Chapter 5 #2
He presses the gun back into my hand. “Try to survive.”
And with that he heads out.
I send up a silent prayer that we both survive the day.
I go to run out the door behind him, but draw up short.
I turn back to my cooking table. There are three open flames and at least five pounds of flammable materials on the table. All it would take is one kick and boom…
“You better run while you can,” I warn the cowering women who haven’t found it in them to take off yet. “Now!” I scream and most of them dash for the door.
I crank up the gas to the flame and watch the blue-orange flame flicker with as much anger as I feel burning a hole in my insides.
I raise a bare foot and kick the nearest pot. Liquid sloshes out to pool over the surface of the table and then spills to the hardwood. I grab for a stack of papers and wad them up, in one hand while I kick the table again.
For a fraction of a second, nothing happens. Then fire spreads over the surface of the spilled liquid and then leaps up the surrounding walls in a roar. Every flame is orange, hot and beautiful.
Cash, chemicals and pink pill baggies erupt into the air like confetti.
The blast hits me, knocks me sideways, heat licking at my arms, my hair, the tips of my ears.
The world turns into a storm of smoke. Women scream, men shout, someone fires a gun close enough that my ears ring.
The acrid burn of fire mixes with the raw, metallic taste of terror on my tongue.
I bust out the door of my prison and run.
I do hardcore knees to chest and pump my legs until every muscle in my body screams. And even then I don’t stop.
I dash through one archway and then another. Vultures are all around me. Lucky for me no one is watching the nearly naked lady running for the nearest door.
My skin prickles and my heart does a quick dance of excitement when I reach the front door.
Holy hell, I didn't think I would get this far. I know it’s stupid to stop, but there’s a heavy haze of smoke that wraps around me and blocks my view.
Humid air clings to my skin. Sun-kissed spring air drifts through the carved lattice nailed to the side of the porch, clearing the smoke enough for me to see my way off the porch.
To my left and right, Vultures go hand to hand with men who look an awful lot like them.
They have cuts on and look as mean as any Vulture I’ve seen.
Which means I definitely need to go in the opposite direction.
I know what Razor said, but I move my finger over the trigger of my gun and take the steps off the porch two at a time. Screw being safe. As far as I am concerned, anyone who dares put a hand on me deserves a bullet.
Keeping my head low, I sprint across the grass.
My bare feet find every damn rock and rough stick there is in the unkept lawn.
I stumble forward, falling face first into a tall patch of grass Mother nature has reclaimed.
I roll to my back, hold the gun against my chest in one hand and tighten my grip on the papers in the other. I lie still, calculating my next move.
To my right is a road that leads somewhere that isn’t here. To my left looks like it heads deeper into the bayou. Gator dodging does not sound like a good time.
The sun floats overhead like a fireball. As much as I love the feel of the heat on my skin, it makes not being seen really damn hard.
I roll and push to my feet, opting for the road out of here. With just a few steps wildflowers tangle around my ankles. Gunshots ricochet off nearby trees as the fight grows closer.
“Hey, you bitch. Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?”
I don’t know why, but instead of bursting out in a solid run, I turn at the voice of the bushy-eyebrowed Vulture who likes to tie me up.
“Screw you!” I seethe through gritted teeth.
I narrow my gaze on him and level a thousand imaginary blades at his nuts wishing my glare could neuter the bastard where he stands.
Wait. Wait.
He raises his gun at the same time I do. I guess that catches him off guard because I manage to get a shot off before he does. His misses, but mine doesn’t.
Okay, that just happened.
OHMYGODWHATHAVEIDONE crashes through my brain at a numbing speed.
I want to marvel at my luck and also puke my guts out. Instead, I shove my glasses back up the bridge of my nose, turn on my bare heel and immediately tumble into a thicket of thornbushes.
Fuck. My. Life.
Sharp ends scrape over delicate skin. My skin burns, and my chest wants to detonate with the force of a nuclear explosion. When my body stops rolling, I take stock of what I’m left with. I haven’t let go of the stack of papers, but the gun is nowhere.
Damn it!
I push to my knees and grab for my glasses. It takes me a few tries but I finally manage to stumble to my feet. I’ve come out on some dirt road. I don’t care where it leads, at least there are no Vultures in sight.
I find the will to push myself into a jog, and then faster until I’m at max speed. I have no idea how people run marathons. I’m dying to put air in my lungs.
I press forward, every muscle straining. The noise is chaos—yells, shots, the crash of something heavy falling in the house from the hill I just rolled down.
But the chaos doesn’t stay top-side for long. The dirt at my feet bursts to life, shooting plumes of dust into my face. Bullets pelt the ground. One at first and then it’s a storm of chaos pushing me to run harder.
“Get the fucking professor, you damn idiot,” the Vultures VP shouts to I guess one of his crew. I don’t stop to see if I can spot who he is talking to.
A bend comes up in the road. If I can just make it around that curve I can be out of range for someone to get lucky with their target practice.
I get halfway to freedom when the shadows in front of me move.
I skid to a dusty stop. A man twice my size steps out from the shadows at the edge of the trees, broad-shouldered and silent. He has black hair cropped short and vivid tattoos spread over the tanned skin of powerful arms.
I inhale deeply and exhale with a force of anger and fear. For the first time in my life, I wish I had the gun I lost.
“Layla?”
The world stills.
It takes me a second to realize the beast of a man walking toward me with a handout like he’s trying to calm a scared cat said my name.
“Keep back,” I warn. Not like I have anything to fight with unless I can beat him with a rolled up stack of papers, but I don’t let my lack of a weapon deter me.
I take a step back but I only do that once because someone takes a pop shot at my feet.
I tumble forward and the beast in front of me catches me before I can face plant into the dirt road.
I have a limited number of options before me. I could dodge and weave around this guy and hope he doesn’t catch me.
Not likely, my brain argues.
I could hit rewind and go back the way I came.
Err… that won’t do, either. The Vultures will kill me before they let me escape.
Fight?
Ha. Yeah, that’s a solid no.
“Layla,” he calls again.
“How do you know my name?”
With a quick once over, he takes in my state of clothing, or lack of, the trickles of blood running down my legs from my tumble through the thorns, and my lack of a real weapon no doubt.
“I’ve been hunting for you for a very long time. You and I have a friend in common.”
I snort and raise my wad of papers when he takes a step closer. “Unlikely. I don’t hang around assholes, willingly that is.”
The smirk that twists his lip up is cute and makes his scowl turn into a sexy smolder. What? I have eyes. It doesn’t mean I believe him though.
He keeps his expression calm and his voice pitched low, yet soft at the same time when he answers. “I hear you, Doc. I think you know an FBI Agent by the name of Harlow Montgomery?”
My brain tries to catch up with the idea of actually having someone that is on my side but it’s not that easy hitting the reset button after five months of trauma.
I take in his leather biker cut, the white T-shirt and black jeans. “But you’re a Vulture.” My brow creases with confusion.
He shakes his head. “That is a negative, Doc. I’m a Savage.”
“But the leather cut,” I counter and take a half a step back. Just because he can toss out a name I know doesn’t mean he’s a friendly.
“You’re about to learn there’s more than one crew of bikers in this area and we are the good guys.”
He gives me his back and sure enough the emblem on the back of his cut is totally different from the Vultures.
And then the bullets start up again.
Men shout profanities and the few moments of calm turn into pure chaos.
Before I can get my brain on board and my feet moving, the dude moves in front of me, blocking me from the violence.
“Stay behind me and move.” He shrugs out of his cut and forces my arms through the holes and urges me deeper around the bend in the road until we are fully out of sight.
His body heat wraps around me like a shield, grounding me. The strong coil of his arm around me, anchoring me to his side calms my racing heart.
My breath catches when his hand falls to the bare skin of my hip forcing me to a stop.
“Hold up here, Doc.”
For a moment, my vision narrows to the way his shirt stretches across broad shoulders, the cut of his jaw, the intense darkness in his eyes. He smells of leather, gun oil, sweat, and a deep, unmistakable note that is all him. Not a cologne. Something wilder.
I cling to it. I don’t know why but the rampant insane energy bouncing around my insides settles the deeper I inhale.
A Vulture barrels into view, weapon up. The man in front of me—my protector—fires without hesitation. The crack of the shot echoes across the grass. The Vulture drops, and for the first time in months, I feel safe.
I cannot stop staring at my new bodyguard. His gaze finds mine, and I see myself reflected in those dark eyes. My heart thunders. My lungs flutter, torn between crying and laughing. In that instant, everything I am collapses into a black hole inside me.
He lifts a hand, brushes a fluttering strand of hair from my face, and his thumb ghosts over the bruise on my jaw. I realize I am crying. Not the silent, hopeless tears of captivity, but tears of relief and gratitude.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice deep and rough.
The words settle over my heart like a warm blanket.
He holds me as if I am precious, as if my battered body is worth more than the money and drugs burning behind us.
The safety in his arms is a sensation that blooms so violently I nearly collapse.
I drink in every detail of him, the line of his mouth, the strength in his grip, the heat radiating from his skin.
He looks at me as though he is searching for damage, for proof that I am real and alive and his to protect.
The world of flames, gunfire, the wreckage of the lab behind me fades to a dull roar.
“Stay behind me,” he commands, and I nod, the words getting lost in the storm of everything I feel. There is trust in the air between us, forged in heat and desperation, something ancient and unbreakable.
If you ask me to explain it, I could never put it into actual words another human being can understand. Magic? Fuck no. That doesn’t exist, but the way his presence speaks to me has no other name.
Another Vulture charges around the bend, gun up and his face twisted with rage. My rescuer moves with terrifying grace. Watching him move feels like seeing a man who has waited a lifetime to defend his mate.
He quickly eliminates the threat just in time to see another bounding down the hillside. My bodyguard palms his weapon and fires. The enemy falls.
“I said behind me, Doc.”
My bodyguard sweeps me closer and I wrap my arms around him so that my front presses against his back, the wall of his body my only shield.
His pulse thrums beneath my palm. My own heart finds the rhythm.
I feel him breathe, steady and deep, even as chaos reigns.
I realize I am not just surviving—I am living for the first time in forever.
In his arms, every nerve in my body fires to life.
I have not known real touch in months, not safety, not hope. Now it is all I know.
He turns a fraction, and our gazes connect. “You’re safe, Layla. I won’t let anyone hurt you.” His words tremble with something fierce and raw. I don’t know why, but I want to believe him.
And really? Do I have any other choice?
The world narrows again, just the two of us at the center of the storm. Smoke twists between us, but I can feel the certainty in the way he holds my gaze.
We move as one, his body leading, mine following, an unspoken connection already binding us.
I do not know his name yet, but I know he is the man who will burn the world to save me.
In the blaze of sunlight that greets us as we move down the road, something new is born.
I swear with my hand on a stack of Bibles it feels like hope.
Please, God, don't let me be wrong.