Quinn's Woman. Susan Mallery
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because he would flag down one of the jeeps circling the forest. If he didn’t make it in the time she allowed, she would find one more potential prisoner herself and get back into camp by midnight.
Forty-five minutes into the first hour, D.J. heard something. It wasn’t footsteps or brush moving. She couldn’t actually place the sound, but it made the hairs on her arms stand up and her senses go on alert.
Someone was out there.
She silently slid off the log and into the shadowy protection of a tree trunk. After concealing her pack under some leaves, she confirmed she had her sidearm in place, then set out to find whoever was approaching.
She headed east first, then south to end up behind him. She worked on instinct, still not hearing anything specific, but knowing he was there. There were no bent twigs to give her direction, no footsteps, no startled birds or squirrels.
A couple of times she nearly convinced herself she’d been imagining the almost-noise and she started to return to her backpack. Then she would shiver, as if someone had raked nails on a chalk-board and she would know he was still out there.
It took her thirty minutes to make the circuit. When she ended up a few yards away from where she’d started, she was disgusted to find the guy pulling her backpack out from its hiding place. He’d gone right to it, as if he’d known it was there from the beginning. How had he done that?
D.J. dismissed the question. Once she verified the man had a purple arm band instead of an orange one like hers, she knew he was fair game. While he was bent over her supplies, obviously distracted, she moved in to attack.
She was less than a foot away when she pressed the barrel of the rifle against his back.
“Bang, you’re dead,” she said softly. “Now stand up slowly. Ghosts don’t move fast.”
The man calmly closed her backpack and put his hands in the air. “I heard you crashing around out there. What were you doing? Playing dodge ball with some rabbits?”
She didn’t appreciate the question or the smirky tone of voice. For one thing, she knew she’d been quiet. For another, she was the one holding the gun.
“Keep your hands up,” she said as she eased back far enough to keep him from grabbing the rifle.
When he was standing with his back to her, she considered her situation. The man was tall, a couple of inches over six feet, and well muscled. His stealth told her he wasn’t an amateur like many of the participants. Nothing about him was familiar, which meant he was probably Army. Special Forces? Had they sent in a ringer?
She couldn’t see his sidearm, which worried her. His rifle was on the ground next to his pack, but where was the handgun?
“How long are we going to stand like this?” he asked conversationally. “Or did you forget the next part? You’re supposed to have me turn around, then we eyeball each other. Once you’ve scared me with your rifle, you tie me up. Can you remember that or should we take it in stages?”
“You have some attitude, son.”
“Son?” He chuckled. “Honey, you don’t sound all that old yourself.”
Arrogant bastard, she thought in annoyance. No doubt he thought because she was a woman, she would be easy to take. She was itching to kick his butt, but she wasn’t going to start something before she knew she could finish it. She might be irritated, but she wasn’t stupid.
“I have no interest in eyeballing you,” she said. “Put your hands on top of your head, then get on your knees.”
“But I just stood up,” he protested, sounding like a spoiled child being asked to eat his vegetables. “Why don’t you figure out what you want first, and then move me around.”
She gritted her teeth. “Listen, mister, you—”
He moved with the speed of a cheetah racing in for the kill. One second he was standing with his back to her, and the next he spun in a graceful circle. His foot cracked against the rifle with enough force to send pain shooting up her arm. Involuntarily her fingers released the rifle and it crashed to the ground.
D.J. barely had time to notice. With her arm throbbing, she was at a serious disadvantage. Not that they were going to fight. Her opponent pulled his sidearm out of nowhere and pointed it directly at her head.
Her brain had started processing information the second the man had moved. She knew that he was as powerful as she’d thought, with lethally fast reflexes. He was tall, had dark eyes and the faint smile curving up his lips contrasted with the cold metal in his hand. He was good. She gave him credit for that. But was he good enough? He’d kicked the rifle, not her. Had his mama taught him not to beat up on girls?
In keeping with her philosophy of using every weapon at hand, she decided to find out.
She ignored the gun and drew her throbbing arm up to her chest. With her free hand, she cupped her wrist and forced herself to whimper softly.
Whatever it took to win, she reminded herself even as she hated the thought of appearing weak.
The gun never wavered, but the man took a half step forward. “What? I kicked the rifle, not you.”
She glared at him. “Maybe that’s what you aimed at, but it’s not what you hit.” She sucked in a breath and bit her lower lip. “I think my wrist is broken.”
He frowned. “I didn’t hit your wrist.”
She glared at him. “Right. Because in those boots you’re wearing you could feel exactly what you connected with. My mistake.”
Mentally she crossed her fingers, then nearly crowed with delight as he glanced down at his boots. One nanosecond of inattention was all she needed.
D.J. lashed out with her foot, connecting firmly with the man’s midsection. Even as all the air rushed out of him, he grabbed for her leg. But she’d anticipated the move, and had already spun away.
The gun disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. He had to be weak from lack of air, but he still moved toward her. D.J. prepared for his attack, but when it came, she barely saw movement before she found herself tumbling onto the wet ground.
Part of her brain tried to figure out what exactly he’d done, while the rest of her recognized that the lack of pain anywhere meant he’d held back. He’d upended her with enough contact to send her tumbling but not enough to cause pain. How did he have that much control?
She wanted to summon up a little righteous indignation. How dare he treat her differently because she was female? But she was too busy scrambling to her feet and trying to figure out what he was going to do next.
D.J. crouched and cleared her mind. With a deep breath, she centered herself and knew she had to attack rather than wait to be bested.
As she moved toward him, she saw his arm push out. She ducked, spun and, instead of kicking at his knee as she’d planned, found herself slipping on the wet leaves. Something glinted and she instinctively reached out. Her fingers closed around his gun. He knocked her forearm with his hand so the gun went tumbling. She managed to kick it with a foot, sending it back into the air. With a graceful pirouette, she caught it and started to turn toward him. He ducked, her foot slipped again, and she began to fall. Her right hand shot out, and she accidentally brought the gun down hard on the back of his head. He fell like a stone.
Her first thought was that he was dead. Then she saw the steady rise and fall of his chest. Her second thought was that she had better get him tied up while he was unconscious, because it sure as hell wasn’t going to happen when he came to.
Chapter Two
Quinn regained consciousness several seconds before he opened his eyes. He quickly registered the fact that he was lying on his back in the mud with his hands tied behind him. He silently swore in disgust. He’d been downed, not by superior training or force but by dumb luck. Wasn’t that always the way?