of an engine … headed his way. Ethan snagged his backpack, tucked his SIG Sauer P229 into his waistband, and stalked to the back. Yanking open the door, he grabbed a violently wiggling Shea.

“Be still, or I’m going to knock you out again. You hear me?”

Booted feet rammed toward his balls. Ethan jerked away but not in time. His eyes crossed as blinding bursts of agony slammed into him. He dropped his pack, let go of Shea, and bent double. As darkness edged his vision, he had the grimly humorous thought that at least she’d taken his mind off his throbbing side. Pulling in deep gasping breaths, he staved off unconsciousness, then began to work on the extreme nausea clawing at his gut.

Hands on his knees, he observed with dispassionate interest as Shea squirmed until she fell, with a hard thud, from the back of the vehicle. She rolled on the ground and then made it to her feet. Hands still tied behind her back, legs tied at her ankles, she hobbled away. The gag in her mouth muffled what he could only assume were threats against him and insults to his ancestry. Not that he cared. At this point, he was as close as he’d ever been to saying to hell with her.

One last deep breath. Feeling slightly less ill, he straightened. Backpack in hand, Ethan took off after her. Dawn made a slow spread of light across the sky, easily allowing him to see the short progress she made before falling. He reached the top of a small rise and found her lying faceup, in a ditch, panting. Her green eyes showed no emotion. Had he ever seen those vibrant eyes with such a cold, blank expression? Did she hate him that much?

As much as he’d have liked to sit down in the ditch with her and have it out, he couldn’t. The growl of a vehicle grew closer and closer. If it was something he could hijack, he would. Most likely, Rosemount’s goons had caught up with him.

He dropped into the ditch and waited. The white van that had chased and almost killed him sped by. No telling when they’d return and find Ethan’s abandoned Jeep. He and Shea needed to be long gone by then. He hauled Shea to her feet, slung her over his shoulder, and loped into the jungle.

As he stomped through the underbrush, tiny grunts and groans came from her gagged mouth, but she’d stopped squirming. Only by cold determination did he fight back his fury. When they were a safe distance away, he’d drop her on her ass, take off the gag, and get an answer. Until then, she could grunt and groan as much as she wanted.

Though blood trickled down his side with every step, Ethan knew the gash was little more than a flesh wound. He’d stop soon and bandage it … not yet, though. They needed to get as deep into the jungle as they could. Rosemount’s men might give up after a few hours. Till then, he had no choice but to continue. Jaw clenched with resolve, Ethan forged onward.

She ignored the bruises and exhaustion as she planned her attack. Neither the identity of the assassin nor who’d sent him mattered. It wasn’t the first time she’d been tested in this way. Her training included periodic surprise attacks. She’d easily dispatched the previous ones, but this man was stronger, highly skilled. Not part of a training mission. So why hadn’t he killed her when he could? Was he an enemy of the master? Did he plan to ransom her as a hostage? That was unfortunate because the master would not pay for her. He had told her that repeatedly; had insisted that she repeat it herself. She was his pet, trained to do his bidding, but held no value.

She would escape, of course. Her training ensured her survival. What this man intended to do with her was of no consequence. As soon as he gave her leeway, she would take him out and return to the compound.

As she bounced upon her abductor’s shoulder, she paid little attention to the discomfort and pain. Such things were controllable. Her eyes stayed focused on her surroundings. Once she took care of her abductor, she would need to find her way out of the jungle. Her training hadn’t included jungle survival methods, but she was confident she would find her way out. Giving up was alien to her.

“Shea, you’re awfully quiet. Either you’re unconscious or you’re plotting something.”

She remained silent and still. This name Shea he continued to use was not a name she was familiar with. Was it a term for something? Was he using a mind game on her, trying to trick her? She would wait and watch. When the time came, she would be ready.

Without permission, discomfort seeped into her thoughts. Nausea from hanging upside down and having her stomach pummeled against a hard, muscular shoulder caused physical reactions she could no longer ignore. As bile rushed up toward her throat, she began to gag.

“Okay. Hold on.”

The voice sounded oddly soothing, as if he knew what she was going through. He slowed and headed to a small clearing. Sliding her off his shoulder, he dropped her on the ground. Big hands lifted her slightly to scoot her back against a tree and then pulled the gag from her mouth.

“No screams or I’ll gag you again and ignore the fact that you’re throwing up. Understand?”

Harsh breaths wheezed from her as she nodded her understanding. She would remain quiet and do as she was told until she was able to free herself. Then she would dispatch the assassin.

He’d been injured. She’d caught the scent of blood earlier. The hands that pulled her gag away were crusted with the evidence. Would he die from his injury? If so, she needed to free herself prior to his death. If he didn’t die, his injury would make killing him easier.

Her head stayed down, her eyes focused on the dark green covering of the jungle floor. She’d been trained to never look into the face of her enemies. Had been taught that it weakened the warrior inside if she allowed eye contact. She could afford no weaknesses. This man was stronger and much more skilled than the others. All her training and resources had to be used.

“Here.”

The gruff voice almost brought her head up, but she caught herself in time. When a canteen of water pressed against her mouth, she tilted her head back and drank, eyes closed to avoid seeing the man in front of her.

“We won’t be able to stay here long. Rosemount’s men are probably combing the jungle for us.”

Her eyes focused on his boots, but she could feel his gaze on her.

“Dammit, Shea, are you going to just sit there? The least you can do is speak to me … tell me why you shot me. What the hell’s the matter with you?”

When in a hostage situation, remain silent, keep your abductor off guard and wary. Do not allow him to see a weakness, as he will take advantage of it. She bit her lip, somewhat surprised that she did want to speak. She wanted to ask him why he had taken her, why he hadn’t killed her when he had the chance. And why did he keep calling her Shea?

The man blew out a curse as she watched his booted feet move a few feet away from her. His blood-encrusted hands opened a pack and pulled bandages and antiseptic wipes from it. He was tending his wound. Until he’d confirmed it, she hadn’t realized her shot had found its mark.

He expelled another harsh curse, then went silent as he treated the wound. Her eyes flashed upward briefly and caught sight of his injury, a bloody crease across his side. Her bullet had only grazed him.