Red Zone (Red Zone 1)

“Okay. I agree.” He could see her heartbeat throb rapidly in the curve of her throat. “One year, starting right now.”

He wanted to pump the air. He’d secured a geneticist for the team. Instead he inclined his head. “Good decision.” He turned to the bar owner. “The bike’s out back. We’ll need twenty minutes.”

“I’ve got you covered.” The big man strode away.

“Let’s go, chère.” Striker stood, holstered his gun in the rig strapped to his thigh, and held out a hand to her.

With shaky fingers, she curled her hand in his. He couldn’t suppress his grin of triumph as he strode toward the back of the bar, dragging his new acquisition along with him. Once they were somewhere safe, somewhere they could talk, he’d explain exactly why he needed her and put her mind at ease. Until then, he’d just have to let her imagination run riot, because they had more important things to deal with—like staying alive.

…

What have I done? What have I done?

Friday focused on Striker’s back as they hurried through the room. Her stomach clenched in waves, and she knew if she’d eaten any food at all that day it would have been decorating the floor.

A year with the smuggler, or death? What the hell kind of choice was that?

She’d signed with CommTECH to ensure that she wouldn’t have to sell her body to live, like so many of the women she’d grown up around. And here she was, doing it anyway. Forced into it by a pirate with a black heart. A year! What would he do? What would she have to endure? It was too much to contemplate. Part of her wondered if she wasn’t better off letting the poison run its course, instead.

She’d gone from one form of slavery to another in the space of a breath. At least with CommTECH, she’d had an idea what she was getting into. With this man, she didn’t have a clue. Did he expect her to be his sex slave for a year? What if he meant to sell her and earn his money that way? Was she to spend her year servicing strangers to pay him back for saving her life? Fear hit her hard, making her trip over her own feet.

“Come on.” He tugged her hand, his huge fist swallowing hers and reminding her of exactly how strong he was and just how helpless she was in comparison.

They pushed out into the humid air of the desert. Night had fallen, but the temperature hadn’t. He tugged her into a lockup hidden in the alley behind the bar.

“Wait.” She dug her feet in and fought to stop.

With clear irritation, he turned on her. “You want to die here? In an alley? Because that’s what’s gonna happen as soon as Enforcement arrive.”

Blood rushed loudly in her ears, making it hard to concentrate. Sweat pooled in the small of her back.

“I have to know.” She stared him in the eye, looking for reassurance. “I have to know if you plan to sell me to make your money.”

He hung his head and let out a long sigh. When he looked back up at her, his jaw was clenched. Anger? Frustration? She wasn’t sure which.

“I don’t pimp women. Your time will belong to me for the year. No one else will touch you. We’ll talk more about the details of our deal once we’re safe. But I won’t do anything to harm you. Got it?”

Relief made her tremble. “Got it.”

“Great. Now can we leave before someone burns a hole through my chest?”

“Wait. You said no one will touch me. But will you let other people watch us when we’re sexually active?”

He stared at her, dumbstruck for a second. “Woman, you have a sick mind. I’m not sure if I’m impressed, insulted, or worried. No, there won’t be any audience to any sex we might have. Happy?”

Might? What did that mean? Did he have something else in mind for her? If so, what?

He pressed his thumb to the entry-scan and opened the door to the lockup. It was dark, but Friday could make out the covered shape of a bike.

“Catch.” A helmet thudded into her stomach. She pulled it on.

He pulled the cover off the machine as she fumbled with the strap of her helmet. That wasn’t a hoverbike. The questions about his intentions fled, now that she was faced with something else she didn’t understand.

“What is it?” She watched as he straddled the machine.

“This, bébé, is a relic. It’s a fully restored, slightly adapted, Ducati.”

She must have looked blank, because she felt blank.