The Guardian's Mission

“Understood.” Sky spoke before Martha could. Which was for the best as she could think of nothing to say.

“Then maybe next time you won’t bring a…friend.” He glanced at Martha again. “It makes things complicated.”

“She’s a member of the Blue Ridge Mountains Militia. I’m teaching her the ropes.”

“Not here you’re not. She’ll have to wait in the trailer. We’ll deal with her after we’ve concluded our business.” He nodded toward Johnson who strode forward, grabbing her arm.

“Hold on a minute.” Sky pulled her back toward him, and she was sure he was going to protest, come up with some reason they had to stay together.

Instead, he pulled her close, leaning forward, staring into her eyes. “Don’t worry, Sunshine. This won’t take long.”

He pressed his lips to the sensitive flesh behind her ear, his words barely a whisper. “Sorry about this.”

Then he kissed her.

Not the bland, almost sterile kind of kiss Brian usually offered. Not a hard, quick kiss to silence her. A searing kiss that burned its way down her spine. A toe-curling, heart-pounding, honest-to-goodness, Prince-Charming-I’m-gonna-love-you-forever–type kiss.

Too bad the guy was a stranger.

Too bad Martha was scared out of her mind.

Too bad.

Because if he wasn’t, if she hadn’t been, she just might have enjoyed it.

“Mr. Davis.” Buddy’s voice drawled into the moment, cold and slithery as a snake. “Sorry to interrupt your moment, but we’ve got business to attend.”

Sky released his hold on Martha and she nearly fell.

He didn’t give her another look, just walked toward the cabin with Buddy, while Johnson moved closer to Martha, waving the gun toward the trailer. “Let’s go.”

He grabbed her arm and yanked her forward, nearly dragging her the few yards to the trailer, his grip painfully tight. She didn’t complain, though. No way would she give him that power over her. Let him think she was tough, that what he was doing didn’t scare her. Let him think that she really was Sky’s girlfriend, out for a jaunt and too dense to realize she wasn’t going to survive it.

Please, Lord, let him think that.

Because if he did, if they all did, then they wouldn’t be expecting her to escape—they wouldn’t waste the time and effort guarding her, and she just might have a chance.

Johnson opened the trailer door and shoved her with enough force to send her sprawling on a pile of dirt, trash and other things she’d rather not examine. Before she could right herself, the door slammed shut, cutting off light. A key scraped in a lock, and Martha heard a bolt slide home.

Obviously, Marti wasn’t the first to be locked in here. She’d be the last, though, because once she escaped, she was going to the authorities and she was going to shut down whatever illegal activities were going on here.

Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, and she surveyed the room. Trash. Debris. Probably snakes, rats and mice, too. Not her favorite things to share space with, but a lot better than the men outside.

And at least here she wasn’t in danger of having a bullet put through her heart.

The thought got her moving across the room to a plywood board that she was sure covered a window. All she had to do was pry it off, slip out the opening and run. She searched the debris for a tool, her mind ticking away the seconds and telling her she was running out of time. Finally, desperate, she wedged her fingernails under the board and pulled. Pain speared through her hands, her nails bending back as the board gave slightly. Blood seeped from the wounds, but she ignored it, shoving her fingers into the wider space she’d created.

“Please, Lord. Please let this work.”

She braced her legs, yanking against the plywood with all her strength. It gave with a crack, and she tumbled backward, landing hard on a pile of garbage. Stunned, she lay still for a moment, her pulse racing frantically, demanding that she get up and go. Now. Before someone decided to check on her.

She stood, her thoughts jumping forward, planning a path through the forest that wouldn’t be easy to follow, but that would lead her back to her Jeep and her cell phone quickly. She’d call for help while she was driving away.

Her keys!

They were in her backpack. The one with an identification card that listed her name and address. The one that Sky had taken from her. The one that Johnson could just as easily take from him.

This wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all.

For a moment she didn’t move, just stood frozen in place unsure of what to do.

“Don’t be an idiot. Of course you’re sure. If you don’t get out of here soon, Johnson won’t have to use the identification card to find you, because you’ll be dead.” She muttered the words as she hurried to the window and peered outside.

Rain still poured from the steel-gray sky, the sound masking any noise she might make as she dropped to the ground. For a moment she hesitated, her mind conjuring an image of Sky as he’d looked when he’d stood between Johnson’s gun and Martha. Fierce, protective. Heroic. Would he be blamed for Martha’s escape? Would he be hurt because of her?

She shook her head, forcing the thoughts away. Sky knew what he was doing, and whatever it was had only become more complicated because of Martha’s presence. Without her to worry about, he could easily do whatever it took to survive. She knew it as surely as she knew that staying and waiting for him to return might get them both killed.

She eyed the tufts of overgrown grass that were fifteen feet below, scanned the area, then hoisted herself onto the window ledge.

“Lord, I just need a little head start. Can You help me with that? Because I’m pretty sure that on my own, I’m in big trouble. And while You’re at it, could You watch out for Sky, too?” She whispered the prayer as she twisted, grabbed the windowsill and slid out into the rain. Suspended by her throbbing fingers, she took a deep breath and willed herself to drop.

FOUR

Tristan glanced at his watch as Buddy pulled a sleek M16 from a box Johnson handed him and held it up for his audience—a ragtag group of militia men from various organizations around the area. The auction was underway and in two minutes an organized team of law enforcement officials would stream from the woods and take everyone present into custody. It was what Tristan had spent months working toward. Knowing it was about to happen should have filled him with satisfaction. Instead, he was worried. If guns were fired, if bullets flew, Martha Gabler was a sitting duck. The trailer she was in offered about as much protection from Buddy’s arsenal of weapons as a sheet of aluminum foil.

He waited until Johnson stepped into a back room to retrieve another case of weapons, then slipped from his position at the back of the crowd and walked out the open cabin door. By the time Johnson realized he was gone, Tristan would have Martha out of the trailer and to safety.

That was the plan anyway. Tristan prayed it would go off without a hitch.

He jogged across the clearing, planning to open the front door of the trailer and hustle Martha out. Before he reached the steps, a muffled scream and quiet splash sounded above the pouring rain.

Apparently the woman he’d dubbed Sunshine hadn’t needed his help escaping after all.

Tristan switched directions, racing around the side of the trailer just in time to see Martha struggling to her feet. He didn’t give her time to react, just lunged forward, grabbing her arm and tugging her toward the trees. “Next time you attempt an escape, you might want to keep the volume down.”

“There isn’t going to be a next time, because if I live through this one I’m never leaving my house again.” Her teeth chattered on the last word, her face devoid of color.

“You’re going to be fine, Sunshine.” He’d barely gotten the words out when the world exploded. Gunfire. Shouts. White-hot pain sliced through his upper arm, warm blood seeping down his bicep. Dark figures swarmed from the trees, surrounding them as Martha screamed.

“Freeze! Police! Hands on your head. Down on the ground. Down! Down! Do it now.”

Tristan did as he was commanded, pulling Martha with him. Cold, wet earth seeping through his clothes. It was over. Martha was alive. He was alive. God had gotten them both through. The rest was gravy.

An officer frisked him, cuffed him and pulled him to his feet, calling in a request for hospital transport as he eyed the blood seeping down Tristan’s arm. Tristan barely heard. He was looking around, searching for something he didn’t see. Someone he didn’t see. Martha stood a few feet away surrounded by uniformed men and women. Her baseball cap gone, her hair plastered against her pale face, mud streaking her cheeks. She must have sensed his gaze, because she met his eyes, tried to smile, but failed.

Tristan wasn’t smiling, either.

Something was wrong. Really wrong.