The Executioner (Professionals 10)

There was one thing they didn’t have, though.

The bone-deep desire not to be raped or murdered.

That was a driving force they couldn’t possibly understand.

It made me a hell of a lot more dangerous than I looked.

I just had to think. I had to choose my moment precisely. Then strike without hesitation.

And trust that my thighs had gotten a fair amount of training over the past few days and could carry me far and fast.

Taking a deep breath, then another, that was all that was on my mind as I listened to the grown-ass men bicker for another couple of minutes, turning in several different directions as someone cursed the cloud cover because they couldn’t see their way by stars or whatever their Boy Scout training taught them to do.

“No, shithead, this is back toward the house,” one of the men barked as the main guy in charge of navigation led us in a new direction.

“No,” the other guy insisted.

“Yeah, dipshit. I ripped that branch off with my arm on the way in,” the guy claimed, grabbing a branch off the ground and waving it around.

“Jesus Christ. I have a real crack team,” Adams growled, heading off in the other direction.

While I kept my gaze focused on the way back toward the cabin.

I wish I could have broken off branches as we went, but I couldn’t risk it.

Besides, did I really want to go back to the cabin? See Bellamy’s body firsthand? Witness what the giant of a man walking beside me had done to him?

No.

No, I didn’t think I could handle that.

I dealt with death a lot in my life. But never of someone I cared about like I cared about Bellamy.

I couldn’t see him like that.

I could get myself safe then call his team to come and handle his remains.

A low whimper escaped me as I thought about him, a sound that had the man who was carrying me glancing over.

“I can walk,” I offered.

“No,” Adams barked, making it clear I wasn’t going to be able to just break away and run. And, really, my chances weren’t great that way anyway. The best thing would be to take at least one of them out on my way.

So that left me with one more option.

I bided my time until they all started getting frustrated and confused again, drawing all their attention away from me. I took advantage of their distraction to carefully slip my hand into my pocket, fishing out the piece of glass I’d stored there. It bit into my fingertips as I did so, but the pain somehow managed to help me focus better as I curled it into my palm so that no one could see it.

Then I waited some more.

Until Adams and the giant man moved a yard or so in front of the rest of us.

Then, taking a slow, deep breath—knowing I would need it for the run I was about to go on—I slipped the edge of the glass out from between my thumb and forefinger, I moved my body just enough that it seemed like I was adjusting to stop the pain in my abdomen from the awkward carrying position.

I took another breath.

And then I jammed the glass right into the man’s carotid.

The blood spurted out across my hand immediately.

The guy stood there in stunned inaction for a split second, letting me slide off of him, duck, then charge forward just as the other guy realized what I’d done.

But by the time he had, I already had a slight head start.

Not great, mind you.

But I had long legs and a hell of a lot of motivation.

Throwing an arm in front of me to make sure I didn’t run face-first into anything, I flew forward as the voices of stunned, panicked, and angry men could be heard behind me.

The blood was sticky on my hands as I sensed one of the men gaining on me a few minutes later.

I’d lost the glass. And I had nothing else on my body to use as a makeshift weapon.

“Think, think,” I hissed at myself as my chest started to feel tight from the running.

“Where are you, you bitch?” the man called, hardly winded at all, making me realize I’d grossly overestimated my running abilities while simultaneously underestimating theirs.

Then, like God or the Universe or whatever was listening to me, I damn near went flying over a small cliff.

Not a deadly one, mind you. I’d survive the fall, but not without getting a little battered. And slowing me down, allowing the bastard to catch up to me.

Decision made, I dropped down on a knee, pretending to hold my ankle, letting out little whimpering sounds to boot as the footsteps got closer and closer.

Then, when he slowed as he came upon me, a big, strong man disarmed and distracted by a little feminine injury—one of the very few ways that misogyny worked in our favor—he never saw it coming as I shot up, slamming the top of my head under his jaw. The crack of his teeth together made me wince. But I couldn’t show any mercy. He wouldn’t show me any.