Page 7 of Striker
Terror surged into her cells.
She couldn’t see.
“S-Stop!” she bellowed, twisting from the rigid grasp.
The man clung tighter. “Hang on. You’re fine.”
“No. I can’t see! Where are you taking me?”
“Easy. We’re taking you home.”
Easy. He’d said that inside. She’d struck him with the ceramic shard but he hadn’t retaliated. Had done nothing but stop her from attacking.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly. She hated the suffocating darkness. Her fingers found the edge of his vest, and she gripped it. Though she had no idea who this man was, holding on to him gave her a sense of control as they weaved through the darkness.
Her tongue moved like a strip of sandpaper in her mouth. Every step made her head bobble and intensified the dizziness assailing her. Nausea pelted against her palate. She swallowed, resting her head against his chest again.
She needed to get a grip. To breathe. To ready herself for the next fight for survival because there was no way to know for sure he was taking her home. Rex had threatened to sell her—this man could be her buyer.
She blinked rapidly and tilted her head to stare up through the barely visible trees. Seeing shades of brown against the black was somewhat reassuring. But she was well aware of the creatures that lurked out here.
Nightly, she heard predators screech and prey scream for mercy. She shuddered, waiting for the deadly strike of a snake or a jaguar.
“We have night-vision goggles.” The man spoke evenly, as if he weren’t carrying extra weight through rough terrain. “I can see where we’re going. Just rest.”
The way he moved, stealthily yet unconcerned, told her this situation wasn’t new for him.
She closed her eyes and tried to pay attention to her surroundings, but dark fingers kept pulling at her consciousness. She blinked rapidly, but the effort to stay awake was too great.
She woke every now and then to the sound of branches being brushed aside and the hissing and skittering of animals. All she could do was hang on.
A man’s sharp voice made her jump. She snapped open her eyes. They were in some kind of vehicle—only it looked nothing like a car or truck.
Men moved around the interior, but her fuzzy vision made it impossible to count how many. Tactical gear. Bulletproof vests . . . military?
The man who’d carried her was at her side. He stretched his fingers around the base of her neck, holding up her head. A gritty blanket covered her.
“Drink,” he commanded, holding a small packet to her lips.
She pulled her head away, terror fresh in her veins. “No.” The refusal sounded like a pathetic mewl. God, she should’ve fought harder. Shouldn’t have let them take her.
He urged the packet closer, and she turned her head. The interior light made her squint and?—
Whomp, whomp, whomp
Her eyes widened. She shot her attention to a man wearing a headset. He appeared to be in a cockpit. All she could make out were the curls at the back of his head.
Holy shit. They were in a helicopter.
“It’s just electrolytes.” The man who’d carried her moved to block her vision, forcing her to stare into his calm, blue-green eyes.
Unease fisted her stomach. Her sight became clearer with every sobering second. “Where are you taking me?”
“Panama City.”
“Striker, in your seat,” someone yelled.
“Lift off, I’m good!” the man bellowed over the whir of the blades. He focused on her again. “If we don’t get fluids in you, we’re gonna have to do an IV. Viper says your veins are too thin for that right now, though. Too risky.” He shouted without strain, as if he flew in helicopters every day. His expression was hard. Unwavering.
