Chapter Eleven
Cutthroat Creek
Cold air brushed Christina’s face, rousing her. A sliver of moonlight slashed through the darkness inside the tent.
She rolled from her back onto her side, the chain of the cuffs on her wrists jingling. “Get out, Jackson,” she muttered. “I don’t want you in here.”
The soft hiss of a zipper and then no more draft.
Good, he left without another fight.
A rough hand grabbed her shoulder, thrusting her onto her back. Terror pressed down on her as the muscular body of a man settled on top of her. His hand clamped over her mouth.
The Reaper.
Her insides turned to water.
He found me.
A white-hot blast of panic exploded in her brain.
She tried to cry out, but his gloved hand was tight over her lips.
Her screams muffled by his palm, she kicked at the air through the sleeping bag, trying to fight, but he was sitting on her abdomen, his knees pressed to her shoulders, his legs locking her arms to her sides.
Muscles, solid as steel, had her trapped. She sagged against the floor, flailing uselessly.
“Don’t fight me, Christina,” he whispered. “If you do, I’ll make it hurt, and I’ll still get what I came for in the end. You.”
She swallowed hard and stopped moving. Her heart hammered against her sternum, air stuck in her throat, her lungs constricting.
Her eyes adjusted to the darkness. He was dressed in all black but wore a camo boonie hat and a gaiter over the lower half of his face like the patrol guards.
“You have a choice.” His voice was low and full of menace.
“You can get up and follow me into the woods. Leave here with me of your own free will. Or—” Pulling the scarf down below his chin, he leaned forward, bringing his face closer to hers, so she could see his eyes.
The single word, or, hung in the space between them, like a guillotine over her throat.
“I can carry you. I already killed four men to get in here, but I can kill many more on the way out.”
That’s what he did, strode through the world and death followed, churning in his wake.
“As I scoped out the camp,” he said, “I noticed toys. There are kids here. It would be a shame if they got hurt because you made the wrong choice. You’ve been doing that a lot lately.
Making poor choices. Like running from me.
And protecting the US marshal on the boat.
Jackson Powell.” He stared at her, his gun with an attached sound suppressor resting on his thigh.
“I’m going to remove my hand from your mouth. Are you going to scream?”
She shook her head.
Slowly, he lifted his palm. “What’s it going to be?” he asked, as though she really had a choice.
He already knew how she’d respond after he’d threatened to kill innocent people. To hurt children.
Giving her the illusion of a choice was just part of the game to him.
Squeezing her eyes shut for a second, Christina knew how this would look to Jackson. What he would think of her. But she couldn’t let anyone else be killed because of her. Especially not Jackson. Too many lives had already been lost.
She opened her eyes and stared at him. Alvaro Aguilar. “I’ll go with you.”
A smile curled his lips, but it was cold, radiating smug satisfaction. He bent over, bringing his mouth a hairbreadth from hers. Shuddering, she turned her head away from him and stared at the duffel bag that was beside her.
The black go-bag was open, and the gun was inside.
Was the safety on? Was a bullet already chambered?
“Good girl,” Alvaro said in her ear, his breath fanning her cheek. He got off her in a fluid motion, took a knee beside her and yanked back the sleeping bag. His gaze fell to the handcuffs on her wrists. “Someone doesn’t trust you.”
“He thinks everything I say is a lie.”
Alvaro cocked his head to the side. “So, he knows you well.”
Her throat tightened, pulse pounding loudly in her ears. Jackson’s team was aware they had been in a relationship as teenagers. Everything the mole knew, Alvaro knew.
“He’s paranoid,” she said. “Thinks I’m a double agent.”
Alvaro studied her face for a gut-wrenching moment, and her stomach curdled. With his free hand, he reached into his pocket, retrieving something. He dangled a small key in front of her face, his intense gaze boring into hers.
Always prepared.
He unlocked the handcuffs, removing them, and tossed them to the side.
But why release her? If he had handcuff keys, then he’d probably also brought cuffs. Was he testing her?
“Get up,” he ordered.
She had one chance to grab the gun. If she managed to get it, maybe she could take out the biggest threat to her and Jackson. But if she failed and didn’t make it, Alvaro would hurt her for trying. The punishment might be worse than pain.
On the other hand, simply leaving with him would be the same as signing her own death certificate.
“Let’s go,” he said.
At the last second, she decided.
Rolling onto her hands and knees, she surged forward for the bag. She gripped the sturdy canvas. The cold steel of the gun was almost within reach, right there, near the top.
A brutal hand snatched the back of her collar and hurled her to the side.
The contents of the bag spilled across the floor of the tent.
He shoved her onto her belly, down to the ground, her cheek pressing into the musty sleeping bag.
In a swift motion, he seized one of her wrists, jerking her arm behind her.
He twisted, forcing her arm upward toward her neck, in a hammerlock, and she winced.
He applied pressure, his grip was tight as a vise, his fingers squeezing hard. She ground her teeth together against the sharp pain radiating from her shoulder joint down her arm.
“I would’ve been disappointed if you didn’t at least try,” he said, his tone light, sounding almost amused.
“I always liked that about you. Your fire. Your spirit. Your drive.” Leaning on her, he intensified the pressure on her arm, the joint in her shoulder pinching. “But now you’ve got to say it.”
Christina clamped her mouth shut, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of groveling.
His weight bore down, crushing the air from her lungs. Alvaro wrenched her arm until she cried out. Tears leaked from her eyes.
“Say it,” he growled in her ear. “Or I’ll snap your arm like a twig and rip it from the socket.”
Alvaro twisted harder, his grip on her tightening so hard it left her breathless, the pain excruciating. He was going to do it.
“Please,” she said. “Please.”
Keeping her locked in agony, Alvaro hunched over and licked her tears, making her squirm. Then he put his cheek to hers. “As much as I like to hear you beg, that’s not what I’m looking for.” His lips grazed her mouth. “Try again.”
“I’m sorry. Please.” She wasn’t exactly sure what he wanted to hear, but hoped the combination would suffice. “I’m sorry.”
Gradually, he eased off, reducing the pressure on her arm, but he kept his cheek smushed to her face. “Why do you make me hurt you?”
She closed her eyes. Didn’t dare move. Barely took a breath.
“This time you’re going to get up slowly and you’re going to behave. If you don’t, the first person I’ll kill on my way out is your ex. The US marshal.”
Getting off her, he stood and watched her climb to her feet. His gun was down at his side rather than pointed at her.
For a reckless heartbeat she considered tackling him, throwing an elbow to his head and a knee to his groin, but then thought better of it.
He was armed and she was outmatched. She’d trained for a moment such as this—had the best teacher, too, former Special Forces.
While she had gotten into her fair share of scrapes, she’d never fought a man like Alvaro, highly skilled, who was twice her size and three times as strong.
If she had to go mano a mano with him, there would be no contest. He’d overpower her, even unarmed and blindfolded, with one hand tied behind his back.
Trembling, she lowered her gaze, not wanting the hatred in her eyes to make things worse.
“If only you’d been loyal, it wouldn’t have to be this way.” Alvaro propped his gloved knuckle under her chin and forced her to look at him. “So many Iron Warriors cut down in the prime of their lives,” he said, and heartache punched through her chest. “But you still have a chance.”
She swallowed around the lump of grief in her throat. “A chance for what?”
“A quick death.”
A lie. It had to be. He could’ve already put a bullet in her head if he wanted it to be quick.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“Not yet, you don’t.” He stroked her cheek with his knuckles, and she cringed. “But you will.” His tone was soft, reassuring, but she wasn’t fooled by it. “We’re going to leave. Once we’re out of the tent, I want you to head south. Don’t run.” He stared at her. “Are you going to behave?”
She nodded.
He studied her face. “I guess we’ll see.”
This was all a game for him. One he was certain he’d win.
She unzipped the tent and stepped outside. Jackson’s sleeping bag was still on the ground.
Slipping out behind her, Alvaro said, “Walk. Due south.”
Turning to her left, she stared at the dark pathway as though it were a portal to hell. She stepped away from the tent and headed south, her legs shaky and weak.
The hiss of the zipper filled the air as it lowered behind her. Christina did as he instructed, going into the darkness, weaving steadily between the trees at a moderate pace. She remembered Alice’s ninth commandment.
It was the only rule Kirk had given her that she hadn’t understood. Not until this very moment.
If you find yourself in hell, the key is to keep going.
For some reason she couldn’t fathom, much less explain, a momentary calmness slipped over her. She would get through this. No other choice. She just had to keep going.
Then that fragile, scraped-together bubble of calmness popped when she heard Jackson’s voice.
“Christina,” Jackson called softly.
She whirled in his direction. Through the trees she saw him standing in front of the tent, holding a bowl. She glanced around but didn’t see Alvaro.