Chapter 19
Mia
My lungs burned with every breath, fire spreading through my chest as I hauled myself up another rock face. The river raged below me, white water crashing against boulders that had probably been there since before humans walked this land.
Travis hadn’t been kidding about the staircase of rocks. Every ten feet forward felt like climbing ten feet straight up.
The sun had risen maybe an hour ago, which meant I’d been running, climbing, and scrambling through this wilderness for at least five or six hours. My legs screamed at me to stop, muscles trembling with exhaustion I’d never felt before.
Even during physical therapy after the accident, during those brutal sessions where I’d pushed my scarred legs until tears streamed down my face, I hadn’t felt anything like this.
I wedged my foot into a crevice and pulled myself higher, my fingers raw and bleeding from gripping rough granite.
The burgundy silk dress—Oliver’s elegant “possession”—clung to me in sodden, filthy strips.
Mud caked the fabric, mixed with sweat and river water until the deep red looked more like dried blood.
I’d torn off the lower half somewhere around hour three, when it kept catching on branches and threatening to send me tumbling into the gorge below.
Good. Let Oliver see his precious silk reduced to rags. Let him see what his prey could do.
I paused on a narrow ledge, pressing my back against the cliff face as I caught my breath.
My Converses—thank God for small rebellions—had held up better than any heel ever could have.
The rubber soles gripped the wet rock, found purchase where stilettos would have sent me plummeting.
Oliver had expected me to be hobbled, helpless.
He’d underestimated me.
The mud I’d smeared on every inch of exposed skin had dried and cracked, making me look like some creature from a horror movie.
My arms, my face, my neck—even the ruined dress was coated in it, brown and gray streaking the burgundy.
If Coop was right about thermal imaging, I probably looked like part of the landscape now instead of a warm body running through the cold.
Coop.
My chest tightened at the thought of him, and not from exertion. I could still feel his hands on my shoulders, his mouth fierce against mine in that final kiss. The way his voice had cracked when he’d whispered, “Run like hell.”
He’d gone back to the compound after I disappeared into the trees. Back into the lion’s den to buy me time, to throw the hunters off my trail. Unarmed. Alone.
Had Oliver figured out he was helping me escape? Had the others turned on him?
No. I couldn’t let myself spiral into the darkest possibility. He’d told me to run, and I’d run. Just like he asked.
I started climbing again, forcing my trembling legs to obey. The river gorge was beautiful in a savage way—towering pines clinging to impossible angles, mist rising from the churning water, mountains stretching toward a sky so blue it hurt to look at. Montana wilderness at its most unforgiving.
A bird burst from the undergrowth to my left, and I froze, heart hammering against my ribs. Just a bird. Not a hunter. Not Oliver’s men crashing through the trees behind me.
I’d been checking over my shoulder every few minutes since I started, ears straining for sounds of pursuit.
The forest was full of noises that could be anything—branches cracking, animals moving, wind rustling through pine needles.
Every sound made my pulse spike, flooding my exhausted body with another surge of adrenaline I couldn’t afford to waste.
The scars on my legs throbbed with every step, phantom pain mixing with real agony as muscles I’d damaged in the accident protested this abuse. I could almost feel the twisted metal cutting into me again, could almost hear the rescue crews’ voices as they tried to pry me from the wreckage—
Stop it.
I shook my head hard, banishing the flashback. This wasn’t the same. I wasn’t trapped in a crushed car, helpless and bleeding while time ran out. I was moving. Fighting. Every step forward was a step closer to survival.
But the terror felt the same. That primal, animal fear of being hunted, of being prey.
What if I’d gone the wrong way? The river curved and twisted through the mountains, and in the darkness, I could have missed a turn somewhere.
Travis had said to follow it upstream, to look for a bridge crossing a gravel road.
But what if the bridge had washed out years ago? What if it didn’t exist anymore?
My foot slipped on wet rock, and I went down hard. My palms slammed into granite, skin tearing open on the rough surface. Pain lanced up my wrists, and for a moment I just lay there, gasping, feeling the cold stone beneath my cheek.
Get up.
I couldn’t.
Get up, Mia.
The voice in my head sounded like Coop. Fierce. Determined. Absolutely certain that I could do this.
I pushed myself to my knees, then to my feet. Blood welled from my scraped palms, mixing with the mud already caked there. My ankle twinged—not sprained, but close—and I tested it carefully before putting my full weight on it.
Keep moving. That was all I had to do. One foot in front of the other until I reached that road. Run like hell.
Travis had said someone would be there. Someone from Warrior Security, waiting to get me to safety. But how long ago had that call been? Hours. It had been hours, and I had no way of knowing if they’d made it, if they were still waiting, if something had gone wrong on their end too.
The clock in my head kept ticking, counting down to some unknown deadline. Every minute that passed was another minute Oliver’s hunters could be closing in.
I waded across a shallow section of the river, cold water soaking through my already-wet shoes and numbing my feet. The current tugged at my legs, and I had to brace myself against the rocks to keep from being swept downstream. The ruined dress dragged in the water, heavy and clinging.
On the other side, I paused to catch my breath and check my bearings. The river continued upstream, the terrain growing slightly less vertical. Maybe I was getting close. Maybe—
There.
Through the trees, maybe a hundred yards ahead, I saw it. A bridge. Old wooden planks spanning the river, leading to a gravel road that disappeared around a bend.
Relief hit me so hard my knees nearly buckled. I almost sobbed, my throat closing around a sound that was half laugh, half cry. I’d made it. Twelve miles of brutal, terrifying wilderness, and I’d actually made it.
I started scrambling toward the road, new energy flooding my exhausted body. The gravel road meant vehicles. Vehicles meant escape. Meant help. Meant maybe, just maybe, getting out of this alive.
I was halfway to the bridge when I heard it—a branch snapping somewhere behind me in the tree line.
I spun, and my stomach dropped straight through my feet.
Oliver emerged from the tree line maybe fifty yards back, moving at a controlled pace that said he had all the time in the world.
His clothes were pristine—how the hell were his clothes pristine?
—and his expression held that cultured satisfaction I’d learned to hate.
Behind him, Bishop moved with military precision, already breaking into a run when he saw me looking.
They hadn’t been chasing me through the wilderness. They’d anticipated where I’d come out. Cut me off at the pass like I was nothing more than a stupid animal following a predictable path. I had no idea how they’d known I’d be here, but it didn’t matter.
No more time to think.
I ran.
And prayed. If that vehicle with the cavalry wasn’t at that road, I was finished. I was totally reliant on people I’d never met before in my life.
Every ounce of energy I had left poured into my legs. The gravel road was so close—fifty yards, thirty. I could hear Bishop’s footfalls now, too close, gaining with every second. He was military trained, fresh, not exhausted from twelve miles of brutal terrain in the dark.
Twenty yards.
My lungs screamed. My legs threatened to give out. The road stretched in front of me like a finish line I might never reach.
Ten yards.
I hit the gravel just as Bishop’s hand closed around my arm.
He spun me around with brutal efficiency, fingers digging into my bicep hard enough to bruise. His face was cold, professional—this was just a job to him, collecting the prey for his boss. But there was something else there too. Something that looked like anticipation.
“Oliver’s going to enjoy this.” His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. “Running that far only to get caught right at the finish line.”
He was confident. Why wouldn’t he be? I was just a photographer. A woman in a ruined dress, exhausted and bleeding and completely outmatched.
But I remembered Coop’s instructions. Remembered his hands guiding mine through the movements, his voice in my ear as we practiced the self-defense moves for entirely different purposes than self-defense.
Throat. Eyes. Groin. Don’t hesitate.
I didn’t.
My fingers drove toward Bishop’s eyes. He deflected—of course he deflected, he was trained for this—but I was already following through with my knee, driving it toward his groin with every ounce of force I could muster.
Not a perfect hit. But enough to make him double forward slightly, his grip loosening for just a second.
I slammed my palm into his nose.
Something crunched under my hand. Blood spurted, hot and wet against my skin. Bishop released me with a grunt of surprise and pain, one hand flying to his face.
I didn’t wait to see if he went down. I ran toward the road.
A vehicle was coming. Black SUV, moving fast down the gravel road, dust kicking up behind it. I had no idea if it was Coop’s friends or strangers who worked at the mine. I didn’t care. That vehicle was my only chance.