Holly’s expression turned grave as her eyes bounced between John and Emma. “Okay.”

  “He told me his men found your mother.” He reached for Holly’s hand but stopped short of taking it. “She gave up our location. Not the exact address, but the general vicinity.”

  She dropped her focus to the ground. “So those men—were they his?”

  “I don’t think so. At least he claimed they weren’t.”

  “So…”

  “I’m sorry. He said she’s gone.”

  Holly nodded as she pressed her lips so tightly together, they turned white. “Did she suffer?”

  “Not terribly.”

  Without another word, Holly turned and ran, bounding up the stairs to the cabin before slipping inside.

  Emma turned to him. “You could have warned me.”

  He blinked. “Why?”

  “We could have found another way to tell Holly what happened. Ease her suffering a bit. This whole time you were unconscious, she thought the worst. Assuming her mother gave us up. That those men found us because of her.”

  “She did give us up.” He turned to Emma, ignoring the tension in his still tender leg. “And I did spare her. I didn’t tell her how they forced her to drink herself to death. How they poured vodka down her throat until she gave us up, but they didn’t stop there. Even after she gave them all she had, they killed her anyway.”

  Emma stared at him, eyes wide and mouth open. Like she’d just seen beneath his skin to the monster underneath. The one who deserved to be alone. What a fool he’d been to ever think she could love a man who was no better than Dane or his other henchmen.

  He turned toward the cabin. “I think that’s all I can manage today. I’ll make my own way back.” He took off, one agonizing step at a time, not looking to see if Emma followed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  JOHN

  Time crawled. John checked his watch, annoyed at the lack of progression of the dial. He’d been unable to sleep since stretching out on the bag three hours before. Now it was one in the morning, and he needed to relieve Raymond of sentry duty in an hour. So much for grabbing rest while he could.

  He never used to have problems sleeping. On the job, in the middle of a high stakes hit, no problem. Five minutes here, half an hour there. It worked.

  Not anymore. He squinted into the dark. The rounded shape of Emma asleep in her bag separated from the darkness. At least she managed to rest.

  He stretched his leg and found almost no pulling of the skin around the stitches. Over the past four days, the wound knit itself together, trading pus and inflammation for pink skin and no pain. His ribs were back to normal, his nose was almost healed, and the last of his bruises had faded to a subtle yellow.

  Only his relationship with everyone in the cabin remained tense and strained. Emma humored him, running through more defensive drills and practicing what he’d taught her. But he sensed a reluctance and an unwelcome distance growing between them. He closed his eyes and tried to drift off.

  The walkie-talkie crackled a moment later. “John? Are you there?”

  He rose quickly and strode across the small cabin before clicking the button. “I’m here.”

  “There’s movement in the woods. About a hundred feet or so. I can’t get a read on it, but I don’t think it’s deer.”

  John swallowed. They weren’t ready for this. “I’ll wake everyone. Alert me if you get a visual.”

  Proceeding down the line of sleeping bags, John tapped each pair of feet, one after the other, until every sleeping member of the group groaned and rose up on their elbows. Tank arched his back and stretched before full-body shaking and trotting over to his side. John gave the dog a quick scratch behind the ear.

  “Wake up quick,” John called out. “We’ve got company.”

  Holly audibly gasped. “Dane’s guys?”

  “No clue. Raymond reports movement a hundred feet away, but it’s too dark to make it out, even with the moon. We’ve got to assume the worst.”

  John ejected the magazine to his Sig Sauer and checked the contents. Seven rounds. Not nearly enough. “Everyone grab a weapon. Who’s staying here to guard the supplies?”

  “I will. If I leave, Pringles is liable to pitch a fit.” Gloria stood and the little dog stood with her, sticking close to her heels as she walked across the room.

  “I’ll stay, too,” Holly offered.

  John nodded in agreement. “Good. Don’t let them in. Anyone opens the door who isn’t us, just shoot, don’t hesitate.”

  He handed a shotgun to a now-standing Emma. “Don’t take unnecessary risks.”

  She grabbed the gun by the barrel and sucked in a breath. “Let’s hope it’s a false alarm.”

  John didn’t have a good feeling. He nodded at Vince who braced himself on the wall as he shoved his feet into his boots. “You ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  “Then let’s do this.” John strode to the door and eased it open, cognizant of the million places to hide in the forest beyond. The clearing gave them a modicum of advantage, stretching over a hundred yards in every direction. With night vision, a seasoned shooter could make the shot, but they would be impossible to identify from that distance. If he reached the safety of the trees...

  The first wave of cool night air hit his face and adrenaline spiked his blood. He slipped out of the door, a black shadow against the worn wood exterior. He turned to Emma. “Stay close. We’ve got to break for the tree line and get some cover.”

  She didn’t answer but did as he asked, keeping tight beside him as they snaked down the porch steps and into the woods. Raymond’s location across the clearing remained in the shadows, unobservable to the naked eye.

  John eased toward it, hugging the trees and avoiding the moonlight. A crackle, close and large, sounded to their right.

  He reached back and tapped Emma to stop. Raymond was right. Something or someone was in the woods. He sank low, tucking his body behind the closest tree. Emma did the same. If whoever was out there had night vision, they were sitting ducks.

  John calculated the distance before leaning close to whisper, “Stay here until I give the signal.”

  “What? No! I’m coming with you.”

  Emma smelled of stale sweat and panic, but John took her by the arm and squeezed. “We don’t know what we’re walking into. It could be a trap. They could already have Raymond and be using him to get to us.”

  She pulled back in alarm, but John kept his grip firm and steady. “Wait here.”

  With Emma tucked behind the tree, John advanced, careful to keep the noise to a minimum. He approached the lookout from the rear. One step, then another, and he squinted into the dark, trying to make out the hulking shape of the other man. It wasn’t until he stood close enough to touch the berm that he confirmed his fear.

  Raymond was gone.

  John spun as the darkness shifted in his peripheral vision. A person separated from the forest, black clothes, covered face. Not Raymond.

  John ducked as a fist flew forward. He jabbed out with his right, a quick punch to the other man’s ribs. Solid, not flabby. Defined muscle. A hired gun.

  John cursed and side stepped. He needed to pull the assailant out into the open and away from the trees and the never-ending dark.

  Side-stepping toward the clearing and the moonlight, John attempted to lure the other man, but he hung back, too smart to take the bait. John ducked behind a tree, gripping the Sig in both hands, and sucked in a breath. Just give me a shot. One clear shot.

  Pain spread across his lower back as a fist connected with his kidney. John stumbled forward. A boot connected with his elbow and the gun fell to the ground. John dove for it, wincing as the stitches in his leg pulled for the first time in days. He couldn’t afford to rip them open. Not after all he’d put Emma and the others through.

  Dirt caked his hands as he swept the ground for the weapon. His fingers brushed across cold steel and John stretched to grasp the butt. Before he could secure the gun, the other man was on him, straddling his torso and clawing at his extended arm.

  John rolled and bought his knee up sharp and fast, colliding with the man’s chest and pitching him backward. As the man stumbled, John surged forward, wrapping his arms around the stranger’s torso and propelling him onto the ground. John landed on top of a burly chest and pulled back to catch a glimpse of ski mask and pale skin.

  “Who are you?” John clawed at the knit wool, tugging it up to reveal a week-old beard and the strong jaw of a total stranger.

  The other man grabbed his wrist and wrenched John off-balance. They both fell onto their sides, knees jamming, fists flying. John didn’t know where he ended, and the other man began. They rolled again and John managed to hook his leg around the other man’s waist, dragging him out of the woods and into a patch of moonlight. John kneed him again, hard, and reared back to punch, when someone grabbed his arm. He gritted his teeth, flexed his arm, and pulled, dragging the other assailant forward and into the clearing.

  Another attacker, dressed in all black, face obscured.

  They were Dane’s men. Had to be. So why wasn’t he dead already? He scrambled back, staggering as a shout echoed through the trees. Emma. He hoped she was holding her own. He couldn’t save her. Not now. He backtracked into the shadows while the two men rose up, prepared to fight.

  No evidence of a gun. At least not yet. Where was the Sig Sauer? Somewhere behind him in the trees. He stepped back, easing into the darkness.

  One of the attackers brought his hand up to his ear. “Visual confirmed.”

  John’s stomach twisted. It was Dane all right. No one else cared what he looked like. Now the lack of guns made sense. They were told not to shoot until they were sure. He stepped back again, disappearing into the shadows as one brandished a slim model meant for concealment. A 9mm, most likely, probably a subcompact. They were notoriously finicky guns, the tiny ones, with mediocre precision and a tendency to jam.

  At least he had that going for him. Adrenaline rushed through his veins and John inhaled to focus his brain. There was nothing like the rush of a fight, of life-or-death. He’d felt it when those prisoners attacked, when he’d fought off that family in the woods, even when he’d come across the dead men on the road.

  This was what he was born for. This was his element. He lowered into a slow crouch and picked up the nearest branch. He threw it as far as he could manage away from the cabin and Emma’s scream. The man with the gun rotated in the direction of the noise, and John seized the opportunity, rushing forward to tackle him without hesitation. They slammed to the ground, John on top, the smaller man beneath. The other man’s head slammed into the ground and bounced once, twice, before he stilled. The gun plopped into the dirt.

  John grabbed it and pulled the trigger: one-two, right between the eyes. He didn’t even know who hid behind the ski mask, bleeding out into the dirt. But it didn’t matter anymore. They were Dane’s men and Dane wanted him dead.

  A groan sounded behind him as his first attacker heaved his bruised body up and away toward the trees. John turned, lowered his head, and dropped the second man like a stone.

  He turned back to the unidentified body at his feet and ripped the ski mask off. Tan face, lifeless dark eyes. Not someone he knew. He turned the man’s head with the barrel of the gun and fished the earpiece from his ear. John shoved it in his own ear and listened. No chatter.

  It didn’t matter. Someone would say something eventually.

  He patted the man down before turning to the other man and doing the same. Another handgun and an extra magazine. A handful of zip ties. A folding knife. No sat phone. No apparent means of contact beyond the immediate group and their local earpiece communications.

  How many others were out there? How many were coming?

  Another scream sounded from closer to the cabin and John shoved the extra gun into his waistband before heading toward the fight. He’d come back for the Sig later. Right now, Emma needed him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  EMMA

  Emma’s eyes adjusted to the dark as she stood silent and still behind the tree. John had been gone so long, she feared the worst. She fingered the shotgun, holding it close to her chest as she pressed her back against the trunk.

  A rustle of leaves and branches caught her breath. She froze as a branch broke to her left, followed by a shout some distance away. Emma clutched the weapon tighter as a groan of pain reverberated through the trees. Was it Raymond? John? Were they out there, dying, while she cowered in the dark?

  She couldn’t stand there and do nothing. Emma forced herself to breathe, squared her shoulders, and stepped out from behind the tree. Within a second something whizzed by her head, clipping a branch before lodging in the tree a few feet ahead.

  A bullet.

  With her mouth half-open in shock, Emma dove to the ground. Another bullet whizzed overhead, followed by another and another. She rose into a half-crouch and ran deeper into the forest and the dark.

  Another volley of shots, cutting the leaves and branches all around her. Panic rose up her throat and she struggled for air. She twisted behind a large oak chest heaving, as she tried to stay silent and concealed.

  Time slowed. The forest grew, endless, vast, and dark, full of horrible possibilities and fear. No. She shook her head once. Panic would get her killed.

  How many times had she done this? Fought against Dane’s men and succeeded? This wasn’t any different. She’d win this time, too.

  Emma channeled her mind and energy and listened, shotgun clutched in both hands. A twig broke to her left. She braced herself.

  Movement. A rush of disturbed air. She inhaled, tensed her muscles, and swung the butt of the shotgun as hard as she could into the void. It slammed into something solid and unforgiving. A chest, maybe, or a six-pack of taut abs.

  A grunt, followed by movement. Pain lanced her cheek and she stumbled backward from the force of the punch, scraping her bare arm across the bark of the tree. The attacker closed the distance before she could bring the shotgun up, all dark mass and violence. Another punch, this time to her shoulder, and she fell sideways, one hand losing grip on the gun.

  The ground loomed, dark and loamy with fallen leaves and bracken. Emma thrust her now-free hand out, barely stopping her face from hitting the earth. Rolling to her left, she managed to brace the shotgun against her shoulder as the man came at her again. She fired, recoil slamming her shoulder into the ground as the echo of the shot cut through the trees.

  The man lunged as she racked the slide in vain. He grabbed the gun barrel and tugged it out of her grip like an angry parent snatching something precious from a child. She scrambled back, heels digging fruitlessly into the soft forest floor. A boot connected with her calf, and she cried out.

  This was it.

  Dane’s henchmen would finally kill her, here, miles away from her home, the lab, and anything remotely relevant to her Congressional testimony. Emma almost laughed out loud. Her testimony. What did it matter now?

  The man turned the shotgun on her, and Emma challenged the last of her resolve. She scrambled forward, screaming and clawing for his shins. He stumbled back and loaded a round, but she persevered, relentless in her attack. Her fingers dug into the tactical nylon of his pants, up his torso, and into the meat of his bare forearm.

  He tried to shake her off, but she dug in deeper.

  “Why are you doing this?” She demanded, as she fought in vain for the shotgun. “I don’t even know you. It’s the end of the world and you’re still following orders?” She grunted as he kneed her in the ribs. “You should be focused on your family. On getting somewhere safe. Not killing me.”

  He let go of the gun with his support hand and swept his arm across, dragging Emma away from his body. She struggled against his effort, but it was no use. He outweighed her by at least fifty pounds.

  As she fell in the dirt, another shape separated from the darkness. The curve of his shoulders and cut of his hair filled Emma with relief. Raymond. He landed a brutal gut punch, followed by a swift kick to her attacker’s groin and the man went down. The shotgun landed with a thud on the dirt and Emma darted forward, plucking it out of the leaves as the stranger swept his hand out wide to find it.

  She brought it into position and screamed. “Ray, move!” His shape eased back in the dark and Emma pointed the gun at the man who almost took her life. She’d given him a chance. She’d asked him to leave. Without another thought, she fired. He fell sideways, slow and limp like a caricature of a bad western.

  Her lungs heaved. “Is he dead?” Emma waited as Raymond crouched over the body and searched for a pulse.

  It didn’t take long. “As a doornail.” He stood and motioned further into the forest. “Another one is over there. He caught me by surprise when I was still in the lookout.”

  Emma sucked in another bruised breath. Her face throbbed from the earlier punch, cheek already swelling enough to partially close her left eye. With any luck, it would be temporary. She opened her jaw and closed it, thankful nothing seemed out of place. “Have you seen John?”

  “Not yet.” Raymond flexed a bloodied hand. “I heard multiple shots.”

  “Same.”

  A scream echoed across the forest and Emma turned and called out, “Holly!”

  “Over here!” The girl shouted again, and Emma took off, not thinking, only reacting. She found Holly across the property in the trees, crouched over a lump on the ground.

  “It’s Vince! He’s been shot!”

  An abandoned flashlight spread a beam of light across Vince’s torso. Blood seeped into the dirt around his shirt. His head lolled to the side, mouth hanging open. Oh, no. Emma crouched beside him. The amount of blood, the way his chest sank in the middle…

  She turned to shout, but before she could say a word, John separated from the shadows, gun drawn.

  “Over here!” Emma called out, and he double-timed it across the open area to her side.