Stone scanned the room. Each of the dead men had had a gun of some sort. But now, upon closer examination, he realized there were only two firearms left.
17
Wren held the heavy gun in both hands as she tiptoed through the darkness. Every sound startled her, forced her to fight to keep her breathing quiet and her step light.
She’d heard several gunshots, and then silence. She’d emerged from the darkened room expecting to find Cervantes waiting or Stone dead. Instead, she found three men with holes in their head, the accuracy a trademark of Stone’s skill. She’d snatched the first weapon she saw, a blocky, black thing sitting on the table. It was heavier than it looked, and merely holding it made her shiver in terror at the thought of using it. She’d never fired a pistol before. She’d used a rifle once, with her father, and a shotgun a few times with Jon, out in the Virginia countryside. They’d only shot at targets. This was for real.
The part that scared her, more than holding the gun, more than being naked and alone in the darkness, more than knowing Cervantes and his men were somewhere close by, looking for her, was the knowledge that she was absolutely prepared to pull the trigger, if she got Cervantes in her sights. As prepared as she could be, at any rate.
A gunshot from off to her left. Wren huddled against a wall until a second shot rang, and then silence. Her toes touched some kind of fabric, and she felt around with her hands, the dim light revealing only vague shapes. A blanket. Something hard underneath it. Cold flesh. A leg. Alive? Dead? She couldn’t tell. She followed the leg up to hard ribs, felt a faint heartbeat, thready and slow. Pulling away the blankets, she found a small pile of clothing, what felt to her touch like a minidress of some kind. She found the opening and pulled it on, tugged it on. It was far too small, constricting her chest and not even completely covering her ass, but it was better than being naked. She tugged it down farther, feeling her breasts squeeze up and out of the too-small bodice, and her backside hanging out beneath. She wished for proper clothing, knowing she wouldn’t find it here.
Her violated privates throbbed, ached, and that only fueled her rage. It was cruelty for the sake of cruelty, inflicting agony simply for the joy of hurting someone else.
Wren had had enough.
She turned around and went toward the direction where she’d last heard gunfire. She crept through the darkness, straining her ears.
“Where da fuck she go?” Cervantes, discovering her absence. He wasn’t far away, and was moving toward her.
Wren spun in place, found a corner, and crouched in it, making herself as small as she could. Feet scraped on dirt, a darker shadow filled the doorway to her left.
“I know you’re here somewhere, little bird,” Cervantes said. “Give up, and I may let your man live. He gonna bleed out soon. You can help him.”
Wren didn’t breathe, didn’t move. Cervantes moved on, into another room. She slid into the doorway he’d come through, following the bluish-white light of the lantern. She had to save Stone. She knew better than to believe Cervantes would let either of them go, at this point.
The shadows grew lighter as she moved toward the lit room. Looking down, she could see her dress was jade green, and didn’t do anything to hide her body. It displayed it, if anything. Which was the point, really, she supposed. Her heartbeat ratcheted into a pounding crescendo, her gut roiled, but she kept going. She couldn’t afford to let her fear stop her now. Stone was just through that door. She knew it.
She saw him, then. He was covered in blood. His thigh was gushing crimson, his face and shoulders were crusted with dried blood from a gash on his head, and the wound on his side had reopened. Knotted belts tied him to a chair, and he thrashed, struggling against them, trying to wiggle loose.
“Stone…” She stepped into the room, the same room she’d come from, with the dead men and the drugs, and realized she had gone in a very short circle.
Four rooms, all connected at two walls. Which meant…
“Stupid. Think you get away?” Cervantes, behind her. “I like da dress on you. It fit you much better dan ugly little Liesel. You gonna make me a lotta money, I tink. Come here, or I shoot you, and him.”
Wren was facing away from him, and had the gun in front of her, so she didn’t think he’d seen it yet. Stone was still wiggling, less noticeably though. She could tell he had his hands free, and was reaching for his boot. Something hidden in his boot, she thought. She had to buy time. Stone’s eyes were grim, hard, desperate.
She wanted to tell him she loved him. Maybe it was just the danger speaking, the memory of incredible sex. She didn’t know, or care. He’d come for her, and now she had to give him time to make a play.
She turned around, lifting the gun, planting her feet in a wide triangle, holding the heavy pistol in both hands. She didn’t try to aim it, just pointed the barrel at Cervantes. He looked shocked, his own gun held down at his side.
“Put it down, little bird. You ain’t gonna shoot nobody.” Cervantes slowly lifted his pistol, never taking his eyes from her.
“Shoot him, Wren.” Stone’s voice, low and calm.
“You won’t,
That was the wrong thing to say.
Wren remembered timeless time in a dark hole, needles in her skin.
Stone was beside her. “You got him.” He pulled the gun from her hand. “He’s dead, babe.” He hopped closer to her, tossed the empty pistol onto the table.
Wren couldn’t take her eyes from Cervantes, his chest a mess of red. His eyes were glazed and shifting, his mouth working like a fish out of water. “He’s not dead.”
“He will be.”
Nausea hit her like a fist. She’d just killed a man. She’d pulled the trigger, fired bullets into him. “I killed him.” Acid burned her throat, and her stomach rebelled, lurched, and puke jetted from her in wave after wave.
Stone held her as she vomited. When she finally stopped, her stomach still lurching and dry-heaving, he pulled her against his chest. He was balanced on one leg. “I know, babe. You had to. He deserved it. I know that doesn’t really help right now, though.”
She felt tears start, and blinked them away. “I…oh God. Oh God, I killed him.” She looked up at Stone, whose eyes were soft with sympathy. “Does it…how will I ever sleep again?”
Stone pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Time. Therapy, maybe. You’ll have bad dreams, but…with everything you’ve been through, I think that was a given.” He looked down at her, looking her over for fresh injuries. “Are you hurt anywhere? Did he hurt you?”
Wren nodded against his chest. “He…God, oh God. He hurt me. Inside. With the handle of his knife.” She didn’t know how to say it, how to make him understand that the knowledge of what he’d done was almost as bad as the pain of it. “He used that knife, the flippy thing—”
“A balisong. Butterfly knife.” His voice was hesitant, as if he understood what she was getting at but didn’t want to believe it. “What did he do to you?”
She closed her eyes tight, clutched his shirt. “He used it…shoved it in—inside—inside me. It hurts. I think he cut me open, in there.”
“Shit.” He spoke through grinding teeth.
“I know—I know it’s better than being raped, or sold, but…I tried to stop him, I fought him, but he…
