Page 128 of Luck of the Devil

I glanced over my shoulder, terrified I’d see James crumpled on the ground, either because he’d lost his balance or he’d been hit. But he was still upright, staggering like a drunk man.

I turned back toward the hill, making sure no one had flanked the car, then checked on James again. He’d made it to the trees, bracing himself with both hands on a trunk to stay upright. We’d only taken a few more steps when an explosion ripped through the night, slamming me into a tree.

The impact crushed the air from my lungs, pain radiating through my chest and stomach. I dropped the rifle and hit the ground hard, landing on my ass. Dazed, I scanned wildly for Malcolm.

Panic surged when I didn’t see him, but then I spotted him, lying on the ground a few yards away, deathly still.

I tried to call his name but couldn’t find the breath. I crawled to him, terror rising with every inch.

His face was turned toward me, his eyes shut. Dread clogged my throat as I pressed two fingers to his carotid. For the second time in less than twenty minutes.

If he was dead, it would be my fault for not calling 911.

But his heartbeat pulsed against my fingertip.

I nearly collapsed with relief.

I finally sucked in a breath, wheezing.

“James,” I whispered, shaking his shoulder.

He didn’t respond. He was out cold.

He was only ten feet from where the forest’s understory grew dense enough to hide us, but there was no way I could drag him deeper into that cover.

Which meant I had to go with my original plan to draw them away from him. I’d told them he was dead. Maybe they’d believed it. If I could keep them distracted for twenty-five minutes, our reinforcements would show up to save us both.

I brushed my thumb across his cheek, swallowing back tears.

I could do this. I had to.

Rising to my feet, I started weaving through the scattered, smaller trees, staying a good ten feet from the forest’s edge. I kept glancing back at James until the shadows swallowed him.

The moment he vanished from my sight, panic clawed at my chest. But I reminded myself it was the best way to protect him.

I had to believe that.

When I got far enough away, I quickened my pace, keeping my gaze on the area around the car. It was fully engulfed now. Maybe my plan had worked a little too well.

As I neared the corner where the terrain rose toward the road, movement caught my eye. Two men were descending the incline, their rifles sweeping with flashlight beams, cutting through the dark.

I didn’t hesitate. I lifted my gun, aimed at the first man, and fired. A slight shift and I fired again. If they cried out in death, I didn’t hear it over the roar of the flames.

More figures appeared at the top of the hill, weapons raised.

I bolted, plunging deeper into the trees as bullets pinged around me, splintering bark and whistling through the air. I didn’t feel the sting of a gunshot, but I knew not to trust that.

Adrenaline could lie.

I started to climb the hill, toward the road. My original plan had been to distract them, but taking out two more had emboldened me.

The darkness gave me the advantage. A figure descended through the trees about ten feet to my left, his body backlit by the headlights of one of their vehicles.

I darted behind a tree, raised my rifle, aimed for his chest, then pulled the trigger.

He dropped like a rock, the brush crackling beneath him.

“Grayson!” a man called out.