The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12)(26)
Author: J.R. Ward

No keys to worry about. Access was fingerprinted.

As he went along, he had to use a flashlight to zero in on the pseudo-decrepit entrance. He was about halfway to goal when he turned back, some instinct talking to him.

“Be careful opening that up,” he called out.

“Yeah. Whatever.” Phil went around to the trunk. “What the f**k can she do to me?”

Two Tone shook his head and muttered, “Your funeral. With any f**king luck—”

The second that latch was released, all hell broke loose: Their captive exploded out of there like her ass was spring-loaded—and she’d found a weapon. The red glow of a flare pierced through the darkness, illuminating the cluster-fuck she dealt out as she buried that brilliant tip right in the face of Two Tone’s idiot backup—

Phil’s howl of pain flushed an owl the size of a ten-year-old kid out of the tree right next to Two Tone and he was forced to hit the deck or lose his own head.

But then he had to be back up on his feet.

That woman took off at a dead run—proving, like that flare shit didn’t, that unlike Phil she was no dummy.

“Son of a bitch!” Two Tone tore after her, following the ripping and tearing sounds as she went seriously off-road. Switching his flashlight to his left hand, he fumbled to get his gun out.

Not how this should be going down. Not in the slightest.

The bitch was fast as hell, and as he lumbered after her, he knew she was going to outrun him—and the last phone call he wanted to make to the boss was, “Oh, hey, I lost your project.”

He could end up being the next person taken into the “cabin.”

Discharging his weapon was the only shot he had. Ha-ha.

Skidding himself to a halt, he latched onto a birch tree, upped his muzzle, and started pumping off rounds, the shots echoing through the early dawn.

There was a higher-pitched curse—and then the sounds of running ceased. In their place? A concentrated rustling, like she was writhing on the ground.

“Fuckin’ A,” he panted as he jogged forward.

If it was a terminal wound, he was screwed nearly as badly as if she’d gotten away.

The flashlight skipped around the landscape as he closed the distance, highlighting trunks and branches, underbrush, the snowed-up ground.

And then there she was. Facedown in the needles, gripping one knee to her chest. Except he wasn’t falling for it. God only knew what else she had up her sleeve.

“Get up or I’ll shoot you again.” He put a fresh clip into the butt of his gun. “Get the f**k up.”

Moaning. Rolling.

He pulled the trigger and put a bullet into the ground right by her head. “Stand up or the next is through your skull.”

The woman pushed herself off the ground. Debris hung from her black clothes and parka, and her dark hair was fuzzed up. He didn’t bother rating her on his f**k scale. First and foremost was getting her into the secured location.

“Hands up,” he ordered, training his weapon at the center of her chest. “Walk.”

Her limp was bad, and he could smell the blood as he fell in behind her. No more sprinting for her.

It took them four times as long to get back to the car, and when they did, he found Phil still on the ground and not moving. Breath was going in and out of his open mouth, however, the subtle wheezing sounds suggesting that the pain was all-consuming.

As they passed, Two Tone checked out that face. Oh … shit … third-degree burns all over, and one of those eyes was not coming back. Except the bastard was probably going to live.

Right?

Fucking great. But he’d deal with that later.

When the pair of them came up to the door, he knew he needed to retain control of this situation.

With a quick move, he grabbed the back of her neck and slammed her headfirst into those hard-ass panels.

This time, as she slumped to the ground, he knew she wasn’t coming up for air for a while. But he still gave her a chance to twitch it out before he put his gun away, pressed his thumb into the fingerprint reader, and opened the way in.

Flicking the lights on, he took hold of her armpits and dragged her inside. After locking them in together, he pulled her across the concrete to the stairwell … and then carried her down into the basement below.

There were three cells filling out the lower level, just like the ones on TV with iron bars, concrete floors, and stainless-steel pallets for beds. The toilets were functional not for the comfort of the prisoner(s), but for the boss’s sensitive nose. No windows.

Two Tone didn’t take a deep breath until he had her in the first of them and had locked the door.

Before he went aboveground to confirm capture with home base, put the camo tarp over the Crown Vic and deal with Phil, he went to the cell next door and urinated for what felt like an hour and a half. Zipping up, he stepped out and looked at the stained wall across from him.

The pair of shackles that hung from the two sets of steel chains were going to get used soon.

Complications with Phil aside, he almost felt sorry for the bitch.

EIGHT

Later that morning, an uppercut came flying at Wrath from the left, and in spite of the whistle it made traveling through the air, he couldn’t respond in time: The knuckles nailed him square on the jaw and the crack rang his idiot bell, his head ripping around, blood flying out of his mouth.

It felt f**king great.

After another nightmare throne-al session with Saxton—seven to ten more hours of his life he was never getting back—he’d gone up to his and Beth’s private quarters. Sex had been the only thing on his mind, the only release that was going to save the planet from his rotten mood.

His mate had been not just asleep, but passed out cold.

He’d lasted about an hour staring at the ceiling before hitting up Payne and telling her to meet him here in the training center’s gym.

Like Rhage had always said, sex or fighting to take the burn down. Sex was out, so there ya go.

Harnessing the energy from the impact, he went with the momentum and redirected it into a kick that creamed his opponent in the side, throwing her off balance and sending her reeling. No to-the-mat for V’s sister, though. Her landing was light and quick as a cat’s, and he knew she had plans for him.

Triangulating the rushes of air, the scent of the female fighter, and the sound of her bare feet coming at him with a louder cadence, he knew she was approaching front-on in a crouch. Bracing himself, he sank into his thighs and loved the feel of his muscles tightening up and securing his two-hundred-seventy-pound body in the upright position. Tucking his elbows in, he waited for her to get in range and then punched outward. With her reflexes and the advantage of sight, she dodged the affront and dipped down to come up and cable him around his waist.