Extraction Point (Ricochet 3)

came next. “What…what did he do to you? Did he—?” His voice was strangled, nearly choked-off at one point. This man. This big, rugged, macho, fighter, who saved her from being killed by her sadistic husband, was on the verge of a break down, because he cared about her.

When she realized he was asking if Travis had sexually assaulted her, Quinn’s eyes widened as much as they could considering how swollen they were. “No,” she whispered. “Not that. He didn’t, I swear Rick.”

“Jesus… thank god.” He lowered his forehead to their joined hands, then pressed a kiss to the back of hers before sitting up straight again. “I’m so sorry, doll. That he—”

“He’s a sick, twisted man, Rick. Always has been. But even I didn’t expect him to kidnap me. Not in a million years.”

“Why, Quinn? Why didn’t you tell me about him? I could have—”

“That’s why, Rick! That look, right there on your face. Pity. I didn’t want to be seen as some… some weak, pathetic victim!” After holding in her emotions, being too exhausted and hurt to feel anything but pain, Quinn broke down. She pulled her hand out from under Rick’s, using it to cover her face as she cried.

“No doll, no! You’re not weak or pathetic. Mara… she told me what he used to do to you. You’re… you’re one of the strongest people I know. You survived.”

He wrapped his hands around her wrists and gently pried them away from her face.

“Stop crying, doll. It’s killing me. It kills me that I didn’t get to you sooner—that I couldn’t protect you.”

“What? You… you did save me Rick. You found me before he could kill me. And he would have, eventually.”

“Oh god.”

Rick carefully climbed up onto the bed, holding Quinn against his chest. They clung to each other, Quinn sobbing until she was wrung out and exhausted.

“Never again, Quinn,” Rick whispered into her hair. “Never again.”

Feeling safe for the first time in a long time, Quinn huddled against Rick’s strong chest and fell asleep.

Rick stretched out on the mat, attempting to clear his mind before getting into the octagon with Dane. Rick, being a striker, needed to practice his ground game and Dane, being the Jiu-Jitsu expert, was more than happy to teach Rick a thing or two.

It had been three weeks since they had found Quinn handcuffed to a bed in her father’s house. Three weeks that Rick stayed by her side virtually every minute of every day as she healed, both physically and psychologically, from that sick bastard’s torture. Quinn was having terrible nightmares each night, making it nearly impossible for him to sleep. He was so concerned with her fragile mental state, he’d taken to staying up at night, watching Quinn sleep restlessly and attempting to soothe her when the nightmares started. Sometimes his calm petting and soft words helped and she would settle back into a deep sleep. Sometimes, the dreams progressed, and Rick would have to wake Quinn up as she screamed and clawed at the bed, covered in sweat because her fear was so real.

“Ready?”

Dane’s deep voice broke Rick’s concentration. He finished stretching and jumped to his feet, glad for the distraction. “Killer, I’m ready when you are.” Rick was a striker, which meant that he was at his best when he was on his feet, kicking and punching. Dane was a Jiu Jitsu champion, which meant he was a threat on the ground, relying on submissions to win matches.

Dane smiled, climbing the steps up into the cage. Rick followed, eager to burn off some of his stress. They never caught Quinn’s ex, the fucker. He disappeared without a trace. No credit card transactions, no sight of him in Texas, nothing. That pissed him off more than anything. Who knew the asshole would be smart enough to know how to drop off the grid?

“Ground work and holds only today, right? No kicking, no punching.” Dane raised his eyebrows, waiting for Rick to answer.

“Right.” He popped in his mouth guard and walked to the center of the ring. Grinning, Dane did the same. Rick nodded to the burly blonde man, and it was on.

They circled each other like predators, running through each potential takedown in their heads, calculating the different risks, sizing the other man up for weaknesses. Dane moved first. Quick as a snake, he grabbed Rick’s wrist and attempted to spin him around. Rick twisted out of the hold, escaping to the other side of the octagon.

Dane was immediately on him again, bent at the waist and expertly lifting Rick up then slamming to the ground. The urge to punch Dane was so instinctual that Rick had to grind his teeth together in order to stop himself.

“C’mon Ricochet! Can’t get out of a brabo choke?” Clint was laughing at the side of the cage, his fingers threaded through the vinyl-covered chain links. Rick couldn’t see him, but he had enough air to answer.

“Fuck you, Paxton!”

Using all of his strength, Rick clutched Dane around the waist and rolled them both over until he was on top of the burly blonde man and out of the hold.

“Nice!” Dane said as he squirmed out from beneath Rick.

Both men scrambled back to their feet, circling each other once more. A crowd had gathered around the ring, enjoying the fight. It wasn’t often that two of the more alpha types got in the ring together, so when they did it usually drew attention.

“Get him Ricochet!”

“Take that fucker down!”