Ransom (Benson Security 4)

“Fine,” she said, because what else was she supposed to say?

The shoes she’d stolen rubbed her feet raw. Her side throbbed where the asshole had stabbed her. Her face throbbed and she could hardly see out of her swollen eye. Her throat ached, which made talking painful. And her knee just plain hated her. It was in full rebellion. It didn’t want to be part of her body anymore. It was fed up with playing nice. It just wanted to rest.

Like that was going to happen anytime soon.

“Fine my ass,” John muttered, which made her smile.

“Yes, your ass is very fine.”

“Stop talking.” He sounded amused. “Let your throat heal.”

“It’s hard,” she said. “I talk when I’m nervous.”

They’d skirted the lake of death, as Belinda now thought of it, and were heading in the direction dictated to them by John’s expensive watch. Belinda was very much aware that they weren’t covering ground fast enough, and evening was going to hit them sooner than they would like.

They walked on for about an hour, stopping only to replenish their water supply from an outcrop of bamboo. It was hard going. The heat and humidity were getting to Belinda. She felt like she was walking in a sauna and breathing in thick, sticky jelly. It reminded her of James Cameron’s The Abyss, where Ed Harris breathed in this oxygenated liquid so he could dive deeper than ever before. She’d hated that movie; she’d actually had problems breathing just watching it.

Mosquitoes hovered around her continuously now, and she didn’t have the energy to bat them away. She didn’t have the energy to do anything at all, other than force one foot in front of the other and pray they made it out of the rainforest alive.

John suddenly grabbed her arm, jerking her out of her maudlin thoughts. He pressed a finger to her lips to keep her quiet. Belinda’s heartbeat shot into overdrive as she heard the noises he’d noticed before her—there were people in the forest. John tugged on her arm and signalled for her to crawl into a narrow space between two fallen tree trunks. The tree trunks came up to Belinda’s shoulder and were covered in moss. The space around the trees was overgrown with large palms, giving them plenty of cover.

Belinda bent over to examine the space between the logs. It was teeming with ants, but none of them dangerous. She used part of the sheet they still had left to gently, quietly brush as many of the insects out of the way as possible.

John stilled when he realised what she was doing. Belinda pulled on his shoulder until his ear was close enough to whisper. “Not poisonous.”

He seemed relieved. He took the sheet from her, finished clearing the area as much as was possible and then laid the sheet out like a mini picnic blanket for her to sit on. Holding on to his arm, Belinda lowered herself into the gap, checking every nook and cranny for lurking threats. As far as she could see, the small area was free of snakes, poisonous frogs, or insects that could kill them.

The people were closer now. It was hard to miss their approach—they weren’t even trying to be quiet. They crashed through the bushes, snapping branches, hacking at trees, crunching everything underfoot.

A male called out in Spanish, and Belinda looked to John for a translation. He pressed his lips to her ear and said, “You see anything?”

Belinda’s fingers curled into John’s arm as a chill went through her. Were they looking for them?

John stayed beside her but angled his body to best protect them. He crouched, ready to spring at the first sign of trouble. The rifle was in his hands and the machete lay on the ground beside him.

“Nothing,” another man shouted back, and John translated. “This is a waste of time. It’s getting dark. I say we go home before it’s too late.”

“We can’t go back empty-handed or the boss will skin us,” yet another man said.

“Well, it’s pointless carrying on. We’ll never find them in this.”

“The boss won’t believe you,” the first man said. “He thinks he would have found them easily.”

“He thinks he’s king of the jungle,” the third man said, making them all laugh.

“He’s a bastard, that’s what he is,” a new man said. “I wouldn’t want to be in that actress’s shoes when he gets his hands on her.”

“He won’t get you,” John whispered to her once he’d finish

ed translating. “I promise you, he won’t get you.”

Belinda closed the distance between them and pressed her forehead to his shoulder. She believed John, she did. She knew he would do everything within his power to keep her safe. He couldn’t save her from her memory, though. Memories of the attack at the lake flooded her mind. She could feel the guard’s hands crawling over her body. She could hear the lust and violence ooze from him as he whispered to her. She couldn’t do that again. She couldn’t let any of those men touch her. She couldn’t.

John pressed a kiss to her hair. He was tense, vigilant, ready. It was easy to lean on him, to trust him to care for her, and she needed that. She’d reached the end of her own resources.

There was more shouting. John didn’t translate, and the only word Belinda recognised was “tequila.”

“They’re setting up camp for the night,” John whispered against her ear. “Stay quiet and they won’t even know we’re here.”