“Em?” he groaned, shifting, still trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with his chest.
The shattered glass beneath him bit into his skin, pushing him toward wakefulness.
It was coming back. The RPG, his attempt to shield her.
His armour. Most of his armour had been torn apart while he’d been tossed like a rag doll. But that was unimportant now. Assess the situation. He needed another peek outside, even if it hurt.
Body surging with panicked adrenaline, he craned his head to look around. The Brumby was history. He’d been lucky there was enough time to spin it so the RPG hit the rear panels; all that was left of the back end was shorn metal. They were upside down, with him pressed against the crumpled roof, his rifle nowhere in sight.
But Emma was still there. Thank the gods she’d strapped in. Her body was suspended in the seatbelt and, even though she was upside down, Peirce couldn’t see any major injuries. As he watched, her eyelids fluttered and slowly opened.
“Peirce?” she murmured, dazed.
“We’ve got to go, babe,” he said as he tried to right himself.
Odd, his body wasn’t listening like it was supposed to.
Emma tugged at her seatbelt’s latch. A line appeared between her eyebrows and he saw her push at it harder. She looked at him, eyes rimmed white with fear. “It won’t open.”
What is that sound? Footsteps approaching.
Are Kai and Douglass already down here? How long have I been out?
And then, filtering in from the background, the continued report of gunfire. He glanced down at his wrist. The cuff was destroyed.
If it isn’t my men...
The pain shouldn’t be winning out. That wasn’t how it was supposed to work. That wasn’t the plan.
“Peirce! They’re coming! Please, help!”
She was fighting now, jerking against the restraints.
He had a knife somewhere. Come on, Taggart, cut her loose. Get her out.
The steps were just outside, near his head.
Her door panel ripped open and two men leaned down, taking in the scene.
“No,” Peirce moaned, desperately trying to convince his muscles to work. Why can’t I move?
One pulled a knife, cut her free and dragged her from the Brumby.
“Emmaline!”
He crawled toward the door, but he could hear the metal screeching behind him. Someone grabbed his feet, dragged him out onto the road. There wasn’t enough time—
Chapter 11
Emmaline fought her captors as they dragged her away from the Brumby. She could hear Peirce inside, yelling her name, his voice breaking. Two men were working on opening his door; she didn’t know why.
There, on the road in front of her, standing so coolly in his pressed suit, hat perched at a rakish angle, cane dangling from his hand with practiced ennui, was Richard Stone.
“You?” Emmaline gasped.
“You expected your father?” Stone snorted and raised a delicate eyebrow at her. “Really, Miss Gregson, after the incident in Plymouth, I’d assumed you had more sense than that.”
“Plymouth? I don’t understand...”