The Sharpshooter's Secret Son. Mallory Kane
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voice small and hesitant. “I need to move my legs. Please?”
James made a growling sound in his throat, but he eased off the pressure of the barrel at her temple.
Mindy shifted position, using the movement to brace her feet on the floor. Then she took a long, slow breath, and sighed, as if in relief.
Deke’s body tensed expectantly. At that instant, she rammed her fists backward, putting all her weight and all her determination behind the blow.
She connected.
James squealed and dropped his gun.
Deke dove forward.
Mindy froze, staying as still as possible. She felt Deke’s hands sliding under her arms. He lifted her up off the crate and out of the way.
But by the time he’d turned back to James, the man had retrieved the short baton from his belt. He flicked his wrist and it telescoped.
Deke stopped in midlunge and backpedaled. He held up his hands, palms out, and glanced back her way.
James flicked his thumb and a faint crackling hum filled the air.
Mindy stiffened. What was that thing?
Then he lunged, as if with a fencing sword, right for Deke’s solar plexus. Deke tried to pull back, but she was too close behind him, so he took the full brunt of the attack. His spine arched sharply and he growled between clenched teeth. Then he flopped to the ground like a discarded rag doll.
“Deke!” Mindy screamed, as he collapsed to the dirt floor of the basement. “What did you do to him?”
“Shut up, honey, or I’ll give you a dose of the same.”
She cradled her belly and glared at Frank James, or whatever the heck his name was. She was so damn helpless.
I love you, Sprout, but you’re crippling me.
Deke heard Mindy’s scream, but he couldn’t make sense of what she’d said. He had to get to her.
Cold dirt scraped against his cheek.
What the hell was the ground doing there?
He tried to lift a hand, but his hand wasn’t paying attention to his brain. Nor were his feet. Even his eyelids seemed stuck open.
He saw a movement in front of his eyes. Something glittery—silver? James’s damn cowboy boots. Fake and all show, just like the lowlife who was wearing them.
Kick me again, bastard, and I’ll make you regret it. At least that was what he wanted to say, but his mouth wasn’t cooperating, either.
From somewhere he smelled the aroma of tangerines, mingled with dirt, mildew and the faint odor of burnt hair.
Then, more static filled his ears, his muscles spasmed in unbelievable pain and lightning struck his head.
WHEN HE GOT BACK TO HIS ROOM it was almost midnight. The strategy meeting Irina had called had lasted a lot longer than planned, mostly because they couldn’t agree on a course of action.
He’d tried to sound helpful but neutral. Trouble was, everybody else was doing the same thing. Ultimately the only decision that was agreed upon was that Irina would not leave Castle Ranch until the threat from Novus Ordo was over.
He could see in the other guys’ eyes that they were as skeptical as he was that she’d be able to stay put that long.
He bolted his door and put the chain on, made sure the blinds were closed, then went into the bathroom and dug in his shaving kit for the miniature cell phone.
Sure enough—a missed call. Reluctantly, he pressed the callback button, wishing he had good news to report.
THE INSIDE OF DEKE’S EYELIDS screamed with pain.
It was that damn sand. It got into everything. Slowly, he opened his eyes to a narrow slit. The tent was dark, so he had a few hours before Novus’s man came to torture him again.
He came every day. Every damn day. With that laugh. That gun.
That sound.
An icy shudder of helpless terror crawled up his spine as he relived those awful few seconds. They never varied.
First, the pressure of cold steel against his temple. Then the split second of screaming panic and soulwrenching sorrow before the hammer clicked against the empty chamber.
The sound triggered a cold sweat of relief, and the casually curious question of whether he would hear that same clicking sound if the hammer impacted a live round.
Finally came the regret that he’d lived through one more day. Because that meant tomorrow he’d have to face the same fate again. The inside of his mouth turned to sand-blown desert.
Taking a deep breath and cringing against the anticipated agony of his dislocated shoulders, he moved. Pain shrieked through him, but not the pain he’d expected.
What the hell? He hurt everywhere—not just his shoulders. His hands weren’t even bound behind his back.
Something had changed. But why? He’d been in this hell called Mahjidastan so long he’d lost count of the days. The predictability, the inevitability, had become as torturous as the pain and fear.
He carefully lifted his head, which hurt like a sonofabitch. Taking a cautious breath, he coughed.
Dirt, mildew, old wood—completely different from the stink of urine and camel dung he’d expected. This wasn’t Mahjidastan, the tiny disputed province in the region where Afghanistan, Pakistan and China joined.
He opened his eyes. Not easy. They were matted with dried blood and caked with dust. Blinking and wincing as he stretched his sore neck tendons, he lifted his head again, even more cautiously this time, and looked around.
Slowly, his brain gathered up his scattered, disorganized memories.
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