Page 23 of Empowereds

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B efore heading down the dirt road, Enzo paused and looked back at the cave entrance. He automatically made note of the trees, the rock outcropping, and the distinctive bits of rubbish scattered in the area. An old tire lay off in the distance. A shredded plastic bag fluttered in a bush, all markers of its location.

He didn’t know which way to go on the dirt road. It tilted downward to the left, but for all he knew, that was a temporary dip, and the road actually headed upward into some lonely mountain pass.

Charity’s parents would no doubt return and search for him. He’d have to leave the road eventually to avoid being seen by vehicles, but he could follow it for a while. That way, he wouldn’t leave tracks in the undergrowth that showed which direction he’d gone.

He marched down the road, fast-paced. The air hung hot and humid. Gnats flew in pointless, annoying circles.

Leaving the cabin was the right decision. The only decision he could make in the situation. So why did he feel so horrible about it?

It was best not to think about Charity. He needed to keep his mind on his surroundings. He didn’t know nearly enough about wilderness survival—where to get water or how to make a shelter for the night. The police academy had spent a total of one day covering that sort of information. He couldn’t remember most of it.

Charity would, eventually, see that he’d made the right choice to go. It was just a shame she was determined to be loyal to her family. Otherwise, he could have convinced her to leave them and come with him.

He had to stop thinking about her.

Bears, wolves, and mountain lions roamed the wilderness, but the biggest danger was always raiders. Judging by the amount of time the Huntingtons had taken to drive here, he was deep in the wilderness. Raiders probably wouldn’t be around until he got closer to civilization.

His gaze continued to sweep the area, searching for anything that shouldn’t be there. He hiked for about half an hour and had barely left the road when he saw them. Three men at a makeshift campsite. A camouflage tent perched behind them, and they were stacking a pile of sticks for kindling.

Men out by themselves. Probably trouble. The layer of dirt on their clothes and faces indicated they hadn’t washed in days.

Enzo paused, intending to backtrack, but he was too late. One of the men spotted him, a tall man with greasy blond hair and the thin, gaunt look common among drug users. “Hey,” he called to Enzo. “We’re lost. Can you help us out?”

Not even if Enzo wanted to. And he doubted they were lost since they’d set up a tent. The other two men were already moving toward him—a shorter, stocky man whose brown hair had been shaved on the sides, and a man with huge biceps and rows of black tattoos on his face. That man was the muscle in the group, the one to watch out for.

Enzo gripped the knife and moved his hand behind his back. Let them wonder what sort of weapon he held. If they thought he was dangerous, they’d let him pass. “That depends. Where are you from?”

“What’s left of Paris,” the stocky one said.

Enzo forced a smile. “You don’t have much of an accent for Frenchmen.”

“Paris, Arkansas,” the blond said. “If you were from these parts, you’d know that.”

Arkansas. Good to know. “I was just joking. Sorry, I can’t help you.”

Enzo stepped to go around them, but the tattooed guy moved to intercept him. “What are you doing out here by yourself?”

“I’ve been out here hunting with some friends.” Perhaps if they thought he had a gun, they would step aside.

None of them moved. “I haven’t seen anyone in these parts today ‘cept for you,” Blond Guy said. He was probably the leader since he talked the most. “You get separated from your friends?”

“They’re around here.” Enzo really didn’t want to fight these men. He could take one of them, possibly two. His backpack would slow down every move, but he couldn’t take it off.

One of them would grab it, run off, and Enzo would be stuck in the woods, trying to catch small woodland creatures so he didn’t starve to death.

The blond man rubbed the back of his hand against his beard. “I don’t think you’ve spent a night outside. There’s not a speck of dirt on you. That pillow ain’t never seen the ground. What do you think, Bast?”

The short man eyed Enzo. His tongue kept darting out of his mouth to lick a sore at the corner of his lips. “Maybe his car broke down somewhere along the road, and he’s hoofing it to find a safe place. Shame he ran into us.”

“Not a shame for us.” Blond Guy smirked at Enzo. “Just a shame for you because you’ll be turning over your stuff to us.”

Enzo brought out his knife. “I might not be able to take all three of you, but I can cut up a couple of you. I don’t think any of you want to risk being in that majority, so step aside and let me through.”

The blond guy nodded, more amused than afraid. “You’re threatening us? That’s quite a gamble.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pistol. “I’ll see your knife and raise you a gun.” Blond Guy took a step closer. “Now, boy, you’re going to drop your cutlery, take off that backpack, and drop the pillow as well.” He smiled, showing crooked, stained teeth. “I’ve taken a fancy to your shoes and jacket, so you can leave those too.” He glanced at the other men. “Anything else you want? I think those jeans would be too big for Bast, but he could try them and find out.”

Enzo hardly heard the last part. He was weighing his options.

The blond motioned with the gun at Enzo. “You deaf? I told you to drop the knife, boy. We might want those jeans and would hate to get blood stains on them.”

The man was out of reach, but if Enzo lunged two steps forward, he could grab the guy’s wrist and disarm him. He might get shot in the process. It would be better to extend his reach.

Enzo swung the pillow full of cans. They clanged satisfyingly as they hit the blond man’s arm and smacked the gun away. The guy reeled backward.

Enzo didn’t have enough time to grab the gun. The big man sprang at him. Enzo slashed the knife at him. The man blocked the strike, and the knife sliced through his shirt and cut a bloody trail through his skin. He yelled and stumbled away, gripping the wound.

Where was the gun? Enzo spotted it on the ground. Blondie had nearly reached it. If the guy was scrambling to reach it instead of joining the fight, the gun was loaded. Enzo needed to tackle him and grab it.

Something hit Enzo’s back, knocking him off balance. A ripping sound came from the backpack, then the clunk of items falling out.

He spun and saw the short man holding a dagger. He swung at Enzo. Enzo dodged and used the man’s momentum to push him to the ground. Some of his water bottles dropped to the ground. He nearly tripped on them.

A gunshot blasted. The blond man stood ten feet away, pointing the gun at Enzo. If he’d been a better shot, Enzo would be dead.

He didn’t stick around to see if the gun had more bullets. He swung the pillowcase at the blond again, this time throwing it at his chest. The man went down, but he wouldn’t stay there long. Enzo took off running in the direction of the cabin.

More cans and provisions toppled from his backpack. He wouldn’t have supposed this to be a good thing, but it lightened his load.

He heard the men’s panting voices behind him. They were coming after him.

“Leave that ‘til later!” the blond yelled. Apparently one of the group had stopped to pick up the provisions.

“We might not find it later,” the other said. “Just shoot him.”

So the gun was still loaded.

“Don’t wanna waste no more bullets. And we don’t need to. The three of us can take him. He can’t run forever. There’s nowhere for him to go.”

But there was, if he could reach the bunker in time. Charity would let him back in.

Probably.

Hopefully.

He ran faster than the three, and every minute, he pulled further ahead. He veered onto the road and sprinted up it. Keeping on it made him more visible, but the ground was smoother here, easier to run.

After a few minutes, he began looking for the identifying markers that would tell him he’d reached the right area. His sides ached from the constant speed, and his back stung. Must’ve gotten nicked when the man sliced through his backpack. At least, he hoped it was only a nick. He hoped he wasn’t leaving a trail of blood for them to follow.

The men straggled farther behind, almost out of sight. When he left the road and cut off through the woods to the cave, it would take them a few minutes to find him. By that time, Charity would let him in.

She had to let him in.

Minutes passed. He saw the markers—the tire lying on the ground, the plastic bag stuck in the bush. And there was the cave. Enzo checked over his shoulder, but he didn’t see his pursuers.

He staggered into the cave, breathing hard. The door had been in the left part of the wall.

He searched for a doorknob, a panel, something to show where the entrance was. Nothing. There had to be a seam in the wall, didn’t there? Somehow that was hidden as well.

Charity would see him on the camera. This place must have audio. He pounded on the wall. “Charity! Let me in!”

Seconds plodded by without an answer. What if she hadn’t been able to move the fridge? What if it was bolted to the wall? He might have inadvertently caused his own death.

“Charity, please!”

“What do you want?” Her terse voice came from a small speaker somewhere above him.

“Hurry, let me in.”

“Why?”

She’d be more likely to open the door if she thought he’d had a change of heart. “I want to come in and talk to you.”

“You can talk to me fine out there.” Still terse.

He scanned the area behind him. The men hadn’t found him yet, but he could hear them not far off, calling to each other. He lowered his voice. “Raiders are in the forest. I only got rid of them by dumping my food. They’ve got a loaded gun, and they’re searching for me.”

“Oh, so the something bad that would happen if you left happened to you . That’s ironic.”

“Will you please let me in?”

“You just want more food.”

He glanced over his shoulder. The men hadn’t passed by the cave yet. “I promise I’ll stay with you for two weeks—until your family comes to pick us up.” Better to face Ben and his craziness than armed raiders. “Please, let me in.”

“You’re a government operative who’s already used and betrayed me. I’m not seeing a compelling reason to let you back in.”

“Maybe I’m supposed to father your baby. That’s compelling.”

No response.

Okay, he didn’t blame her for not believing that. Not after he’d told her he wouldn’t abandon a child of his. But still, he hadn’t thought she’d leave him out here to die.

A noise sounded outside the cave. Footsteps pushing through the brush toward the entrance. Time had run out. They were coming. He turned to face the forest, hand raised, gripping his knife. “Well sweetheart, at least you’ll get to watch an entertaining show.”

The cave wall creaked. Before he could check and see if the door had opened, he was pulled backward.

Charity had a hold of his backpack straps and tugged him inside. She shut the cave door behind them.

Relief washed over him. “Thank you,” he said. Her eyes were red from crying. He probably should’ve expected that. “Thank you,” he said again.

Without a word in response, she stomped down the stairs.

This was going to be such a long, uncomfortable two weeks.

He followed after her. “I still have the can opener, so there’s that.”

“We have a backup can opener. Not that you cared.” Her words were all frost and sting, emphasized by each fast footstep on the stairs. “Taking the can opener and making my food inaccessible for two weeks is technically hurting me. What were the terms of your oath? I think you have to quit your job and tell the other officers to arrest you for assault—wasn’t that it?”

“I left the fresh food. You could’ve eaten that. And besides, you’re resourceful enough to find a way to open a can.”

She strode through the bunker door, went inside the cabin, and turned to face him. “What about pretending you had feelings for me in order to steal my key and handcuff me? You don’t think that hurt me?” Her eyes blazed with accusation.

He held a hand out, trying to show her his position. He had, after all, been her prisoner. “The oath doesn’t cover hurt feelings. Those are subjective and therefore can’t be counted.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You would’ve never treated Kitra that way.”

His mouth opened and shut. She was seriously bringing up his old girlfriend right now. “Kitra never kidnapped me.”

Charity turned to the computer screen. The raiders were leaving the cave. Their heads swung back and forth, surveying the area. “You were free to go the moment I released you from the chair.” She waved her hand in the direction of the door. “You’re still free to go, but don’t expect me to let you in again. I won’t.”

Enzo slid the backpack from his shoulders. “I’m not free to go. I promised you I’d stay the two weeks.”

Her attention returned to the screen. The men had moved up the road, still searching for him. “I’m sure you’ll find a way around that promise too.”

Man . “Hurt feelings don’t count,” he reiterated. “That wasn’t part of the oath.”

She rolled her eyes and didn’t answer.

He took out the can opener and put it on the counter. A box of matches and a few other items had survived the attack as well. He kept stealing glances at her. Her hair was mussed, as though she’d raked her fingers through it. Or maybe that had been his doing when he’d tangled his fingers through it earlier. Her hair had been so silky that he’d had a hard time leaving it alone.

If he hadn’t left the cabin, if he’d decided to stay … best not to think about that, to imagine what they’d be doing right now.

She stalked off to the bookcase, pulled out a book, and plunked down on the couch. He’d expected her to go to her bedroom and avoid him. He knew the reason she hadn’t as soon as the thought occurred to him. She didn’t trust him not to do something stupid and figured she had to keep an eye on him.

“I’ll go without food until dinner,” he said. “I’ll only eat a meal a day, so you won’t run out of food on my account.”

“Fine.” She flipped a page. “If that’s what you want.” She didn’t look at him.

He sighed and got a glass out of the cupboard. He was thirsty from all the running. He filled it and drained the entire thing.

She sat on the couch, stiff and stoic, ignoring him.

“Look, Charity, I know I’ve disappointed you in a lot of ways. I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t tell me you’re sorry.” Her gaze stayed firmly on her book. “You don’t mean it. Besides, apologies are wasted on crazy people.”

He filled the glass again. “I never said you were crazy. I said your parents were. I’m sure if you’d been born to normal parents, you would be?—”

“Cynical and bitter like you.”

“I’m doing what I have to in order to protect our country.”

She glowered at him over the top of her book. “How could you have lived with us for weeks and not seen that we’re not a threat to the country?”

He took another long drink. “You were putting on a show for me because you knew I was an agent.”

“We didn’t know you were an agent. Do you think I would’ve ever kissed you if I’d known that?”

He paused and couldn’t help his smile. “Judging from your actions an hour ago when you knew I was an agent, yes.”

She blushed and returned her attention to her book. “That was different. I was thinking of ending world hunger.”

Hmm. The girl had a solid dedication to helping the world.

Enzo went back to unloading the backpack and noticed a blood spot on it, a reminder he needed to take care of the wound on his back. He headed to the bedroom, stripped off his shirt, and checked the mirror. Blood was smeared across his back. He couldn’t tell how big or deep the cut was, but his adrenaline had worn off enough that he felt the persistent sting. One more thing to deal with.

He grabbed some clean clothes and strode to the bathroom for a shower. A bottle of shampoo sat on the shelf, along with a crisp bar of soap. He was afraid there wouldn’t be much warm water, but it didn’t run out.

When Enzo finished, he did his best not to get blood on the towel. The mirror told him the wound was about an inch long. Not too bad. The bathroom cabinet had antiseptic and an assortment of bandages. He applied one the best he could and got dressed.

This underground place with its little rooms would be his home for the next two weeks. Would the department stop looking for him by then? What would his mother think when they reported he’d disappeared? He hated that he had no way to tell her he was alive. Even if he got a hold of Charity’s phone, it wouldn’t have a signal out here.

He wandered back to the main room, unsure what to do next, or for that matter, what to do for the rest of the day. The place felt claustrophobic. No windows, no views of anything, only the knowledge that a cave-in would bury them. “What’s there to do in here?”

She didn’t look up. “I’m reading a book.”

“Okay, what else did you plan to do for two weeks?”

The look she sent him said she thought it was a stupid question.

“Yeah, all right,” he said, “but what were you going to do after that?”

She rolled her eyes.

He leaned against the counter. “Honey, if you think marital bliss will keep you busy for two straight weeks, you’re setting yourself up for disappointment. Just saying.”

She put her book on her lap with a thud. “I’m sitting beside a stocked bookcase, holding a novel. I planned on doing a lot of reading over the next two weeks.” She brought the book to her face again. “For someone who refused to father my baby, you have a one-track mind about the subject.”

“I…” Reading . All those meaningful gazes on her part had been about reading? Maybe he was developing a one-track mind. He glanced around the room. “You were just going to read for two weeks?”

“There’s a computer with some movies loaded on it, but I hadn’t planned on getting that out until the evening when the solar panels stop charging and the lights dim.”

He peered at the light fixtures on the ceiling. “Those stop working at nightfall?”

“We’ll still have battery power to run the important things. There are also board games in the hallway cupboard, but I don’t feel like playing. I’ve already played enough games with you.”

Fine. Reading it was then.

He strolled to the bookcase and scanned the titles. Tolkien. Austen. Sanderson. “I didn’t read these books when I was in school and actually had grades riding on it. Do you have anything besides the classics?”

“They’re not all classics.”

Others were history, self-help, and survival. Some were religious. “Yeah, if I wanted to find edible berries, inner peace, or Jesus, I’d be set for the next two weeks.” He pulled out a book for a better look. Poetry. “Who chose these books?”

She snapped a glare at him. “I did. I figured my husband and I would have things in common, and he’d like the same kind of books I did.” She flipped a page. “Wrong again.”

He shut his eyes and dragged in a breath. “Can you please stop doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Stabbing me with your words every single sentence.”

“Stabbing?” she repeated.

“Yeah, and hatefully flipping your pages.” He put a hand to his chest. “It’s hurting my feelings.”

“Then it’s a good thing I didn’t promise not to hurt you.”

“That’s a stab.”

She huffed and flipped a page. “Why do you care what I think? I don’t matter to you.”

He shouldn’t care. But he did. “I think we should try and get along while we’re stuck here.”

She flipped another page. Hatefully.

He pointed at her. “You didn’t even have time to read that page. You turned it just to bother me.”

“If you want a better conversationalist, next time, don’t reject a woman, steal her stuff, and leave her handcuffed to the appliances.”

Yeah. Next time. He went and stood in front of her. “Look, you clearly want to hurt me, and I don’t blame you. But is there another way that wouldn’t involve a two-week-long tongue-lashing and guilt trip—something quicker and less emotionally draining? How about we wrestle, and you can take out your aggression that way?”

She blinked at him in disbelief. “You want to wrestle? You’re taller, stronger, and trained. That wouldn’t exactly be a fair fight.”

“True, but I was recently stabbed by a raider, so that gives me a handicap.”

She straightened and her eyes went wide. “You were stabbed? Where?”

“On my back. I bandaged it myself. I’m not helpless.”

She left the couch, stepped behind him, and yanked his shirt up to look at the wound.

“You know,” he said, “the way you keep undressing me is becoming a bad habit for—Ouch!” She’d ripped off the bandage.

“This is deep,” she said. “You need stitches.”

He glanced over his shoulder to check her expression. “Are you just saying that because you want to jab me with a needle multiple times?”

She gestured to the couch. “Lay face down and try not to bleed on anything.” Without another word, she flounced off to the bathroom.

Was he supposed to leave his shirt on or off? He took it off. No point in getting it bloody. He laid down on the couch and waited. This would probably be painful.

And today was only the first day of his captivity.