Authors: K H Lemoyne
He pushed Mia into the adjoining corridor and grabbed the next guard’s wrist, stalling the gun in his hand at hip level. This guard didn’t suffer from the element of surprise. He had several inches and a good fifty pounds to his advantage, boasting more strength and less dexterity. The assessment registered with Turen in a split second.
Unfortunately, the guard also shouted a warning before he clipped Turen with his free fist.
The blow glanced off Turen’s cheek. He pulled the guard lower and smashed his elbow into the man’s face. Blood sprayed from the guard’s nose, but he refused to back down and instead jockeyed for position.
Turen wrestled to spin him and bent back the man’s wrist to push him down. He lost precious seconds before his fingers finally dug over the critical artery in the man’s neck to force unconsciousness. The maneuver worked, but the time lapse had allowed Rasheer to arrive with six men.
Spinning on the balls of his feet, Turen threw an arm around Mia’s neck. He dragged her back to his chest and grappled the knife from her hands. Stunned, she grabbed at his forearm, struggling in front of him as he dragged her down a new corridor, using her as his shield against the guards.
Confusion flickered over several of the guards’ faces.
Suddenly understanding his action, she started to ease into his hold. Turen tightened his grip to cause her pain, her gasp a sign of success. He needed her to be a victim. A connection with him in front of these enemies wasn’t an option.
It would be Rasheer’s pleasure to kill her, though Turen didn’t doubt Rasheer would find ways to keep Mia alive and suffering for a very long time, much longer if he suspected her link to Turen.
“Be still,” he snarled, loud enough for all to hear. He pressed the knife to her side, a tiny nick, enough to elicit a cry of surprise, before he slipped the knife toward her back and hid the tip in the fold of her backpack.
She didn’t relinquish her struggle. They inched their way backward onto a series of catwalks, a construction of metal and wires, suspended over the main distribution area of Xavier’s compound.
Turen growled in frustration.
Could this get any worse
?
Heads below turned to follow the disturbance. Turen kept his focus on Rasheer. The man smirked, signaling with two fingers for one squad of men to separate and cut off Turen’s escape. “I want them both alive. Damaged is fine.”
Two minutes—all the time he had to figure out a new option before the foursome at his back met up with them. Turen glanced over the railing at the crowd below. He had no ability to assess who might be useful as a pawn or an ally—no help there. A second series of catwalks ran in a diagonal pattern beneath theirs.
He squeezed Mia and whispered into her ear, “Fight me and go over the side.”
She shook her head.
Turen shook her and glanced over his shoulder. Rasheer hadn’t moved, but his men were almost on top of them.
“Fight me, damn it,” he snarled and angled the knife tip from the backpack. He gouged Mia’s side again, harder this time. She wouldn’t have lasting marks, but there would be blood.
Her instinct and training kicked in. One hand released his arm. Her head turned, her foot lifted and fists clenched as she drove her elbow back into him, stomped on his instep and then pivoted. Her fingernails clawed for his neck, as she twisted the knife from his hold.
He made a play at grabbing for her only to knock her with his elbow over the side. In a last-minute grab, he caught her wrist, his hold firm.
Mia dangled below him, her pupils dilated in fear. Yet the trust reflected in her eyes choked the breath from him even as he released his fingers and confirmed her feet safely touched the second catwalk.
How had he done this to her? Nothing was worth what he’d subjected her to.
He turned and sank a fist into one of the men converging on him.
With a quick canvass of the crew before him, he realized Rasheer was no longer on his catwalk. Turen roared in rage, the adrenaline, and terror for Mia kicking in. His speed and skill brought low three of those tackling him, but two more soldiers had arrived.
The twist of their battle spun him to look down, down to where Rasheer prepared to cut off Mia from the exits below.
***
Mia’s body shook uncontrollably, even with her feet flat on the catwalk. Desperate, she held on to Turen’s words.
Assess your options. Find one. Then a backup. Then a third. No matter how bad they seem
. The memory of Turen’s voice echoed through her mind. They’d spent hours running through scenarios, ways to buy her time if she ever had to face Xavier’s men by herself.
She kept a firm grip around the knife in her hand, holding it like a stake.
To the left was an exit that led back into the stonework mazes of the compound. She could see several guards from the higher catwalk climbing down metal stairs bracketed into the rock wall to cut off that option.
The other direction took her back toward Xavier’s quarters, but as she started that way, Rasheer walked out of the dark tunnel to stand before her with a sneer.
Her breath hitched at the scar running down his neck. The tattoo of a fanged scorpion meshed along the other side and wove into the same scar. The life-like image and the man who had chosen the tattoo sent chills down her spine.
Turen’s words echoed.
Don’t let Rasheer near you. He will kill you eventually, but what you saw on my body will be nothing compared to what he’ll do to you
. She wanted to cry but was too damn scared out of her mind.
Both directions were blocked.
Think, Mia, third option.
Gritting her teeth, she glanced over the side of the catwalk. A good sixty feet separated the catwalk and the stone floor of the cavern. Best case, she’d break bones. Worst case, she wouldn’t live to feel it. Maybe those two were reversed.
She didn’t pause to think and swung a leg over the rail, straddling it with a quick glance for her next move.
Rasheer had walked slowly toward her, so certain she had nowhere to go. With her actions, he stopped and his eyes narrowed.
“Chica, don’t do this.”
Mia ignored him. Swinging the second leg over, she secured a foothold along a support wire. A series of cries and movements above drew her attention back.
Turen was visible through the metal grates of the catwalk planking. Several guards were down around him. Two others were landing blows even as a third raised a gun and fired.
Her cry of distress cut short as Rasheer shot a hand out to grab her wrist, missing her by a hair. She had sensed him and ducked lower.
She grabbed the under-rail of the catwalk and let the tips of her shoes slide to the V of the support wires beneath the catwalk. It was an exercise in walking on tension wires. Stretching her leg, she met the next crisscross with her toe. She slid along the diagonal steel wire. The cable, taut but flexible, wove back and forth. The purpose, a lacing of steel strength meant to provide structure for the catwalks and conduits for the security wires and the lighting, not a mode of travel.
Her hands grappled for a firm hold. Her compromise was to slide lower and hook her knees around the cable and hold on like a damn monkey, swinging just out of Rasheer’s reach.
The intercom on Rasheer’s belt snapped alive as an explosion erupted from beyond the cavern. The vibration of a charge thundered through Mia’s body. She tried to tighten her grip against the cable’s violent shake.
“Rasheer, the back gate’s been compromised. Have your team there in three. Copy?”
Rasheer paused for only a second, glancing sideways at Mia. A tight snarl twisted his mouth. A glint of feral rage lit his eyes. Then he ignored the call and swung his leg over the rail in order to reach down and grab her.
“Rasheer.” The device clicked. The low, deep command growled from the unit.
Rasheer slid his fingers to his intercom and clicked it off. His cold gaze never left Mia’s face. “Just you and me, bitch. If you beg, I’ll make your death quick.” The edges of his lips rose in a sadistic smile as he laughed at his own lie.
Mia looked around. The men on her catwalk who’d cut off her escape route were now running through those exits toward the explosion. She couldn’t see below her, but she doubted there were many people wasting time on her pitiful outcome.
Farther above she could see Turen, now immobilized on his catwalk, facedown, arms positioned behind his back. No fewer than eight men surrounded him with weapons drawn, even though he lay with his eyes closed and blood covering one side of his face. He couldn’t get to her.
She was screwed.
Rasheer would be the worst way to go, yet she couldn’t commit to her last option. It felt like giving up, but she’d run out of time. A few more seconds and he’d have a hold of her hand or wrist, because there was nowhere else to go.
Almost.
“Chica, that is a bad decision.” Rasheer stopped, his glance going from her face to the shifting of her legs. Cold calculation swept across his features. He strapped himself with a cable to the under panel of the catwalk.
He was coming to get her. With a cagey move, he whipped out his hand, and shifted to lunge at her just as another explosion rattled the entire cave and shook the catwalk.
Rasheer teetered back to gain balance. Sweat caused one of Mia’s hands to slip as the motion jarred her legs. The wiggle of the cable caused her legs to slide and lose their solid hold.
The swing of her feet propelled her body back and forth, too unstable for her fingers to keep a tight grasp. She clenched them in desperation, steel fibers cutting her skin. Slick with sweat and blood, her body’s momentum added weight. To try to grip with the other hand would cause her to swing again.
She hung for a second.
Rasheer’s fingers snatched at her and missed.
With a deep breath, she kept her gaze fixed on his cold one as she purposefully released her fingers. A brutal scream tore from her throat as she plummeted, weightless.
Rasheer’s scream of rage followed her. She closed her eyes and braced for the impact.
The soft cushion of cotton beneath her was…unexpected.
CHAPTER 14
Mia had placed the pouch of vials in her freezer beneath the packet of peas. Mindlessly, she had walked to her bathroom and huddled on the shower stall floor beneath the beating stream of hot water until it lapsed to cold.
That had been four long weeks ago.
She had kept her promise and tried not to force a
fold
to Turen. The absence of his presence and lack of closure on his safety weighed like a ten-ton mantle on her shoulders.
Four weeks eased nothing. It didn’t dulled her memories or numbed her worry. Instead, each night her dreams filled with images of him, vivid snippets of conversations and touches, want and need always the desperate result. Each day she woke more tired than the previous.
The puzzle of how to block her
fold
to him proved useless. Her instigating method utilized simple processes: relaxation and concentration on his heartbeat. The more she’d envisioned him, the easier he had been to reach. Since she’d gained control to reach him, she hadn’t experienced a random
fold
.
No reverse of the scenario made sense. And unlike her
folds
to Turen, her trips back home posed no consistent pattern. She usually disappeared from Turen’s cell during sleep but the time had varied from the minute she fell asleep to hours or even after a full day and half the time they had made love. As much as she wished for it, sleep hadn’t
folded
her to him once after her altercation with Rasheer.
She had pushed efforts to block the
fold
aside and let routine take over. Training based on Turen’s guidelines provided a good distraction and expanded her skill, though more often than not it left her exhausted. She purchased two slender nine-inch KA-BAR combat knives, complete with leather sheaths and adjustable straps, and successfully added them to her repertoire without self-inflicting more than one or two nicks. The flame, she managed, finally able to repress the fire while she worked out. She could control the intensity to minute levels. It increased her confidence, but the achievement felt lackluster.
Her Archive access hadn’t disappeared, but it was small comfort. The readings gave her little new information except for random details of different marks from Guardians through the generations. The journal entries were tedious to sort through, with no particular catalog of the information or ability for quick recall, turning the screen from ally to combatant.
Frustrated, she swept the current screen to the side with a flick of her hand and scrolled down a second one. “Can’t you just tag the screen, ‘marks,’ user, Mia?” she snarled at the glitter in annoyance.
She gasped as a small inscription flowed to the screen’s edge. Scripted letters, per her command, detailed, “Tag marks, Mia.”
“Well, damn. I should have asked sooner,” she said and laughed. “How about, bring Turen home.” Nothing. Ah, well.
The process went on for several more screens. She’d tagged a variety of data for future reference, yet found no immediate answers in the ancient database. Frustration built again and she dismissed the screen, and then headed to her office to drown her blossoming bad mood with work.