Straight for the ravine.
The recent rains had loosened the soil, and he knew the creek would be higher than usual.
As they neared the base of the slope, he felt it before he saw it. The trap. The end of the line.
His heart jolted to a stop. Flashlights clicked on. Surrounded.
He held Trace’s hand tighter, and she clung to him, gaze darting as she caught her breath.
“I’m sorry, Trace,” he said, turning and holding her look one last time.
Before it hit, he dropped her hand. Literally this time, electricity jolted into his body as the taser hooked into his chest.
Jaw gritting tight, body tensing as every neuron fired at once, he felt the darkness close in around him as he passed out.
Trace’s cry as she dropped to his side, smart enough to not touch him.
Tracewasnevergoingto forgive him. He hadn’t mentioned the taser. That trust and safety thing wasn’t looking so hot between them.
As he’d said, she only needed to look distraught, albeit quietly, and they let her stay conscious.
No taser for her, but the punch to her gut had bruised her intestines. The burning ache wouldn’t let up, each breath catching in her lungs.
Eight, maybe ten masked people closed in. Two of them heaved Cole up and started the trek up the hill.
She only hoped that the diversion had worked, that Asher and Zane had successfully extracted her parents, with no one the wiser.
On her knees, not needing to try very hard to sob, she wiped the mucus draining from her nose until her arms were ripped away, each elbow gripped tight and ready to drag her if they had to.
Fucked. That’s what it was. And Cole had done this sort of thing for a living. On both sides.
The wet slope nearly brought them all down so many times, but she dug her feet in and trudged up the hill, refusing to let Cole out of her sight.
The house was still dark, a subtle glow coming from the front of the house as they rounded the corner. The garage door to her dad’s garage bay was open. Her dad’s car had been moved out while Cole had been working on the chairs, and they were now set out and ready to be used against them. Even their own duct tape, tools sloppily left out. Fucking great, Cole and her father’s unfinished project had been turned into a torture chamber.
Cole’s body thudded unceremoniously onto a pile of lumber. Trace recoiled as he lay slumped on the pile, limp, lifeless. If it would save him, she’d scream like hell and run, fight if she thought it would work.
She bided her time. Played her role.
He hadn’t mentioned that he’d get knocked out in the first thirty seconds of his “interrogation.”
Janessa was waiting right in the middle of it all, standing behind one of the dining chairs expectantly, her expression markedly more satisfied this time. Cole hadn’t known for sure, but he’d been absolutely right, that there was no escape, that at least one of the security guards had been compromised. The other three were bound and gagged in the corner.
She still didn’t trust them.
Trace kept a solemn expression, adding a fiery glare at Janessa as she was marched to the waiting chair. Her captors shoved her to sit, then tied her legs to the freshly glued and dried dining chair, her hands behind her. She hadn’t needed Cole to tell her to keep quiet if she wanted to avoid a gag.
She stole a glance over at Cole, and he was still out cold, his hands or feet or face twitching occasionally as if he was having an active dream. Scowl deep, mouth moving desperately, he whimpered her name.
“What do you want?” Trace finally asked, calm and quiet.
From the darkness of the driveway, a figure walked toward her, confident and carefree, head held high as the mask came off. The woman was lovely. Fifty, maybe a little older. Gray hair with streaks of black, tied back in a loose ponytail, eyes darkened with sleekly smoky makeup. Leather pants, boots, and cropped blazer, all of which probably cost more than Trace made in a year. Maybe two. But damn, the woman knew how to walk in heeled boots.
The garage door closed behind her at a simple flick of her fingers. Goons jumping at her every bidding.
Ignoring Trace, the woman walked straight to Cole and crouched down in front of him, pinching his chin between her thumb and forefinger. “Has he said anything yet?”
“Your goons knocked him out,” Trace said, her voice boiling with emotion.
