Page 153 of Risky Obsession

I darted into the mechanics shed, and breathing like I’d run a marathon, I dodged around equipment, aiming for the far side of the room. Panic clawed through me as I pictured Kane under that water, breathing through a pipe and not knowing what was going on.

He would be terrified.

The asshole’s voice drifted to me as I hid against the side of a wall. He wasn’t yelling so loud, but his tone conveyed his anger. Sucking in huge breaths to calm myself, I peeked around the corner. He still had his back to me, and his gaze was aimed at the top of the rocky avalanche we’d climbed down.

Was he waiting for someone?

Christ, I bet he is.

I leaned on a table covered in tools and sections of rope, and as I tugged off my wet shoes and socks, I tried to listen to his conversation. Although I couldn’t make out his words, his tone told me he was severely pissed off.

Good. That should keep him distracted.

I peered around the corner again.

He hadn’t moved but his yelling became louder.

I scanned the tools on the table, searching for a better weapon. Hammers and wrenches were a great option, but they required me to get close.

I decided to stick with the pipe.

Between me and the asshole was about twenty feet of concrete that was covered in equipment.

He raged into the phone with a torrent of fury that I couldn’t understand.

I exploded from behind the wall, charging at him like a deranged Doberman. The second he was in striking distance, I swung the copper pipe, hitting the side of his head with a sickening crack.

Crying out in pain, he tumbled sideways. The phone went flying. As he twisted toward me, I swung again, slamming into his windpipe.

His chin snapped upward as he fell to his knees, clawing at his throat and gasping for air.

With a primal scream, I whacked the pipe across his temple. Thesickening sound of metal cracking on bone echoed around me as he keeled over like a sack of potatoes and slumped onto his side.

I kicked him onto his back and stood over him, panting heavily. His eyes were closed, and blood trickled from his nose and ear.

My hands trembled as I checked for a pulse. He was alive.

Good. I needed answers from this bastard.

I sprinted back to the mechanics shed, and as I tugged on my shoes, I surveyed the equipment on the table, searching for something to tie him up.

With my shoes on, I grabbed a length of rope and sprinted back to the first man I’d ever knocked out cold.

A surge of emotions raced through me and as I fought nausea, I rolled him onto his stomach and yanked his hands behind his back. I felt no remorse for this bastard. He could have killed us. Twice.

“Got you, you fucking asshole.” As I hog-tied his hands and feet together, I spotted his phone across the platform, next to a wooden crate.

The screen still glowed. Had the bastard on the other end heard what happened?

I yanked the rope tight enough to create welts on my prisoner’s wrists and tied off the knot. I sprinted to the phone and my heart launched to my throat as the wooden crate that had stopped it going into the water came into view.

The crate was labeled with three markings—a skull and crossbones, a flame, and a warning triangle—and lots of words that I couldn’t read, except for one: Explosiv.

The lid was up, and as I snatched the phone off the ground, I peered inside. A stack of grayish-white, cylindrical shapes rested inside.

Dynamite!

A faint, chemical smell wafted up to me. He must have used these to make that detonation. Asshole!