Defy (Brothers of Ink and Steel Book 3)(20)

Christ. Can’t she just shut up, stop drowning and stop being a target and a f*cking pain in my ass for one goddamn minute?

I’ve never had a rescue mission turn so exceptionally bizarre! Fucking bites my goddamn hand, runs away and shoves me off a boat—as if I’m one of them.

Oh Jesus! She thinks I’m one of them!

A branch snaps at our eleven o’clock.

Pulling Farrington to the ground, I crouch to blend into our surroundings better. We’re both full of mud and dirt and well camouflaged.

I get a glimpse of Miguel’s henchmen as they close in around us—about three of them, but they haven’t spotted us. The henchman leading the charge sends the other two in a semi-circle to fan out. Their automatic weapons are poised and ready for murder.

“Don’t. Move,” I barely breathe across her ear.

Henchman—now at our five o’clock—squeezes in and is about to trip over Farrington when I move in front of her to block his path, stand up swiftly and shoot him through the heart twice.

Holding him carefully, I take all the dead man’s weight before quietly lowering him to the ground.

One down, two to go.

Movement about one hundred yards away catches my eye, along with a swatch of red—more men. But these aren’t Miguel’s goons. These are entirely different goons flying gang colors.

I need to get Farrington out of the brush.

The road ceased being an option when the conflict broke out—it had been my original unguarded exit route—until every direction was cut off by Miguel’s opposition.

Perfect timing, Ryder, I berate myself. A half hour earlier I could have found the girl and made exodus like I was planning to, with the cartel lord.

But truth of it is, these guys are betting men, like me. They’d learned of his alias and knew the window to kill or capture him was closing fast.

Wondering which they chose to do to him, kill or capture, I lift Farrington again and move as fast as possible to the edge of the swamp. We’re going to have to take to the water.

Keeping to the muck at the edge of the waterline keeps our escape quiet, unlike our enemies who have now found each other and are hacking away to make sure there are no survivors.

It’s the only way now . . . but I have to get this iron bar off her or we’ll sink like a couple of rocks.

I put another thirty feet between us and the men, put Farrington on her belly and retrieve my tools. Padlocks like these are pretty simple to open when you have a spare ten seconds.

I don’t have a spare ten seconds.

She doesn’t understand what’s happening, though, and begins to thrash as best as she can. I’m thankful for the bandana across her mouth, muffling her screams.

The goddamn dogs are closing. We probably only got a jump on the distance because of their out-of-shape handlers.

It’s still too dangerous to speak, so I put a knee into her backbone—to hold her still, for Christ’s sake—and get the lock opened.

Carefully but hastily, I free her arms. She moans softly with the pain of having them mobile after such a lengthy incarceration behind her back.

When I take hold of her this time, I put her back to my front and use my left hand to keep her chin above the waterline, while my right hand keeps my Glock trained into the night, ready to disable man or beast.

Fucking gators and water moccasins—I f*cking hate those things! Who the f*ck would want to live in f*cking swampland Texas?

Gently, I slip us into the water.

Of course Farrington has other ideas. As if her life depends on it, she starts thrashing.

“Stop! You’ll attract every bad guy and man-eating creature in a ten mile radius,” I rage whisper.

She’s not stopping. I wrap the arm I was going to use to hold her mouth around her already weak arms, pinning them to her chest. Her legs are another matter altogether—they’re stronger now, and she kicks and bucks against me fiercely.

Get comfortable being uncomfortable. The SEAL motto is more than applicable in this situation.

Taking a full deep breath, I fill my lungs with air to keep us afloat and secure both her legs with one of mine. I launch us into the swamp’s slow current.

The dogs will still be able to follow us—all they need to do is chase down the dead skin cells—however, I’m banking on the commotion the war is wreaking to cause them a little confusion. And if we can survive reptilian jaws of death, I have a few more diversionary tactics to keep them from regaining our scent too easily.

We meander under the cover of dark, past the estate’s perimeter. The sounds of the dogs and battle seemingly float into the distance.

“Your name is Rachel Farrington. You’re the only witness to the murder of Drew Anderson at Tulane University. Eduardo Miguel kidnapped you to keep you quiet,” I tell her. Although I don’t understand why he didn’t just kill you. I leave that part out for now.

“My name is Ryder Axton. I’m a Navy SEAL trained bounty hunter. I found you and am taking you home,” I say. “Do you understand me?”

She doesn’t make a move.

“I’m the good guy here—you know, the dashing hero—so you’d do us both a big favor if you stopped fighting me tooth and nail every step of the way!” That last bit came out more impassioned than I planned for it to, as my hand is now throbbing. I continue, “If you promise not to scream, I’ll remove the gag.”