Protector's Honor

Just three more miles.

Tabitha Beaumont struggled with each new step. After swimming one mile through a cold mountain lake then biking twenty-six through the Carolina Blue Ridge, her legs felt more like weighted anchors than lean stretches of muscle. Still, she trudged on.

For over three miles, she’d emulated the long, steady strides of the two seasoned competitors beside her—just as her brother, Max, had coached her. But when passing the little crowd on Hendersonville’s Main Street, she hit “the wall.” Her body could no longer maintain the unvarying clip of the other runners. When they started up the final mountain trail to the finish, she slowed and watched as the two runners pulled farther and farther ahead, leaving her to battle the mountain alone.

Just three more miles.

She needed to focus. But her mind refused. Every muscle in her body screamed to stop. Her lungs ached for air. Her heart pounded against her chest. Her legs felt limp and numb. The dark, steep path loomed ahead invincibly.

Come on, Tabby. You can do this.

Following a sharp rise in the path as it curved around patches of evergreens, she continued to grind her way upward. The August air lay dense under the canopy of foliage. Sweat dripped from every strand of her hair, down into her eyes, the back of her neck and the front of her chest. Slowly, she progressed.

“Beaumont.”

The whisper jump-started her tired senses. She looked around, but there was no one in sight. She must have imagined her name being called. Her eyes sifted nervously through the thick forest. Her legs continued to churn over the mulched trail.

“Ms. Beaumont!”

A gruff male voice sent a chill through her body. She could not have imagined that. Crunching leaves and snapping twigs confirmed someone was near.

Again, she glanced back. Two men dressed in camouflage ran less than ten feet behind her. Where they’d come from or how they knew her name, she had no idea. But they didn’t belong on this mountain. Only competitors were allowed on the trails. Today, all the entrances had been roped off and guarded by event officials. And who in their right mind would run a triathlon in full fatigues?

Fear zipped through Tabitha’s tired body. Her overworked adrenal glands fired up and she doubled her speed, trying desperately to outrun them. But the men were not shaken. They stayed close, nearly flanking her and mumbling to one another.

“Number forty-seven,” one of them said.

Tabitha glanced down at the black writing on her left arm. Her entry number. Forty-seven. Why did they know that? She didn’t want to imagine. Instead, she ground her heels into the mountain path with what little energy remained and pressed on.

The men continued to close in. One of them reached for her elbow. As his fingers grazed her arm, her fear transformed to utter panic. Her mouth opened. She tried to scream. But only a tiny gasp escaped. Still, she jerked forward, slipping from the man’s loose grasp as his giant paw fell away from her sweaty arm.

Nothing less than blind terror moved Tabitha now. She bounded into a full sprint. Her head spun from the forced exertion. Her breathing fell short and shallow.

“Come on, lady. Stop. You know what we need.” The evil in his voice churned Tabitha’s stomach.

“Yeah,” the other man echoed. “Hand it over.”

Hand what over? Her mind clouded at their words. What were they talking about?

Forget it. She needed help. Frantically, she searched for other competitors, but she’d lost the two runners ahead and there seemed to be no one behind. How in a race with over one hundred participants had she found a gap? How could she have put herself in this position?

Foolish Tabitha.

All she could do now was pray and run. As fast as possible, she propelled herself onward. The thud of her pulse drummed in her ears. She had to get away. And still, they closed in.

“Come on, lady! What Max gave you…we need it.”

Max? Did they say Max? They knew her brother?

Tabitha pushed on. Every step more painful than the last. In her fear and exhaustion the trail began to blur beneath her. A protruding root caught her heel. Her ankle twisted and she went down on hands and knees. Rolling to her back, she kicked out blindly, sending one of the men back a few feet. The other grabbed her by the wrists.

Oh, Lord, please help me.

Battling some kind of flu or major dehydration, Rory Farrell was having the worst race of his life. Bent over at the waist, he veered off the path to wait for the cramps and nausea to die away. A few racers passed. If he weren’t so spent, he might have cared that this would be the first time in five years he wouldn’t win the Hendersonville Triathlon.

Instead, he collapsed his large figure down the side of a birch tree and tried to relax his aching body. He focused on steady breathing, taking a moment to soak in the beauty of his native Smoky Mountains. His gaze floated lazily down the steep bank of the mountainside, until it stopped at a most bizarre sight.

Two hunters carried a racer toward the foot of the mountain. A woman. Was she injured? It seemed unlikely considering the way she flailed around between them.

Rory stood then launched himself down the rocky incline to investigate. Something strange was happening and he had a gut feeling that he needed to interfere.

“Hey! What’s going on?” he shouted.

The men paused to locate his position. The larger of the two turned, revealing a nice shiny handgun. A shot rang out and Rory’s trained responses kicked in. He dashed for cover behind a tree. The bullet whizzed by, striking a nearby leaf as it passed.

Well, no doubt about it now. He was definitely going to interfere.

In fact, Rory no longer felt sick. Other, stronger emotions had driven that from his system. His veins pulsed with heated energy and his own innate sense of justice.

The men descended swiftly, dragging the female racer between them. She struggled violently. Another shot echoed across the mountain.

Rory continued to slide closer. Steadily, he gained on them, now close enough to hear her muffled cries and catch a glimpse of her frightened face. A face he recognized. It was the racer he’d noticed at the start—the one with the big brown eyes and great smile. The men had gagged her, further fueling his anger. He pressed on, forgetting the dangers he faced as he drew near.

Rory crept as close as he could, using large trees for cover. Then, he charged at the armed man, yelling at the top of his lungs. A rebel-yell attack. It worked, too. They dropped the girl and stood still for a full second before taking action. Rory moved in and grabbed the armed man’s wrist. Rory pointed the 9 mm down. With his other hand, he struck hard below the ribs. The big guy went down and so did his weapon.

Rory kicked the gun out of reach and spun around as the second man took a swing. Pain riveted through his body as the man’s knuckles made contact with his face. Rory took repeated blows before landing a right hook. The little guy stumbled to the side. Rory retrieved the gun from under the brush. He aimed fast, but the men had already fled. Rory started to follow but hearing the woman moan stopped him in his tracks.

In a thick patch of fern, she lay trembling on her back. She had removed the gag but made no attempt to sit up.

He knelt beside her. “Ma’am, are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

Instead of answering, she closed her eyes while her body shuddered through another violent tremor. He reached a hand to her forearm to steady her, but she tucked away, every muscle tensed and rigid.

“It’s okay.” He softened his tone. “They’re gone. They’re not coming back. I got their gun. See?” She looked up, with large, unfocused eyes. Her face was so pale he feared she would pass out. “Really, ma’am. You’re safe now. But…you’re kind of scaring me. Can you talk? Can you hear me?”

With a sudden jerk, she spun around on all fours and was sick. The sight brought Rory a renewed wave of his own gastric unease. A discomfort he squashed with a quick exhale.

“Feel better?” he asked her.

She turned back and nodded slowly. “I—I didn’t…” Her eyes lifted to his face and widened. “Your nose!”

Rory wiped his face with his forearm and glanced down at the blood. “Oh. That’s nothing,” he said. Although judging from the pain when he moved his head, it was probably broken. That little guy had given it to him good. “Don’t worry about me. What about you? What happened?”

“Those men…They—they said I…” She shook her head and shifted her eyes away. Her lips pressed together tight and flat.

Rory let the questions go. They needed to move. Her story could come later. “You think you can get up?”

She stared back at him and shrugged.