Page 20 of Lethal Illusion (Six Points Security #8)

Sloane ran like a fox hunted by hounds, her lungs burning, legs aching, barely aware of the scrapes of branches against her face and neck.

She skidded down a steep rocky slope, tearing one knee of her pants when she stumbled, too terrified to register the pain in her mind.

She almost stopped a time or two, but the sound of gunfire had a way of pushing her beyond the limits of exhaustion.

She finally stopped in a small clearing when she couldn’t breathe any longer. Bent at the waist, her whole body shaking, she sucked in huge gulps of chilled air and berated herself for not going to the gym more often.

So much for a nice relaxing weekend in Sierra’s mountain retreat, eating good food, wearing stylish clothes, and enjoying a slice of the good life. Now she’d just be happy to make it to Monday morning in one piece.

Once she no longer felt as if she were going to throw up or pass out, she hugged her arms around her torso and tried to collect her bearings.

Was Navarre okay? Was he even alive? The questions haunted her thoughts.

If he got hurt—or worse—because of her, she’d never forgive herself.

She hadn’t wanted to leave him behind, but what else could she have done?

There wasn’t a person on God’s green earth that would describe her as action hero material.

Her preferred method of combat was with a keyboard and a mouse.

Besides, it was what he’d told her to do.

If she’d hung around, she would have been more of a liability than an asset.

Tilting her head back, she peered through the tops of the trees that surrounded her.

Little by little, her breathing returned to normal, and when her heartbeat no longer pounded in her ears, other sounds crept in.

The screech of a hawk. The yip of a coyote.

Oh God, there might be bears out here. Or cougars. Maybe even wolves.

But the guys with guns were a whole lot scarier.

Needing to do something , she stepped cautiously through the woods.

She had no idea where she was or where she was heading.

For all she knew, she was walking right back into trouble, though it had been a few minutes since she’d last heard gunfire.

Maybe it was better if she stayed in one spot until Navarre had a chance to find her.

A rustle of movement in the brush sent a fresh burst of adrenaline through her veins.

She doubted it was Navarre. He struck her as the type who’d move through the forest with the grace of a tiger stalking prey, not lumber like a bull on Benadryl.

Whatever it was, it sounded big, and that couldn’t be good news for her.

She picked up a long stick, for what good it might do, and wielded it like a club.

The rustling drew closer, and her heart leapt into her throat when a man wearing brown cargo pants and a camo jacket emerged from the dense brush.

He was tall, at least six feet, with a rangy build, a gaunt face, and bleached-blond hair buzzed close to his scalp.

Deep acne scars marked his cheeks. His nose looked as though it had been broken a few times and hadn’t healed quite right.

His gaze swept over her body in a brazen appraisal that made her skin crawl.

She’d been on the receiving end of that kind of stare before, and it never ended well.

But what worried Sloane even more was the pistol in his right hand, which made her stick pretty much worthless.

For now, the barrel was pointed at the ground, but that could change in an instant.

He stepped toward her, his shoes crunching against the densely packed leaf litter, and she took a defensive step back.

“You’re even prettier than in the movies.” His gravelly voice carried a slight Southern accent. His mouth curved up on one side. “The boss said we have to bring you back alive. That doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun first.”

Bile rose up in her throat. She shook her head. “No, no, you’re—you’re making a mistake. I’m not Sierra.”

“Of course you’re not.” His tone turned patronizing. “You’re just riding around in her car, and wearing her clothes, and just happen to look exactly like her.”

“Do I sound like Sierra?”

“Sweetheart, I got no idea how you talk in real life. All I know is what I hear in the movies. And what I see.” His gaze raked over her again. “Now how about we recreate the best part of Shock Factor ?”

A shudder of revulsion swept over her. He was referring to Sierra’s first theatrical love scene that was also her first—and last—nude scene. All in all, it was tastefully done, but no way in hell was she acting it out with this creep.

For a moment or two, fear struck her speechless. When she finally regained the ability to form words, she said, “That’s not happening.”

The creep stepped closer, and she took another step back. “The way I see it, we can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

Digging deep, Sloane tipped up her chin and channeled her best Sierra Page impression. “I’m not going anywhere or doing anything with you.”

His smirk broadened as his left hand drifted down to his belt. “I was kind of hoping you’d say that. It’s always more fun when they fight.”

Sloane’s heart pounded so hard she feared she might pass out.

She remembered a few basic self-defense moves from a class she took a year or so ago, but this guy was taller, heavier, and probably a lot meaner than her.

No way was she going to simply give up, but she knew the odds were stacked against her.

A quiver of movement caught her attention, and she nearly wept with relief when Navarre emerged from the brush about twenty or so feet behind the guy, a pistol in one hand and a look of murder in his eyes.

He pressed a finger to his lips to signal for her to not say or do anything that would alert the man to his presence.

Not a problem. She raised the stick higher. “Don’t come near me. I mean it!”

The bastard had the nerve to laugh. “Sweetheart, perhaps you don’t understand the gravity of your situation.”

“Oh, I understand it just fine.” She kept talking, because the more the guy focused on her, the less likely he’d notice Navarre. It was kind of impressive, how he moved without making a sound. “I’ve got some of the best security in the world. If you so much as lay one finger on me—”

“What, you mean those assholes we ran off the road?” The creep laughed, oblivious to the fact Navarre was less than a foot behind him. “Your driver should be dead by now. No one’s going to—”

The rest of that sentence died in his throat when Navarre looped one arm around his neck and put him into a chokehold.

His eyes popped wide as a strangled gasp slipped past his lips, but it was too late for him to fight.

In a matter of seconds, the pressure of the hold cut off the flow of blood to his brain, rendering him unconscious.

Navarre guided him to the ground and checked his pulse.

“Is he dead?” Sloane asked, her heart in her throat and her voice barely above a whisper.

Navarre stripped the man of his weapons and restraints and tucked them into his pockets. “Not yet. Did he hurt you?”

“What do you mean, not yet? He can’t hurt us if he’s unconscious.”

Navarre grunted as he tugged the guy’s jacket off and tossed it aside. “What do you think he would have done to you if I hadn’t shown up? More important, what do you think he’s going to do when he comes around?”

A sickening feeling settled in her stomach as a host of possibilities flashed through her mind, each one worse than the last. “We’ll be long gone by then.”

“Are you willing to bet your life on that, or that he won’t hunt you down again?

” Some of the edge had left his voice, but his body still radiated aggression like a heater radiated warmth.

“We’ve got at least four hostiles after us, well trained and heavily armed, which means we can’t afford to assume anything but the worst. If you want to stay alive, we have to make sure this guy can’t come back to haunt us. ”

“Can’t you do that in a way that doesn’t involve making him dead?”

Navarre stared down at the unconscious man, his jaw taut with tension. Shaking his head, he exhaled sharply and reached for the handcuffs. He rolled the man onto his stomach and secured his hands behind his back. Finished, he dug through his bag for a bandana and used it as a gag.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” he asked. “It’s a bad move from a tactical standpoint.”

Sloane stared down at the creep. Already, he was starting to stir, his moan softened by the gag.

He’d wanted to do awful things to her. Just thinking about it made her skin crawl.

Without a doubt, the guy was human garbage, but she couldn’t bring herself to be okay with murdering him. “I don’t want his blood on my hands.”

“It wouldn’t be on yours; it would be on mine.”

“That’s not true if I could have stopped it.”

Navarre sighed. “As you wish.”

He rolled the creep back over and slammed the heel of his boot against the guy’s kneecap.

The sickening crunch of bone filled the air, making Sloane cringe, though the noise was quickly drowned out by the guy’s muffled scream, guttural and full of pain.

Quick, relatively quiet, effective, and he did it without firing his weapon, which might have alerted the other men to their presence.

“Problem solved. Now he can’t follow us.” Navarre bent to retrieve the man’s jacket and handed it to Sloane. “Put this on. Temperatures are going to plunge when the sun sets. Your jacket isn’t going to cut it.”