Finding Fate: An Intense, Fast-Paced Romantic Suspense Novel Page 14

  "You wanted me, remember?" I wheeze, barely able to suck down enough air to stay conscious. "I'm here for you. I came here for you." The second his hand relaxes, I gasp air down to my lungs. "You fucking bastard. They will find you, and you’ll pay. Pay for me. Pay for him. And pay for murdering my fucking sister, Destiny."

  Yellowed eyes scan from the top of my head to my blue eyes and chapped lips. The slight tilt of his head signals that he sees the resemblance. Or maybe I'm imagining it. Like this pathetic fool would bother remembering the women he rapes and murders.

  "Who they?" he breathes as his free hand rips the light blue material from my body.

  Instead of answering, I gather what little saliva I can muster and spit in his face.

  The back of his hand connects with my cheekbone, which I expected and, due to previous backhands, am somewhat prepared for. But not the second hit. The punch to my ribs sends me flying to the other side of the pen.

  Warm liquid streams down the bridge of my nose, dripping to the dirt. My arms quiver as I push up to stand. Swaying a bit, I turn to face him again.

  "The fucking CIA, you rat bastard," I choke out, then spit blood toward his black combat boots. "Because of me they know you’re here, know how to find you.”

  Needing to remind myself that what I’m saying is true, I grip the locket in a tight fist. The general’s gaze shifts to the hand at my neck.

  Well shit. I’m an idiot.

  The thin metal chain bites the back of my neck as he yanks it off. Again his callused hand wraps around my throat, but his attention stays on the locket now in his hand instead of me. Up and down, up and down, he tosses it in his hand, staring.

  With a huffed laugh, he lobs it to the corner and looks over my shoulder to Nash’s side.

  "Kill him. We move. Now."

  "No!" I scream, spitting blood and saliva over the general’s face, which only makes his grip tighten.

  A click at my back before the booming bang of the gun rattles my eardrums.

  My high-pitched scream echoes through the jungle as all hell breaks loose around us.

  Chapter 17

  Fate

  Before

  Blood and snot drip down the back of my throat, making it difficult to take a full breath. The hand around my neck releases, allowing me to crumple to the ground. I wrap my arms over my head in an attempt to hide from the last ten minutes.

  I stare at the ground instead of turning to see. I can’t see what I’ve done to him.

  Destiny. Mom. Blue-eyed girl. The woman from the other night. And now Nash. Who else will be affected by me? Hurt by me? Even if I don't wish it, the curse on my life bleeds over to them. Once anyone knows me, their fate is sealed.

  The urge to spiral into self-pity and despair overtakes my will to fight. I don't resist as I'm hauled to my feet, or as he drags me limp out the door into the chaos.

  Men shout. Popping sounds echo and burst around us, surrounding the entire camp as men run, guns raised.

  Dragging me in his wake, the general yells to his men. The spike of pain in my shoulder pulls me from the black hole I dove into, jolting me back to reality.

  With my free arm, I scratch at the general’s forearm and kick my feet in effort to slow our escape. And it works, until his second grips my other arm and assists in pulling me across the camp. Screaming and kicking, I frantically scan the thick jungle, hoping someone will barge through and save me.

  Instead the two race faster and faster in the opposite direction of their men. The truck door swings open and something hard slams against the small of my back, shooting me forward. Rusted metal rips the pale, exposed skin of my shins as I'm shoved into the cab of a small truck. The general climbs in behind me, preventing my retreat plan. The second-in-command slides into the driver seat, trapping me between them.

  Fuck.

  As the truck rumbles to life and lurches forward, a deep, soul-trembling panic sets in. If I leave with them.... A quiet sob escapes.

  At the outskirts of camp, I lurch across the general’s lap. My fingers graze the metal of the door handle before his elbow slams down on my forearm. I reach again, but something hard smacks the back of my skull and stars overtake my vision. I resolve to stay conscious. I have to keep trying. If I leave here, my fate is sealed.

  The desire and will to live spur courage to try again. I lunge for the window, my knuckles connecting with glass. Something cracks and pain sears from my hand up my arm. I scream at the throbbing in my hand and swivel in the bench seat to kick the man driving me to my death. Again and again I kick, at him, at the steering wheel, anything my foot can connect with. Shouting fills the truck as it swerves hard right just as I’m off balance. I roll to the floorboard, my chin nailing the floor first.

  With just trickles of energy left, I push up only to fall back down.

  This time my brain doesn't listen to my pleas and the world goes dark.

  ARGUING MALE VOICES spear through my eardrums right into my brain. The back of my skull thumps with its own pulse.

  Shit. I have no idea how long I've been out. Minutes? Seconds? Hours? Which means not only do I not know the direction back to camp if I manage to get out of this, but who knows how far away it is.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. I’m going to die.

  Breathing becomes difficult. Breaths too short, too shallow. Darkness encroaches in my vision once again.

  I need to calm the hell down. I can’t fight if I’m unconscious. Focus. Deep breath in and hold. Deep breath out. With each focused breath, the darkness fades and my vision clears. Staying as still as possible, I keep breathing deep and listen to the continued arguing above me. I need a plan. What would Hermione do? I need to channel all my favorite badass characters’ strength, all the women I've read about, and use it now.

  Huh, being a book nerd my entire life now seems more like studying than casual reading.

  A smile pulls at my lips.

  I’m going to get out of this.

  I will live.

  My still-throbbing head screams in pain, every bump along the road rocking my limp body side to side. Add in the loud yelling still going above me and my brain is near pulverized.

  Or so I thought.

  A gunshot booms in the cab, pulling a scream from me. Ears ringing, I shift along the floorboard to look up. The general's lifeless, bleeding body lies slumped against the window. Gaping, I face the man who just killed the man I wanted to kill.

  "Get up," he says, staring out the windshield. For emphasis, he motions with the gun to the empty seat beside the dead general.

  "Wh-what's going on? What did you do?" I stammer, scooting farther away instead of obeying his direct command.

  "My army now," he says with an evil smile. The hand on the wheel tightens and rotates, the hard plastic squeaking.

  "But... why?" I stare at the gun still in his hand, resting on the pleather seat.

  "They want him. You next. After. They never find you."

  There’s no need to guess or ask what he means by “after.” This is my only chance to survive. It's either get raped and murdered or go down fighting.

  Gathering the courage stored in thousands of books, I steel my spine and decide that today he will not decide my fate. I'm not going to die.

  He is.

  He’s too busy paying attention to the road to notice me quietly formalizing my attack plan. If I nail his arm with my foot, it could cause us to veer off the road, hopefully into a river or off a bridge, or straight into the portal of Hell for all I care. It's the only option with my lack of real badass skills.

  All right. Three.

  Shit.

  Two.

  Shit. Shit.

  One.

  I force my foot across the cab as hard as I can, slamming into his forearm just as the truck hits a pothole or root of some kind. With a curse, he grabs at the wheel with both hands to regain control, the large gun rattling to the floor beside my knee. Realizing his mistake, he cuts his eyes to mine and then the gun
just as I'm leaning forward, reaching for the deadly piece of metal.

  I wrap my fingers around the grip like the instructor told me weeks ago and aim at his chest. Before pulling the trigger, I slam my eyes shut.

  But instead of a deafening bang, nothing happens.

  Again, I pull the trigger. Again. And again.

  Above me, the man laughs and reaches for the gun.

  Damn fucking piece of shit. Fine. If it won’t work, then I’ll go to plan B.

  Rearing back, I launch the pistol at his head, striking his temple. With a roar, he lets go of the wheel and lunges at me. My scream cuts off when I'm rocketed forward and the world rotates. And rotates.

  I have no idea how many times we roll before rocking to a stop. Metal creaks and groans while the hiss of steam or something crackling somehow sounds through the pounding and ringing in my ears. Blood drips from my forehead, down the bridge of my nose to my hands.

  Warmth spreads along my now bare foot, biting at my toes. I push up against the crunched metal as the heat builds and licks at my skin. I can't stop my soft whimper from pushing past my lips. First I thought I would be raped and killed, and now my fate is to be burned alive somewhere in the middle of Africa.

  What in the hell did I ever do to deserve all this?

  The generals’ body leans half out the shattered window, blocking my only escape option. Every inch sparks blistering pain, but I keep moving. I gag at the sound of ripping cloth and skin as I push the body out the window to make room for me to wiggle through. Peering over the door, I don’t find ground. Well hell. Of course the truck landed along the edge of a shallow gully. The drop won't kill me, but going down feet first is the only option.

  The edge of the door presses into my ribs; I cry out in frustration and pain but continue to haul myself over. My fingers grip the edge, the rest of my body dangling outside the truck. I glance down one more time, summoning courage.

  Before I can release my grip, a bloodied hand shoots out the window and wraps around my hair.

  I shriek in pain and shock. The bloody face of the general’s second emerges, hatred and anger overtaking his features. In slow motion, I see his free hand reaching for the length of my neck.

  No. I didn't get this far not to live.

  Despite the immense pain this will cause, I shove against the truck with my feet and fling my head back. Down, down, down I fall, but I land on something soft enough to only have the wind knocked out of me instead of breaking my neck. I don't turn around to see what it is—I already know.

  The short relief of surviving the fall fades at the sound of creaking metal. Snapping my attention back up to the truck, I find the general’s second slowly climbing out the same way I did.

  Run. I need to run.

  Shoving off the body beneath me, I turn and bolt into the depths of the jungle.

  Not caring which direction I go, or who I'm running toward, I just run.

  And run.

  And run.

  Chapter 18

  Nash

  Today

  The metal knob slips in my sweaty grip. Shit, hopefully Raider didn't see that, but knowing how observant he is, he did. The fucker notices everything. Which was a good thing four months ago when they found me in the damn shack and dragged me out of that hell hole. Raider was the one who, from what I've been told, since I was too busy being passed out to notice, looked past the bullet wound in my shoulder and pointed out the infection in my leg.

  He's probably the reason I only lost it from the knee down instead of the full leg.

  Not sure which was more upsetting the day I woke up in the hospital: the fact that they had to amputate the lower part of my right leg to save the rest from the gangrene that had set in, or when I asked for Fate and everyone looked away. Well, everyone but Raider. He stood by my bed to look me straight in the eye and told me what they found, or rather didn't find.

  Not a trace. The damn tracker was on the ground, but she and those two bastards were gone. And now here we are after four months of recovering. Waiting. Dreading.

  I pull the door open an inch and pause. "I don't know what to say," I admit, staring at the dark wood of the door.

  "Pretty sure not even you could fuck this up, Snowflake. Say something. Say anything. But make it fast, because Drake just texted saying some fucksticks from the FBI are headed our way. You don't have much time."

  Fucksticks. I know said fuckstick they’re talking about. And he's not a fuckstick at all like the rest of those bastards. He's just like she made him out to be all those nights we lay awake talking to the moon. If I didn't have a great dad to look up to, Mac would be someone who could sit on that pedestal easily.

  Swallowing against a throat as dry as the Sahara, I turn the knob and pull the door open while popping my knee to the side to keep the dog inside the room. Of course he knows she's here. But not now, seeing Dobby might be too much. First I need to see her, gauge her awareness. Hell, what do I know? This is my first reuniting of two captives when I was one of the captives. Sure as hell aren't CliffsNotes on how all this shit will go down.

  Each step moves quicker, faster. Even though I'm scared shitless, I'm ready to see her. The past four months I've dreamed of this moment. But somehow in the dream, we were always past the awkward part. In those dreams, I told her how much she meant to me, how she is the only woman besides my sisters who’s seen through me. Told her how much it killed me to hear her crying at night and not be able to hold her. How pushing her away that day was the hardest damn thing I've ever done and I've regretted it every day since. In those dreams, it’s perfect.

  When we round the corner, Tex and the other two guys look up, focused on me, but my gaze stays on the black fabric–covered head sitting on the couch facing the front door. Fighting back the urge to run, which I've been doing a lot of the past couple weeks to get back in shape and get used to the new contraption on my leg, I continue forward.

  Still she doesn't turn.

  The beer from last night fights up my throat, but I push it down. Like he knows everything running through my head, Raider rummages through the fridge and tosses two bottles of water across the room.

  Crouching the best I can in front of the couch, I take a swig of water.

  "Hey, you," I say, setting both bottles on the coffee table at my back. Holding on to the table and couch, I push past the strangeness of balancing on the ball of one foot. "Hey, it's me. Fate?"

  No movement, not even a head tilt showing she hears me.

  What happened to her?

  "Pops" My voice cracks as every form of emotion swirls within me. The building storm pauses with the slight turn of her head in my direction. Why do my eyes burn? Shit, are those tears? "Hey, you. It's me. Nash." When I don't get any other form of acknowledgment, I take a different approach. "Fuck, I hate that thing. I can't tell if you're hearing me," I nearly growl.

  Emerging from beneath the thin material, a trembling hand reaches out and stops midair.

  Closing the distance, now more eager than ever to have her touch, I lean to press my bearded cheek against her palm. My eyes shutter closed as her thumb strokes along my skin, transporting me back to the last day in Africa.

  "I thought...," she whispers, almost like she's unsure of her own voice. "No. You can't be here. You’re dead. Why are you doing this to me?"

  My heart cracks at the desperate plea in her soft voice. "Not that lucky, Poppy. I'm still here. And so are you."

  The black material shudders, and the soft whimpers of her tears echo around the near silent room. Making eye contact with each of the guys, I nod toward the front door in a silent request for a few minutes alone.

  After they've all filed out, Raider the last one with a cautious second look, the earlier awkwardness fades. Just us. The way it always was, and the way it's meant to be.

  Taking the hand still pressed to my cheek, I thread our fingers together and kiss her open palm. "It's just us, Pops. Just you and me, okay? I'm here, and I'm never go
ing to lose you again. I promise you—" Heat builds along my cheeks at the crack in my voice. "I promise you're safe with me. Safe here. Let's take it off, okay? I want to see you. I need to see you," I whisper and lean back into her hand, savoring the touch I've been waiting months for.

  Her head shakes, sending the material swishing against itself.

  "Why?" I plead. Okay, this is a new low but fuck it. I'll get on my knees and beg if I have to. The urge to see those bright blue eyes inches up with each second they're hidden away.

  "It's my protection. I'm safe covered, hidden. He can't find me," she whispers, voice still shaky and unsure.

  The need and urge to protect her snuffs the earlier foreign emotions. Anger builds and my fingers flex against hers. Hell, it takes every ounce of control not to just pull her against me, burka and all.

  "Fuck. That," I grunt, her attention snapping to me. "I'll protect you. You're here. You're stateside. I'm here. The boys are here too."

  "You don't know everything." She tries to pull her hand from mine but I hold tight. "Why are you here? You need to go. Go far away."

  "What all don't I know? Take it off, Pops. I need to see you." My eyes close as I lean back into her warm palm. "I thought you were gone, that I’d lost you forever. I need to see you. Need to know you're okay. Please give me this. Let me see you. Trust me."

  Seconds turn into minutes as the clock in the kitchen ticks on and on. But I don't move, giving her time to feel safe. Fuck, I want to see her and make sure she's okay, but I won't force the issue. Whatever happens will be on her time frame, not mine, no matter how much I want to push it.

  "Okay," she finally whispers, withdrawing her hand from mine. This time I let it go.

  The veil slides from her shoulders, then her face and head. The blue eyes I've dreamed about stay focused on her lap as the fabric pools to the floor.

  Not wanting to spook her, I inspect every inch of exposed skin. Her blonde hair appears healthy, not too malnourished, and neither does her skin. Even though she's lost a little weight, she appears relatively healthy. A pang of guilt and envy sucker-punches my gut at the signs that someone else has taken care of her.