Page 52 of Shane
She wasn’t in the SUV. Wasn’t anywhere near where she should’ve been if she’d been thrown from their vehicle. And not only was therea rag in her mouth, the tip of her poor desiccated tongue was stuck to its noxious threads. She had a bag over her head, the open end of it cinched under her chin with what felt like twine. It was scratchy. And tight. She couldn’t see where she was or where she was going. Or the dumbass who’d done this to her.
She was thirsty and blind and didn’t want to breathe the stink inside the bag one second longer. But there was no way out. Her hands were bound behind her back, and her elbows were jerked back so far that her shoulders were on the verge of popping out of their sockets.
There were no bees and this was no hive. The steady vibration of rotors overhead caused whatever was next to her to buzz. Like a piece of plastic-wrap stretched too tightly over a broken window orTupperwareor… or something. She was in a helicopter, on the floor, on her side, and she was pissed. Angrily, she kicked one leg out straight, hoping to strike the nearest A-hole within reach. She did. Her point. Her game. Until—
OOMPF!Said A-hole retaliated with a swift boot in her gut.
The kick knocked the wind out of her, made her rethink her odds of survival. She was a woman and someone’s prisoner. Maybe now, when she could barely breathe or swallow, was not the best time to strike back.
Where was Shane?
Everlee lifted her head, listening for his voice. Hell, striving to hear anything besides the whump, whump of rotor blades and that incessant buzzing. Had he survived the SUV rolling? Had Smart? Was she behind this? Was this her plan all along, to lure whoever came after her into another deadly trap, separate them, and—? And what?
No, just no. That wild-assed conclusion didn’t hold a stitch of water. Smart wasn’t intelligent enough to construct a plan this complex. Plus, she’d had no idea where she’d been stashed last night and no way to communicate her location to anyone. She hadn’t known Smoke or Jess Montoya or—no. Just no. Smart might be guilty of murder, but she wasn’t this kind of ‘smart’. Okay, so her last name might be Smart, but a stitch of water?
Everlee almost giggled at the way her poor, aching head was working… Or wasn’t working.
Until she realized that tiny side trip from reality might mean she’d been hurt worse than she thought. Concussions were traumatic brain injuries, and she must’ve been tossed clear of the Toyota. Her fault. She’d slipped off her seatbelt when she’d turned around to shoot out the radiator of the car gaining on them. But her grandiose plan came too late. Before she’d gotten one shot off, the Toyota rolled.
Needing more air, better air, and determined to escape this flying machine, get back on the ground, and rescue her junior agent, Everlee growled at her captors. Shane had only been hired a couple days ago. Helluva welcome to The TEAM, big guy, this continual baptism by fire.
“Can’t you shut her up?” an ugly voice bellowed from somewhere overhead. The pilot maybe?
“Can do, Mister Smith,” another male voice answered.
Mr. Smith? How cliché. Who did A-hole think he was, Mister Jones?
Too fast, said A-hole smashed something into the side of her head. Smelled like a boot. Something cracked inside her skull. Might’ve been a tooth. Or her jaw. Roaring, flashing cannons exploded behind her unseeing eyes. The tiniest, girly whine escaped into the grimy rag in her mouth. Then…
Nothing.
Shane came to on his back with a wrinkled, grizzled face staring down at him out of the blue, blue sky. He was out of his seatbelt, but the lower half of his legs and his feet were still inside the shattered driver’s side window of the steaming, upside-down Land Cruiser. The rest of him was sprawled perpendicular to the wreck until the old guy tucked his hands under Shane’s arms and dragged him a good ten yards or so away from the vehicle. Which was good sine the air was full of gasoline fumes.
His ribs protested the move. God, that hurt. His lungs squeezed out ragged gasps and coughs that sparked shuddering waves of lightning in his chest. He sucked in a jarring breath that shouldn’t have felt like he’d inhaled thumb tacks instead of fresh air. Closing his eyes to the bright sky overhead brought instant relief. Dazed and battered, he lay there panting through the pain, struggling to get his brain back online.
Road trip.
Everlee.
Arkansas.
Everlee.
Someone’s house—can’t remember whose—exploded.
Everlee.
Lasagna…
“Everlee!” bellowed out of his mouth. He jolted upright but had to stick both palms into the dirt behind him to keep from blacking out and tipping over. Would’ve helped if he could make his eyeballs focus and his bones stop quaking. “There were three of us in the car. Where’s Everlee?” he asked the older gentleman... err…
That can’t be right.
“Tuesday? Err, Ms. Smart?” he asked, feeling more like a mixed-up, drunken fool than an intelligent special operator. Holy shit, he’d mistaken her for an old man? Three hits to his head within forty-eight or so hours might have guaranteed that concussion Doc Fitz was worried about.
“Yes, Agent Hayes, it’s me,” Smart replied evenly, now kneeling beside him, her fingers running soft as feathers on his chest and up his neck. “You’re hurt, you’re bleeding, and you need to go to the ER. Can I use your phone?”
“Not happening.” Shane took hold of her fingers to stop the pleasant sensation skimming over his skin, fighting to keep this particular woman in the suspect column. She was not his friend, damn it. Sucking in another deep breath that didn’t hurt as much as it had moments ago, he asked, “Where’s Agent Yeager?”Please don’t tell me Everlee died in the rollover.“Is she... okay?”Did I kill her?