Prisoner (Criminals & Captives #1)(58)

A dark figure pulls aside part of the chain-link fence.

“Gotta get that car the f*ck out of there,” the figure whisper-yells. “Call Nate! Get Nate in the air.”

Another guy comes and yanks open the driver’s side door. “Out.”

There are too many of them. Some of my fear for Grayson gets pushed aside to make room for fear for myself. “I need this car,” I say.

“Follow them in. Go!” The guy points with a gun. Going in seems only slightly better than staying out on the dark street or fighting for the car, so I follow Stone and the blond man. The car pulls out behind me and heads farther back, where they must be parking it.

“How long ago?” Stone barks as I follow them through the gap in the gate.

“A little over two hours?”

“Jesus!”

“He didn’t want to go to a hospital.”

“Fucking goddamn,” he growls.

I follow them around the side, trying not to trip over the chunks of rubble, architectural detailing that fell off the place. We head through some thick ivy, and somebody pulls aside a wood board and pushes open a door made of wrought iron.

Everything’s dark. Somebody replaces the board behind me, and flashlights flick on. I catch glimpses of torn wallpaper, muscled forearms, guns, thick necks, scuffed boots as we move through. Chains clank nearby.

“You couldn’t’ve called us?” Stone seethes with danger and darkness.

“No,” I snap. “What with the fleeing and not knowing your number and him delirious. No.”

Three of them work together to carry him across the dark space. Somebody opens a door. I follow them into a brighter, more lived-in-looking space.

These guys are maybe around Grayson’s age, if not older. They’re a breed apart from guys I know in regular life. Like battle-worn barbarians or something. There’s a soldierly quality to them. Medieval. Cavemen, even, like Grayson, but they handle Grayson with absolute strength and care. I find myself feeling grateful to them for that.

The blond slides a set of bars aside and leads us up some stairs. We go up two flights. I cringe at the way they must be jostling Grayson’s wound. Not like I can object.

We get into a large room lit dimly by a lamp in the corner. This space is nicer, with marble and intact woodwork. It’s almost cozy, with furniture and rugs. Then I see something flash on the far side, and I catch sight of a row of automatic weaponry. Okay, almost cozy. There’s a sink to one side—the metal looks shiny and polished. Is it possible they have functioning plumbing in here? Though apparently they have functioning electricity, because in the far corner I see an array of computers and other electronics, glowing with the neon blues and greens of technology, incongruous in the vintage space. They’ve invaded this place, but they share it with the past.

Guys are pulling down shades and blocking off windows. Three guys set Grayson onto a table. The blond brings over a pair of utility lights, the kind in little cages, and clamps them to something on the ceiling, trailing cords like tails. Like workmen use. I catch a flash of white on his forearm. The scarification mark that Grayson had. And none of them have tattoos, just like Grayson.

He adjusts the lights to hit Grayson’s still form like a spotlight, making his face half-blinding, half-shadowed.

“Buddy.” Stone pats his cheek. “Grayson. Hey.” He grabs Grayson’s non-shot shoulder, shaking him.

Grayson mumbles.

“Once?” the blond one asks. “Shot once?” he barks.

“I think,” I say. “It happened fast. It was one of the governor’s guys—that’s what Grayson was saying. When he was still making sense.”

The blond’s expression goes dark and his nostrils flare, like he’s sucking in a breath of hate, like he wants to kill somebody with his bare hands, which he could easily do, judging from the size of them. Then he kneels next to Stone and touches Grayson’s forehead, and it’s the tenderest thing I’ve ever seen. “Nate’s coming, Gray. Okay?” he says. “Hey!” He gently slaps Grayson’s cheek, rousing him.

I’m relieved to see Grayson react. Still conscious, barely. I look around, hugging myself. Things are worn and simple but clean. It’s surreal, this nice place in the midst of an urban war zone.

Like a home for a lost tribe of guys.

Stone and the blond are attending to Grayson, cleaning his wound. He calls the blond Calder, and they seem to know what they’re doing. I don’t want to leave him, but I’m starting to get scared. After all, Stone wants me dead—I can hardly forget what he said at the parking lot, and Grayson’s not exactly in a position to help me now. And he knows where to find me. If I can get back.

“He feels cold,” Stone barks, and somebody goes off, presumably to find another blanket.

It’s been a while since they called Nate, to get him in the air. Does he have a helicopter? Do veterinarians do that?

“Where’s the car?” I ask.

“Hidden,” Calder says.

I move quietly back the way we came. I don’t like the idea of going out into that scary, dark neighborhood, but I figure coming across people who might kill me is better than being with somebody who clearly wants me dead. I have the gun, but something tells me it takes more than a scared girl and a gun to outrun this group.

Calder rubs his hands over his blond hair and looks at me. I stop moving and try to look innocent and not like I’m sneaking out. A tall guy comes in and tucks a blanket around Grayson.