Maya Banks: No Place to Run

She swallowed and sucked in air through her nostrils. God, what was she going to do? She’d been so close to Sam. So damn close.

All these months, all this time, she’d stayed to the shadows, always one step ahead of her father’s grasp. Even dead, he held her by the throat. Her uncle would carry on his legacy of selling death. There was always someone willing to take up the reins.

But without access to her father’s wealth and his resources, Tomas was crippled. She planned to keep him that way.

The man hauled her close, his breath blowing hot across her face. She felt the edge of the knife against her belly and bile rose sharp in her throat.

“You won’t die. Not at first. But your baby will. Tell me what I want to know or I’ll slice you open and let your child spill out of your belly.”

Her stomach revolted and she gagged, the knot so big that she choked. Tears stung her eyes, and then rage blew hot like the first wave of a blast.

“You son of a bitch,” she bit out.

She’d had enough. The fact that she was constantly underestimated usually worked in her favor, but this guy seemed smarter than the other assholes her father employed. Indeed he was smarter than her father, who hadn’t believed she’d shoot her own flesh and blood.

This bastard wasn’t going to give her any easy passes because she was cute and blond and innocent-looking. Which meant she had to rely on sheer grit and determination if she was going to keep her baby alive.

“All right, I’ll tell you,” she gasped out. “Put the knife away.”

“I like it just where it is.”

He wasn’t going to make this easy.

She was careful not to glance down, not to even twitch. No advance warning when she made her move. She waited until she nearly jittered out of her skin. There. The knife eased just a bit and no longer bit as hard into her skin.

She rammed her knee into his balls and crashed her elbow down onto his wrist. The knife clattered to the deck and she kicked it hard, sending it spiraling across the boat.

He grabbed her by the neck, his fingers digging deep into her skin despite the fact he was hunched over holding his balls with his free hand.

His hand squeezed mercilessly, cutting off her air supply.

She was going to die.

Here on a boat probably not far from where Sam lived. On the lake, to make the disposal of her body easier. At the hands of an asshole who talked about murder like he would the weather.

Rage. Red-hot and searing. It splintered through her veins like volcanic fury.

Faking surrender, she let every muscle in her body go limp. Maybe it caught him off guard, or maybe he expected her to fight, because his grip eased.

Harnessing her anger, she bolted forward, throwing herself against the asshole. Forearms across his chest, she shoved, putting every ounce of her strength behind her movements.

He staggered backward, his feet stumbling to catch up with the rest of him. His hands flew up, and he tried to grab the railing.

She jumped on him, and they both went over the side.

The cold water hit her like a ton of bricks.

Down she went into the darkness. She fought off panic and struck out, swimming away from the boat. Several yards out, she broke the surface, gasping for breath.

He was out there. Probably close. But it would take him precious time to get back into the boat to look for her. Time she could use to her advantage.

This time she took a deeper breath as she dove back under, and she forced herself to stay under until shadows grew around her consciousness. She broke the surface and kept her head down as she hungrily sucked in air.

She glanced back to see the spotlight from the boat dancing across the water.

She inhaled quickly and ducked beneath the water again. Ignoring the agonizing pain in her arm, she swam deep and hard. Eventually, her body grew numb from the cold, and the pain receded. She gave a quick murmur of thanks and pushed herself onward.

For how long she repeated the endless cycle of surfacing, taking a breath and going back below, she didn’t know. It felt like hours. She wasn’t cognizant of anything but the need to survive.

When her strength finally gave out and the adrenaline fled her system, she broke the surface and looked back. To her immense relief, she didn’t see the boat. No lights, just murky darkness.

The lake lapped gently at her chin as she treaded water. And suddenly the pain came rushing back with the force of a car crash.

Barely conscious, she feebly struck out for shore, but it seemed a mile away. The current tugged at her legs, sucking her back and down the river channel instead of allowing her to move toward the bank.

Exhausted, she stopped fighting and turned on her back to float the best she could. She had to get out of the water. He’d be looking for her.

Her head cracked against something hard, and she let out a startled cry. She briefly fell underneath the water in panic. When she surfaced, she jerked around to see a large log bobbing in front of her.

Grateful for something to hold on to, she hauled her body up and draped herself over the trunk. The wet bark abraded her cheek, but she was too exhausted to give a damn.

She reached with her good arm and placed her hand over her belly. Her baby had to be okay. She had to be. She closed her eyes as she waited for some response from within. Just a tiny kick. Even a bump just to let Sophie know her baby was safe.

Nothing.

She ran her hand up her arm, feeling for how bad the bullet wound was. In the water, it was impossible to tell. She whispered a fervent prayer that the night’s events hadn’t harmed her baby.

Again she lowered her palm, feeling for movement.

She fought back the panic. It was common for a baby to be still after Mama suffered a shock. She’d read that somewhere in one of those pregnancy books.

She’d become an expert at self-treatment because she hadn’t dared seek medical help. Tomas would have found her instantly. So she devoured every book she could lay her hands on. She took over-the-counter vitamins, drank her milk and exercised so she’d remain on alert. For just such an occasion as when her father’s men caught up to her.

There was one star overhead. Just one, but it looked blurry and distant. It bobbed up and down, and she didn’t know if it was because she shook so violently or if the lake was rough.

Her arm wrapped tighter around the log, and she pressed her cheek against the wet bark. She could ride it for a while, and maybe it would drift out of the faster current toward the calmer waters of the lake.

Her eyelids fluttered even as she fought to stay conscious. Something warm and wet ran down her arm. Blood. It smelled like blood.

Sam .

His image rose vividly to mind. Her last coherent thought was that she had to get to Sam.

THE morning sun shone bright on the back deck of Sam Kelly’s Kentucky Lake home. The wood was warm underneath his bare feet, and the rays chased the chill of the morning away. It had the makings of a truly spectacular day.

The only way it would have been more perfect is if he was on the lake, fishing pole in one hand, a beer in the other. At least he had the beer covered.

He drained the remainder from his can, then crumpled it and tossed it across the deck into the garbage can.

“Nice shot,” Donovan drawled from his indelicate sprawl over one of the lounge chairs.

A brief cool breeze blew over Sam’s face, reminding him that spring hadn’t fully sprung yet.

He glanced over at his younger brother and motioned for him to toss him another beer.

Donovan tossed him a can and then looked in Garrett’s direction. Sam’s other younger brother—not that Garrett acted like anyone’s younger brother—held up his hand for one and Donovan aimed a beer in his direction also.