Page 2 of Montana Memory

In an instant, he closed the distance, fisting my arm and yanking me forward. Pain flared where his fingers dug in.

“Where the hell have you been?” His voice was sharp, edged with panic. “Call Alan. Now.”

I barely got my lips to part. “I?—”

“Don’t even try it.” His grip tightened, bruising, like he could crush the truth out of me. “Tell him to call it off. Tell him to end this.”

My heart slammed against my ribs. “I don’t know who Alan is.”

The gun was suddenly there, pressing hard against my ribs.

His nostrils flared. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying!” My voice cracked, my throat raw. “I don’t know who Alan is! I don’t know what is going on at all!”

His head jerked back, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. His grip loosened—just slightly.

Then his lip curled. “Bullshit.”

My pulse roared in my ears.

“I swear,” I rasped. “I don’t know. I don’t—” My breath hitched. “I don’t even know my own name.”

He stared at me, eyes narrowing, jaw working.

Then, with a low, violent curse, he shoved me backward, the gun still aimed right at my chest. His nostrils flared. “How do I get out of here?”

My lips trembled. “I—I don’t know.”

His eyes burned into mine, his breath coming in sharp, erratic bursts. “What’s Alan’s plan?”

“I don’t know.” I couldn’t figure out anything else to say.

“Who else is coming?”

I could barely swallow past the lump in my throat. “I don’t?—”

His face twisted into a flash of pure rage, and then his hand lashed out.

A white-hot sting exploded across my cheek as my head snapped to the side. The force knocked me off-balance, and I hit the floor hard, my palms scraping against the hard wood.

“Get Alan on the radio,” he ordered. “End this.”

Tears blurred my vision. “I don’t?—”

“Bitch, do not sayI don’t knowone more time.” He took a step closer, pressing the muzzle against my forehead. “Or I’ll kill you.”

A sob tore from my throat. I was going to die. Right here. Right now. Without even knowing my own damn name.

The gun pressed harder against my forehead. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. My body froze; the only thing louder than the hammering of my heart was the voice in my head screaming that this was it.

Then the door exploded open once again.

A blur of movement, a thunderous crash, and suddenly, the man with the gun was gone—yanked away and thrown to the floor with bone-jarring force.

I scrambled back, hands bracing against the wood floor as the room filled with grunts, scuffling boots, and the sickening sound of fists meeting flesh. A chair shattered. The table legs scraped violently across the floor. The gun skidded away, spinning across the floorboards.

The two men grappled, rolling, each struggling for control.

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