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Atticus…he was coming. She knew it. “Virginia, I’ll always come after you. I keep what’s mine.” Like an old-fashioned cowboy, he wrote his own code, and he’d never give up. But he couldn’t arrive in time to save her.
She breathed out slowly. Her man had borne enough in his life; he didn’t need to see what Slash would do, see her brutalized body. No, she couldn’t do that to him.
The sound of ripping fabric brought Gin’s head up. Karen’s voice was muffled, but she was crying. Trying to scream.
Karen. No. Gin pulled in a sobbing breath.
If I run, they’ll chase me. All of them. She’d win a few minutes reprieve for Karen.
There was her goal. A positive goal. Save Karen. Even if only briefly.
Which way then? Run to the right, toward Slash and Stub and Pit, wherever he’d gone.
Or to the left, toward the clearing. No cover there, though.
Or straight out from the huge boulder at her back toward the forest. Crack and Karen lay right across that escape route.
But…but… She gave a huff of bitter laughter. Heh. No one expected a victim to run directly at him.
Curling her hands around a softball-sized rock, she shifted from a half-sprawl and stood, hiding her bound hands in the wreckage of her dangling shirt.
Stub and Slash stopped arguing. Slash took a threatening step toward her.
Taking her cue from Pit, she blurted out, “I-I have to pee. Please…?” She motioned to her right.
“Stupid cunt.” Slash drew his knife. “Playtime.”
Before he could move, she darted forward, straight toward Crack.
Straddling Karen, Crack had his attention on the struggling woman.
Gin skidded to a halt and brought the rough piece of granite down on Crack’s head with all her strength. The impact hurt her half-numb hands. The stone dropped.
She ran.
Shouts of fury came from behind her.
Son-of-a-bitch. Hearing furious shouts, Atticus abandoned restraint and frantically heaved himself upward. Almost… Fingernails ripped as he slid back.
One toe found a crack.
With another surge, he scrambled up and over the smooth dome face—and almost slipped off the other side.
The moon shone down on the frantic activity below.
Gin! She was sprinting directly away from his boulder.
“Cunt!” One con grabbed a pistol from a pack. He aimed at her back.
Fuck, no. Atticus dove straight off the top. Freefall. He hit the bastard in the spine—bones snapped like dry spaghetti—and they slammed into the ground with the convict on the bottom.
Breath knocked out of him, Atticus rolled free, trying to inhale. A bullet spit dirt into his face, and he kept rolling. The next shot would—
A rifle blast echoed off the rocks.
Someone groaned and gave a rasping gurgle. Atticus turned enough to see a body crumple to the ground. But who?
Atticus fought to move, to sit up. Couldn’t. His vision was blurry. Still gasping for breath, he struggled to reach the holster at his back and finally managed to pull his weapon.
A shape blocked the moonlight. A friendly.
“You dumbass, son-of-a-bitch, you almost got yourself killed.” Rifle in one hand, Wyatt kicked a weapon away from a body sprawled on the ground. “You dove headfirst off the fucking rock. Are you fucking insane?”
A pistol snapped.
Wyatt staggered back, blood blossoming on his shirt.
A shadowy figure emerged from between two rocks. A convict.
Shit. Arm still half-paralyzed, Atticus struggled to lift his pistol.
A black shape coalesced out of the shadows to attack the inmate. Trigger’s furious snarls filled the air. The convict’s pistol dropped as he fought to keep the dog from ripping out his throat.
Morgan trotted into the clearing, reversed his rifle, and butt-stroked the inmate. As the man fell, Morgan grabbed the dog’s ruff and pulled him back. “Good job, mutt. Now settle.”
Straightening, he surveyed the area. “You all right, bro?”
“Hell, no.” Wyatt lurched forward, holding his bloody upper arm. “You’re late.”
“Looked to me like I was right on time.”
“Bullshit, you—”
“Check the area. Stay on guard,” Atticus ordered. “And find Gin and the other woman.” He could hear a woman sobbing nearby. As the brothers split up, he struggled to sit.
The sound of running made him turn to look. “Shit,” he hissed as pain spasmed his muscles. But then relief swept through him.
Gin, emerging from the darkness between two boulders, was heading straight for him. “It is you. I heard your voice…” Eyes widening in distress, she dropped to her knees. “Oh honey, look at you.”
Before she could move, Trigger tore across the space and bowled her right over.
As she patted the frantic Labrador with her restrained hands, Atticus felt the knot inside him relax. Alive. She was alive.
All right then. He twisted his belt around and holstered his pistol—and just that amount of movement hurt like hell.
With the dog calmed, Gin moved closer.
“Hold still a second, sweetling.” Atticus pulled his knife from the belt sheath and cut the ropes around her wrists. Scraped raw, goddammit. “That’s better.”
“Where are you hurt?” Her freed hands trembled as she yanked his ripped-up shirt open. Her concern bordered on hysteria so he let her look.
He glanced down at the bloody scrapes covering his chest. Fucking granite. “Not as bad as it looks, baby.” His voice tore his throat like gravel.
After a quick, reassuring hug, he moved her back so he could do his own assessment.
She was moving without obvious injury. In the thin moonlight, he could see scrapes, bruises, gashes. Shirt ripped to shreds. Slacks still on. They hadn’t had time to…
His next breath came easier. “Are you hurt, sweetling?”
“Am I hurt?” Her voice rose. “Me?” She looked like she was ready to punch him. “I didn’t jump off a mountain.”
“Not much more than a big rock.” He eyed it, surprised he’d survived even with the crash pad of a convict. “I’m fine.” Although standing up was going to feel like hell.
“Sure you are, you…you idiot man.” Tears gleamed in her eyes. “You c-came. Oh, G-God, you’re really here.” Shaking so hard he could almost hear her bones rattle, she dropped her head to his shoulder
God, she was adorable. Touching her bruised cheek, he took himself a gentle kiss. “Guess if you can yell at me, you’re not too badly injured.”
“I’m fine.”
Bullshit. “Sure you are.” He squeezed her shoulder lightly. “Now focus, Gin. We heard four inmates. Is that correct?”
Her hands fisted as she fought for control. God, she made him proud. Then even though her breath was hitching, she sat back on her knees. “Four. Yes.” As she looked around the clearing, her face whitened further.
The eerie, pale moonlight illuminated bodies in motionless heaps. Hell, this was no sight for her. He pulled her closer and kissed the top of her head before raising his voice. “Morgan, report, please.”
“No one else around. Wyatt’s tending the other woman.” Morgan yanked a final knot on the dog-savaged inmate and rose. “This asshole’s alive. The one you landed on is dead. Broken neck.”
Atticus breathed out and put the hit to his soul aside. He’d deal with the emotions later.
“The asshole with his dick hanging out might—or might not—make it.” Morgan jerked his chin to the right. “Looks like his skull got busted. Which of you did that?”
“Ware’s little bit helped us out,” Wyatt said from the left. Heedless of the blood soaking his shirtsleeve, he was trying to untie the weeping older counselor. “She smashed a rock over his head.”
“Seriously?” Morgan sounded as if he wanted to laugh. Well, adrenaline took some men that way. “Go, Gin.”
�
�And the last inmate?” Atticus asked.
Wyatt’s shoulders turned rigid. “My shot took out the other one. He’s dead.” The very lack of emotion in his voice shouted pain.
Damn me. The Mastersons were civilians. “Wyatt…”
Masterson didn’t lift his head as he helped the counselor sit up.
“Wyatt.”
The man looked over.
“You saved my life, Masterson. He almost shot me.”
Even as Wyatt’s expression eased slightly, Gin burst into tears, holding Atticus so tightly he couldn’t breathe. Hell. Shouldn’t have said that about almost dying. She hadn’t cried when saving herself or when being rescued. Not until now.
He wouldn’t have loosened her embrace for the world. This was where she belonged. As he rubbed his chin in her hair, the words escaped him in a whisper, “God, I love you.”
Chapter Nineteen
Gin sat in a wheelchair in Atticus’s hospital room and waited. Patiently. Or maybe not so patiently.
Having driven to Sonora to lend her help, Summer sat on a chair in the corner.
Virgil stood in front of Gin. “You’re exhausted. Let Summer take you home.” He crossed his arms over his chest in an intimidating way. “Atticus might be in x-ray for a while; after, he’ll be debriefing.”
“No. I’m not leaving until I see him.” And you can’t make me. Gin rose, waited a second for her head to stop spinning, and then shoved him back. Hard.
The stinging pain from her bruised, scraped palms helped clear her thoughts. But, ow.
Virgil’s brows drew together as he studied her in the way Atticus did—like a Dom. “Means that much, does it?”
She managed a nod.
“All right then—”
“Gin.” Atticus’s voice came from the doorway. Hoarse, but strong.
Abandoning the wheelchair, she tried to run to the door and achieved a speed at least as fast as a tortoise. “Are you all right? What’s hurt?” She stopped, afraid to touch him. “Is anything broken?”
“C’mere, pet.” He gripped her forearm above the wrist dressings and tugged her into his lap.
She couldn’t miss his wince when her weight landed on his thighs. “Atticus, no.” She wanted to jump up, but sat perfectly still, afraid to hurt him further.
“Fuck, yes.” As she put her arm around his shoulder, he pulled her closer.
Her entire body hurt, and still she’d never felt anything as wonderful as being in his arms. She could feel him breathing, feel the warmth of his body.
“Thank you for staying,” he murmured. “I needed to hold you. Know you’re all right. Alive.”
“Me, too.” Ignoring the pain in her swollen lip, she kissed his cheek, his beard, finally his mouth—very gently—and felt him smile.
“You look like a boxer who lost a round or two, sweetling.”
“No doubt.” The pain in her body slid into her soul as she brought up the subject she’d been dreading. But the news should come from her. “Atticus, your brother…was there when the inmates broke out. He—”
“I heard,” he said.
The tears she’d kept at bay spilled over. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. He died trying to save me…”
“Died?” He stiffened. “Gin. Whoa, baby, Sawyer’s not dead.”
She buried her face in the curve of his neck. “I saw him, honey. Slash stabbed him. He—”
Firm hands on her upper arms set her back. His gaze moved over her face. “I got a report from the surgeon. He made it through and is up on the surgical floor. Gonna be all right, although he lost a shitload of blood.”
“Alive?” Her question rasped out even as relief and gratitude bubbled up inside her. “Really?”
“The Wares are hard to kill,” Atticus said with a slight smile, using his fingers to wipe the tears from her face.
Alive. Her head felt so heavy, she rested it on his shoulder. Alive. Sawyer was alive. Her rage and sorrow and guilt began to melt away.
And Atticus was alive too, smiling at her. Nothing in her life was more important.
She heard him talking to Virgil and Summer and was content to sit on his lap, savor his deep voice, feel his hand stroking up and down her back.
“Still don’t know why the fuck the skinheads tried to escape,” Atticus was saying. “Their sentences didn’t have that long to run. They were in for auto theft, right?”
“Right. But we downed their escape helicopter. The pilot talked. L.A. had an unsolved murder of a black family. New evidence turned up pointing to Slash and his gang. Slash and crew wanted out of prison before someone talked.”
“No wonder,” Atticus said.
Someone tapped on the door and said, “Detective Ware?”
“Yeah. I’ll be there in a minute,” Atticus said.
When Gin sat up, she felt Atticus’s arm tighten as if he was as reluctant to be separated as she was. “I have to let you go.”
He grunted agreement. “Duty sucks.”
She took his face between her hands and looked into his eyes. “You’re truly all right? The X-rays didn’t show anything?”
“Nothing busted. They’re keeping me overnight just in case. More for liability issues than anything else.”
“Okay then.” After stealing one last kiss, she carefully slid off his lap and stood, her legs shaking. She staggered.
Her arm was grabbed.
“No!” Panicking, she struck out—and hit Virgil.
He released her immediately. “Easy, little bit.” His voice was soft, careful.
“Oh heavens.” Her heart was pounding; her mouth tasted of ashes. “I’m so sorry.” She glanced at Atticus.
His jaw was like granite as he held his hand out. She set hers in his big warm palm and realized she was freezing.
“You had a rough day today.” Gently, Atticus massaged the coldness from her skin. His concern showed in his gaze. “Baby, you’re going to have more bad days for a while.”
She could see how much he wanted to stay with her. His frustration emanated from him in almost visible waves. “I’ll be fine.” She almost managed a smile. “I need to tell Trigger he’s a hero.”
“There is that.”
She took a step and heard an admonishing tsk tsk from Summer, who stood by the wheelchair. With a mock scowl, Gin sat in it, knowing far too well she needed the ride.
“Dammit,” Atticus was saying as Summer wheeled her into the hallway.
Yes, dammit. Gin stared down at her hands, feeling the quivers still going inside her.
“By the way,” Summer said quietly. “You have three choices—you’re spending the night with me or Kallie or Becca. No other options offered.”
Gin closed her eyes as relief slid over her. “Have I mentioned how much I love you guys?”
“We know.” Summer stopped the wheelchair in the foyer and walked around to sit on a couch in front of her. “There’s something else you should consider though.”
“What?” Why did she get a bad feeling about this?
Summer took her hands. “You weren’t raped, but you were sexually abused—handled, poked, tormented.”
“I’m fine.” Her mouth compressed. Her insides knotted. This was the last thing she wanted to discuss.
“Mmmhmm. I know you’ve counseled others who’ve been through the same thing. What would you tell them they needed now? If Karen comes into my clinic, how should I advise her?”
The trap stood open, and Gin gave the nurse a respectful glare. Then sighed. Denying what had happened wouldn’t help. “You’re right. But how? I can’t use the prison staff, and there isn’t anyone in town.”
Summer frowned. “Hmm.”
Gin felt her shoulders relax. “So, there isn’t really any way.” No counseling, no need to talk about the horrible, horrible day. She’d rather rip out her fingernails…and her stomach turned over as she remembered Atticus’s hands. Bleeding, ripped. Two nails torn off.
He’d pressed on past his fear and risked his
life to climb a mountain. For her. Then dived off and almost killed himself. For her.
She closed her eyes at the wave of guilt. She’d almost broken up with him because of her old neuroses. Now she had a whole new set.
Well, this time she would darned well face up to her fears. She bit her lip, knowing how many resources she could call upon. They just weren’t in the area.
She looked at Summer. “I know counselors in San Diego. Can y’all drive me to the airport and babysit Trigger?”
And would Atticus understand she was doing something for them both?
Chapter Twenty
Look at him. On Sunday, Gin stood in the hospital room doorway. As her eyes filled and spilled over with tears, the man in the bed blurred. Sobs rose, fast and hard, and Gin covered her mouth, trying to muffle the ugly sounds.
Sawyer heard and looked up. “Ms. Virginia.” He took a second look and his brow creased. “Aw, now don’t do that. No crying.” He made a helpless gesture. “Listen, this is a no-crying zone, woman.”
She giggled through her hiccupping and wiped her face. “Bless your heart; you’re more scared of a woman crying than rioting inmates.”
“Isn’t everyone?” he said under his breath. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see how you were. I-I thought—” Tears again. For heaven’s sake, she wished the emotional roller coaster would stop. Taking a seat on the bed, she swiped her face and cleared her throat. Her voice still came out hoarse. “For hours, I thought you were dead.”
There’d been so much blood on the grass. His eyes had been open. Unblinking. She shuddered, feeling the grief sweep her again.
“Shit. I didn’t realize you saw me.” He squeezed her arm briefly, then ran his hand over his short hair in a way that reminded her of Atticus. “I was down; couldn’t move. But Slash would have cut my throat if he thought I was alive. It’s how he got his handle, right?”
She nodded. The information had been in the inmate’s workup. “You faked it.”
“Yep. I rolled onto my front to try to hide that I was still gushing blood.”
“Well. All my mourning gone to waste.” Her smile wavered.