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CHAPTER ONE

T hrough the darkness, I hear his rich, deep, firm voice. “Everything’s going to be alright, Angel.” I want to believe him. I want to trust him.

His confident, reassuring voice. A voice I should feel safe with. Maybe trust is not in my nature. Now I feel sad.

The Warrior. That’s how I imagine him from the strength of his voice and the deep, low chuckle that’s always near the surface. I think of him as my warrior. He will protect me. Go into battle for me. Fight and kill if he has to. He will risk everything for me.

Why not? If I’m condemned to live in my imagination, I may as well imagine something wonderful. So. He is wonderful. Magnificent.

His speech is cultured, but with rough edges blended in. A killer who is as much at home in the midday glare as he is in the cold, brooding dark. A warrior who’s been to Hell and has no fear of going back.

When he speaks to me from close by, he’s gentle. Caring. He makes me want to trust him.

I’ve been taken. I don’t remember anything else. Not clearly.

I remember a crash, and I remember being taken. Kidnapped. Hauled out, bound and bundled into a vehicle

One crash, or two? I can’t even be sure. But I don’t remember anything before that and I don’t know anything after.

All that I can recall is a lot of noise and shock.

Sensations of falling. Tumbling, being thrown around. I slammed into a wall or something and dropped into a black numbness. The cold, hollow emptiness soon flooded and filled with pain.

Now I don’t really feel anything.

Worse, I don’t remember anything. Where I was, where I was going, where I am now. Who I am, even. If somebody asked my name right now, I wouldn’t be able to tell them.

Now I know nothing, nothing at all except his voice.

Good thing it is such a beautiful voice.

His words are direct and gentle and he puts a big warm hand on mine. Whenever he does, I become aware of the tubes in the back of my hand.

“We’ll bring you back. We’re going to pull you through this.” He squeezes my hand. “Whatever it takes.”

The soft strength in the man’s voice, the care in his words, I can feel that he feels something, too. Something for me. And it has to be something deep.

I can’t see anything but, flat out in a bed with the smell of disinfectant and with tubes in my arm, it’s a safe bet that I’m not looking my best.

What do I even look like? Now, or normally? Any time.

“You’re going to be okay.” The smooth, strong, dark voice holds me, like he’s cradling me. Wrapping me in a soft blanket. “You will be fine. I know you will,” he says. “You have to be.”

The tender warmth and strength of his touch sends ripples of sensation through me. His kindness makes me feel I’m going to weep.

I try to answer him but, with all the effort I can give it, I can’t even raise the faintest sound in my chest. I’m breathing steadily, and I can’t control it. I can’t even speed it up or slow it down. I cant hold it. It just happens.

I can smell. Just. The scents of this man would arouse a dead woman. My whole body pines for him to wrap me, hold me. Caress me. Pull me close against him, take me, fold me in his arms and impale me. But I can’t make a sound or a movement.

Maybe the anxiety I hear in his voice is a sign of him being worried. Since I can’t make a sound or the slightest movement, as far as he’s concerned, I could be dead. Perhaps he thinks I’m about to die.

Maybe I already am.

“We’ll bring you back. We’re going to pull you through this.” He squeezes my hand. “Whatever it takes.”

He sounds like a hero.

After he lets go, my hand holds onto the memory of the squeeze. So much that I get sad as soon as it starts to fade.

Still drowsy, I imagine how it would be if he came closer. If he touched my wrist. If his fingers ran up my arm, brushing the soft flesh inside my forearm. He could come near. If he was near enough for me to smell his breath, I wonder, would I be able to taste him?

Hew moves away across the room. As he opens the door, he says under his breath, “Come on back, Angel. We need you. And we don’t have long.”

And then he’s gone.

All I want is for him to return. I want his hand back where it was on my chest.

There’s no movement now, not even soft rustles of clothing or whispers of breath. I don’t detect any scents, and there’s no warmth.

Now I’m sure that I’m alone. The only sounds are the hums and beeps. My hands are cool, outside the covers, so if there’s someone in the room, I’ll often feel the faint rise in temperature.

It seems absurd that some of my senses would be so heightened, while my whole body and being are completely shut down.

Locked in here, I’m a prisoner inside my own body, just as much as outside, my body is a prisoner in… wherever it is that I am.

I can hear, sometimes, but I drift, in and out, so I know there’s a lot that I miss.

Could this be how my life ends? Trapped, held and muzzled inside my own body, unable to make a sign or a sound. Not even able even to see? I really could be dead already. Maybe this is what it’s like.

Is this it? I feel afraid. But I feel something even stronger for this man. That can’t be. Not if I’m already dead.

Wait… the crash. What happened?

Floating up, out of the swirling and confused waters of a dream, I’m still asleep. Or sedated. Or whatever I am. I was diving. Searching in the deep. Looking for a key.

I hear two men in the room now. One is near to the bed. I can feel the warmth of his body. How do I know that they’re men? I struggle to think. My thoughts drift so much. Everything is so vague.

Their breath sounds male, but I know that’s probably nonsense. The one by the bed turns. Yes. His shoes. They’re hard and heavy. And flat. Like a man’s shoes.

The voice farther away, by the door or the bathroom says, “I just came from town. We’re fighting fires everywhere.”

“Damn. More of the same?”

“On the docks. And two of the warehouses. It will be all out war out there pretty soon.”

“The cat’s away.”

“We’ve got to do something.”

“Cool.” With a sarcastic edge, “What shall we do?”

In something like a nightstand, close to my ear, a drawer slides open.

From across the room, the other one asks,

“What are you putting in there?”

“A two-twenty six.” The heavy thunk in the wooden drawer and the sliding swish as the drawer closes makes me feel relaxed and content. “Ready to rock.”

My favorite gun. The Sig Sauer 226. I hope that it’s actually my gun.

Wait — I have a favorite gun ? That seems to open up a whole hallway of doors I would rather have kept shut.