“Get off the fucking bike,” someone yelled.
Beneath her, he was rigid as a log.
She really tried to let him go, but her arms wouldn’t obey. They stayed locked around his waist in a death grip.
Flashes of the night she discovered Lance’s crimes flashed through her mind. The same fear had kept her immobile, staring at the computer screen for long minutes. She’d never experienced paralyzing terror before or since that night.
“I said get off the fucking bike!” a man in front of them shouted. She couldn’t make out his face beneath the dark helmet and face shield, but she sure as hell understood what it meant when he pulled out a pistol and aimed it their way.
“Baby, breathe,” Scott murmured. “You’re shaking.”
She couldn’t respond. Her mouth dried up, and her tongue thickened, blocking her throat.
Scott’s hands landed on hers, where they were locked against his stomach. He gently pried her fingers open, then lifted one trembling palm to his mouth and kissed it.
“Follow my lead and do what they say. You’re strong as fuck, baby.”
She pressed her forehead to his back and then nodded. His words bolstered her with confidence. If nothing else, she wanted Scott to be proud of her. To know he could count on her at his side in a crisis. The man had suffered more than any person should. She couldn’t contribute to his torture by making him worry she’d freak out or shut down.
“I’m good,” she whispered, pulling from his grip. She pressed her hand over his heart and counted five solid and steady beats before climbing off the bike. He followed suit, removed both their helmets, then took her hand.
Together they turned toward the man who’d shouted at them.
Olivia took one look at his face, and her stomach dropped.
Pure evil stared back at her.
“Grab ’im and bag ’im,” dead-eyes ordered.
Four men converged on them.
Olivia whipped her head around as Scott’s grip tightened. “Don’t fucking touch her,” he snarled.
One of the men tagged her around the waist, yanking her from Scott’s side while the three others attacked him. She screamed and kicked but was no match for the strength of her captor.
Scott never had the chance to fight. Immediately, a black bag was yanked over his head. He had to be paralyzed with panic because he didn’t kick out or attack.
“No!” Olivia screamed. She fought like an animal—a lioness protecting her pride. As Scott’s hands were yanked behind his back, she raked her nails down her abductor's arms. Skin balled up under her nails.
“Fuck!” he shouted. The grip on her loosened just enough for her to break free. She sprinted toward Scott, who was being shoved to his knees. “Get that off him!” she screamed like a madwoman. He had to be panicking, unable to breathe. They hadn’t talked about the claustrophobia specifically, but after hearing his story and witnessing him in the jail cell, she couldn’t fathom how he felt with a bag over his head.
Just as she was about to reach out and rip the bag from his head, she was caught again.
“Fucking bitch,” the asshole growled.
“No! Get that off him now.” She kicked, scratched, flailed, and screamed as loud as possible. No one came. The road remained deserted, and Scott remained on his knees. His chest heaved—she could see the tremors wracking his body. She’d kill each one of these men with her bare hands if she got the chance.
“Enough!” the man who seemed to be the ringleader shouted. “Shut the fuck up, or he gets a bullet in the brain.”
She froze.
“Fucking finally,” the man holding her mumbled.
“Don’t shoot him! I’ll be quiet,” she cried. “I’ll stay calm. I’ll do whatever the hell you want—”
“No!” Scott growled.
“Anything. Just get that fucking bag off his head.”
The man laughed, transforming his face from evil to vicious. He loved every second of this. Her fear evaporated, and a fiery rage took its place, burning through her veins.
“Not sure what you have to laugh about,” she called out. “You may have one Handler, but there are many more. And they’re going to tear you to fucking pieces.”
His laughter disappeared instantly. He settled the gun on the back of Scott’s head. “Good to know,” he said with smug arrogance. “Guess I need to kill this one while I have the chance.”
Icy terror seized her lungs.
What had she done?
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE MOTHERFUCKING HEAT.
Would it ever end?
The heat, torture, and goddamn sand stuck in his wounds and on his sweaty skin. It irritated like a bitch. His whole body had become a red, itchy mess of mini scratches and discomfort.
A furious feminine wail sliced through his desperation.
Olivia?
Scott blinked in the darkness.
Fuck! Deke was dead. He wasn’t baking in a box in the desert. Sure, the air was warm, but not fry-an-egg-on-the-pavement scorching. And it was humid. There was a thick heaviness to the air only Floridians understood.