Guarded from Corruption (Blade and Arrow Security Bravo Team #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

JADE

I’m not going to get another chance at this.

If my plan doesn’t work, I won’t get the opportunity to try again.

The consequences of failing are terrifying. More drugs. More restraints. More tests. And more?—

No . I can’t let myself think about that. Not now.

Not when so much is riding on me getting this right.

In the week since I’ve been here—I’m almost sure it’s a week, though the first days are fuzzy—I’ve been frantically trying to come up with some way to get out.

If I hadn’t been so terrified at the beginning, maybe I’d have already escaped. If I hadn’t been paralyzed with fear, I might have found an opening sooner.

But how could I not be terrified? I was snatched from my bed in the middle of the night, drugged, and woke up restrained to a bed by these weird velvet-lined cuffs in a mysterious medical facility like nothing I’ve seen before. Surrounded by expressionless doctors and silent nurses and eerie instrumental music punctuated by echoing chimes.

Sick to my stomach, confused, scared, I begged someone, anyone, to let me go. Or at the very least, explain what was going on. But the only response I received was another injection.

Maybe it was a blessing I didn’t know right away. It might have been too much to take.

On that first scary day, while I lay there helpless, a lengthy series of tests were done on me. Echocardiograms and ultrasounds and X-rays and blood draws—even in my drugged haze I knew what they all were—and as the drugs were beginning to wear off, even a polygraph given by a stern-faced doctor who asked me about my sexual history.

So that was pretty terrible.

On the third day, it got even worse. That was when the men came.

One at a time, masked men came into my room and stared at me with hungry eyes, their gazes dragging across my body. It was like how the creepy phlebotomist at work looks at me except a hundred times worse. Gary the phlebotomist is odd and discomfiting, but too shy to actually do anything. These men…

No. Just no. Not now .

Not when the blonde nurse is due to come in soon. I need to be ready to make my move, and I’m already second-guessing my ability to do this enough without adding an emotional breakdown to the mix.

I need to focus. Think this through, step-by-step, just like I do when I’m treating one of my patients.

Am I clear-headed? Mostly. On the third day, when I was moved to a different room to do a stress test, I saw another woman—a captive , that’s what we are—being given a pill instead of an injection. And she was sitting on her bed, unrestrained, passively swallowing the medicine down without argument.

That’s when I had the idea.

I needed to pretend. To convince the doctors I was cowed; willing to do anything to make things easier on myself. So I did.

When the nurse came in to give me my next injection, I asked timidly if I could take the pills instead.

And when she came in the next time, I pleaded to just be out of my restraints for a minute. I wouldn’t try anything. I was too dizzy. Too weak. The medicine made me sick.

Two days ago, the nurse finally agreed. But she brought a security-type guy in with her, not entirely trusting I wouldn’t try to escape. I wanted to, desperately. It was the first time I’d been free aside from my escorted trips to the bathroom, and my body was screaming at me to flee.

I didn’t. I just sat there and gave the nurse a pitifully thankful look and held out my hand for the pills.

What she didn’t know? As soon as she left the room, I spit them out.

Yes, she checked my mouth. But back in PA school, I did a rotation in a psych unit, so I learned about all the tricky ways to hide pills. It’s not completely effective; I’m still feeling a bit fuzzy and off-balance, but it’s miles better than how I used to feel.

Then it was on to the planning.

What could I do? How could I escape?

It took the next two days of watching and sorting through possibilities before I settled on this incredibly risky plan.

If I were watching a movie and the heroine was going to try this, I’d think she was slightly crazy. But for lack of a better option, here I am.

Terrified. Nauseous from nerves. Hands clammy. Sweating. My damp gown clinging to my body.

I’m sitting on the bed, hunched over, clutching my stomach and moaning softly, like I’m in pain.

My heart is pounding out of my chest. It’s hard to breathe past the choking fear.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch the door, waiting for the nurse to come in.

Thoughts ricochet madly as my adrenaline peaks.

It has to be the blonde one. The one with hair sort of like mine. If they switch shifts and I get the full-figured brunette, this isn’t going to work.

Remember where the camera is. Over in the corner. I need to get the nurse around to the other side, so we’re out of view.

Don’t forget the move. The one Shea’s brother taught us in college. The throat punch. Shea thought it was silly; she giggled at Niall’s serious expression the entire time. But I paid attention. And later that day, I practiced it on a pillow. Just in case.

With a tiny snick, the door to my room opens, and soft-soled shoes shuffle in.

Oh, please. Please work. I need to get out of here before ? —

The nurse hurries over to my side, cursing softly under her breath. Once she gets to the bed, she leans in cautiously, asking, “What’s wrong?”

“My stomach,” I moan, rocking against the imaginary pain. “I’m having… it hurts…”

“Is it cramps?” she asks—the blonde one, thank goodness. “I can get you something for that.”

“No, it’s… oh, ow —” Rocking even harder, I groan just before toppling off the bed.

It hurts. Shoulder, elbow, hip all slamming into the cold linoleum. But it works.

Blonde nurse rushes around the bed and crouches next to me. Worry tinges her voice. “Oh, the bruises. They’re not going to like that. Just… wait here. I’ll find a doctor.”

“Please,” I beg, dragging myself back to a seated position. “Wait. Not a doctor.”

“I have to,” she starts. “You’re sick and hurt. They won’t like?—”

And then.

I punch her in the throat.

In a gasped wheeze, she clutches her neck and falls back against the side of the bed.

Then I leap on her, wrapping my arm around her neck and squeezing.

Still behind the bed, out of view of the camera, but for how long?

Part of me is shocked at myself. Hurting another human being after so many years trying to heal.

But the other part is coldly determined.

I don’t kill her; just keep her in a chokehold long enough for her to lose consciousness. Niall didn’t teach us that move, I figured it out on my own—it’s a matter of knowing where the carotid artery is and using the right amount of pressure.

It’s still a shock when it works. Enough of a shock that I just stare at her limp body for a few seconds before shakily touching her neck to check for a pulse.

Then it’s another few seconds after I feel the steady throb of her pulse before I remember my plan isn’t close to done.

I’m still locked inside this terrible place, and I need to find a way out.

I got out.

It still doesn’t feel real.

I swapped clothes with the nurse and somehow maneuvered her up onto the bed and turned her so she looked like she was sleeping.

Then I made the terrifying journey through the facility, certain I was about to be caught at any moment. Head down, trying desperately not to panic, shoving my shaking hands in the pockets of her scrubs, I hurried down hallways searching for an exit and hoping it wouldn’t need a key or an access code to leave.

Twice I passed another employee in the hall and nearly had heart failure, convinced I was moments from being caught. But they were too intent on their own duties—heads down, eyes focused, footsteps purposeful—to give me even a passing look.

I peeked into several rooms like mine and saw more women held hostage, and I felt like the worst person in the world for passing them by. For not helping them escape with me.

How could I? A drugged woman stumbling through the hallways with me? Wearing one of those pale pink hospital gowns, no less? I would have been caught for sure.

But I swore I’d come back, and I will. Somehow I’ll get help.

I just need to help myself first.

Unfortunately, it’s easier said than done.

When I slipped out the exit door into the night, I had no idea where I was. It was just a nondescript building sitting out in the middle of nowhere; with one long gravel driveway leading off into the dark.

I could have followed the driveway, headed to the nearest road, and waited until someone drove by. Certainly a good samaritan would eventually stop for me and bring me to the nearest police station.

Except. Someone from the facility I just escaped could as easily come across me. Grab me off the side of the road, toss me in the trunk, and take me right back there. Punish me. Make sure I never get a chance to escape again.

So I stayed in the shadows instead. Hugged the road but kept myself hidden among the trees.

And that’s where I’ve stayed.

Running, too scared to stop though I know it’s been hours. My legs are beyond cramping; they’re just a mass of aches and throbbing pains. My face is sticky with blood from all the times a branch smacked me in the face. A full breath seems a distant possibility as my lungs strain for air.

I’m so scared .

In all my planning, I didn’t think about what to do once I escaped. I didn’t think about getting to safety.

I didn’t think about the things that make me afraid to go to the hospital or the police for help.

Crap. The sun is coming up; soon it’ll be so much easier for the people I escaped from to find me again.

And I’m still out in the middle of nowhere. Still in Texas, I think, but I’m not certain.

Still in danger.

Then I see something. A small wooden sign that reads Campground with an arrow pointing to the right.

Yes . A campground. Campers mean phones, which means I can call someone I trust for help.

But who? Whoever I call, won't that put them at risk, too?

And then it hits me.

Shea’s brother. Niall. Former Green Beret. She told me he recently moved to San Antonio to join an elite security agency. An agency that helps people in trouble with nowhere else to turn. People like me.

With a burst of speed, I make a right, rushing toward the campground ahead. Ten minutes later, I nearly burst into hysterical sobs when I see the parking lot with a smattering of cars. And when I find a phone sitting in an unlocked car and the passcode is miraculously 1234 , I can’t stop tears from escaping.

I’ll put it right back , I silently swear to the very trusting and not very tech-savvy phone owner. I just need to make a very important call .

And finally, finally , I reach someone who might be able to help me.

It’s a woman, and she answers the phone in a friendly tone. “Blade and Arrow Security. This is Rhiannon. Can I help you?”

A sob bursts out before I can say, “Yes. Please . I’m looking for Niall Walsh. It’s really important. Can you please tell him Jade Bell is calling?”