Fast Burn (Body Armor #4)(89)
Her entire body ached, and now more rain drenched her. “Please tell me this relic is heated.”
“No,” Olsen said, walking alongside them. “But we installed a heater. If you don’t dismantle it, you should be warm enough soon.”
Soon she’d be free, but she kept that to herself. She couldn’t quite tell if Ross was with his comrades, or against them. His trite “no, we can’t” bothered her a lot.
Then again, he wasn’t a stupid man so he had to realize that taking a stand at this particular moment could get them both killed.
“I’m capable of walking.”
“Barefoot?” He carried her easily, leaning over her to help shield her from the rain. “I can barely see where I’m going, but I’ve already discovered roots grown through concrete, broken glass and rocks.”
Sahara peered down and saw that he was right. The puddles forming everywhere couldn’t hide the treacherous path. Not that she’d thank him. He was the one who’d started this absurd campaign against her.
They went up rickety wooden steps that creaked under Ross’s weight, then he dipped down to fit under a nailed board across a collapsing door frame and stepped into a dark vestibule. Dead vines had overtaken the crumbling plaster walls. Spiderwebs hung thick from the high ceiling.
When Ross stepped into the desolate little church, she found that very little outside light penetrated. Boards covered most of the windows, and grime coated those still unbroken. In one corner of the rectangular room, next to a toppled pulpit, a kerosene heater gave off welcoming warmth.
“Someone get a light. This place is crumbling.”
“Got it.” Terrance dug out a flashlight and turned it on. It flashed over every inch of the room in a disorienting light show. “Sorry, it’s still on strobe. Let me... There.” He adjusted it to a single beam that, when set atop a shelf, didn’t quite reach all corners of the room.
Ross carried her past several pews, most of them rotting, broken or overturned.
Someone had stacked blankets on a still intact pew near the heater. Sahara saw the coil of rope and wanted to scream. Her wrists were raw, her arms and shoulders still protesting every movement.
Ross set her on her feet, murmuring, “Careful,” when she wavered.
She straightened her spine and squared her shoulders, determined to hide her weakness. “I’m fine.” She couldn’t do anything about her shivers.
He tipped up her chin. “Before you come up with some harebrained idea of making a run for it, you should know that many of the floorboards are rotted. There are exposed nails everywhere, and several holes with jagged edges. Fall through and you drop all the way to a very dank, spooky basement. If you’re not shredded on the way down, you’re bound to break a leg when you land.”
Lovely. Either put up with their mistreatment or risk mangling herself.
Then again, perhaps she had a third option. She looked Ross right in the eye and said, “I won’t be tied again. It’s horribly uncomfortable and as you just pointed out, it’s not like I can run away.”
Andy crowded close, sneering, “You’re not calling the shots, lady, so stop your bellyaching and—”
Carelessly, without even looking at Andy, Ross straightened an arm and landed a fist to his face. Andy reeled back, landed against a kneeler, tripped and slammed awkwardly into a wall. Dust and cobwebs fell from the impact.
Ross stared at him, his expression demonic in the low, indirect light. “You’re on thin ice already. Shooting off your mouth won’t help.”
Tension swelled within the church, so thick Sahara wondered that no one choked on it. Olsen and Terrance shared a look. Andy wisely clamped his lips together.
To Sahara, Ross said, “Andy’s right. You’re not calling the shots, but I see no reason to tie you. I also see no reason to keep you wet and shivering.” He turned to Olsen. “You and Terrance stand by the front door. Andy, you stand by the hall exit.”
With only a few grumbles, the men moved to do as ordered.
“Strip out of your wet things,” Ross ordered, “and wrap up in a blanket.”
Her stomach bottomed out at the suggestion. “No, thank you.” Where were her men? Now would be a good time for them to catch up.
“You’ll do it,” Ross said, “or I’ll do it for you.”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Andy grin, placated by Ross’s implied brutality.
Suddenly Ross leaned close and grabbed the lapels of her coat, hauling her up to her tiptoes. Putting his face close to hers, he growled, “Do. You. Understand?” Then, more softly, he breathed, “Trust me or neither of us will make it out of here.”
Her eyes widened. So this was part of an act, a way to dupe his men so he could help her? He’d moved his goons a fair distance away to ensure a modicum of privacy.
Taking advantage of that, Sahara murmured, “Allow me to play my part.” She swung her hand up and around, determined to slap him hard.
Unfortunately, Ross caught her wrist, his expression incredulous. “You little hellcat,” he breathed...almost with admiration.
Incensed that she hadn’t gotten in one good crack, Sahara tried to jerk free.
Ross easily subdued her, flipping her around so her back was to his chest, then locking her close with his bulky arms. She tried stomping his toes, but he wore boots and she was barefoot. Head-butting him was out since she only reached his chest.