Page 21 of Risky Passion

The spider might be a venomous fucking nightmare, but a bite from that tarantula was better than a bullet from the men hunting me through this godforsaken swamp.

Even in the dim light, the sharp lines of the asshole’s weapon was unmistakable. He had a modified assault rifle, deadly and precise. He wore tatty jeans and thongs; good, he would have trouble chasing me through the muck with those on his feet. But his body was coiled with control, every movement calculated, every step silent. The way he swept the rifle in smooth, rhythmic arcs, perfectly timed to his footsteps, screamed military training. His breathing was steady, almost mechanical, like he’d been built for this. Hunting. Stalking. Killing.

The spider scurried over my elbow and froze.

My heart slammed against my ribs as my gaze shot between the spider and the killer. The spider swayed side to side as if deciding where to sink its fangs.

The gunman took another step, his thong squelching into the mud as he swept his rifle in a slow, deliberate arc to the right. One turn in my direction, and it was over.

Even in the dim light, his wiry frame showed he was all muscle and scrawny, like he hadn’t eaten a decent meal in weeks. Whisper could take this guy down in a heartbeat. Could I?

If it came to it, I would give it a fucking good go.

I clenched my stomach, coiling every ounce of strength I had, ready to throw myself at him.

The spider darted three more inches up my arm and froze again.

A shudder ripped through me, and as I squeezed my fist, white-hot agony blazed through my dislocated finger. Fuck! How could I fight the killer likethis?

My jaw locked so tight that every tooth ached.

He took another step.

A twig snapped to my left, followed by a rustle to my right. My stomach dropped.

Shit. I’m surrounded.

I pressed myself harder against the tree, willing it to hide me.

The spider crept over my sleeve, looking right at me. My breath hitched.

If it crawls near my face, I’ll fucking scream.

Unlike the first man, the one near me wore boots. He froze mid-step, and his head tilted like a predator catching a scent.

Can he hear me?

The rifle shifted slightly in his hands, and he pointed the barrel low to the left.

"May nadinig ako," he called into the darkness, his voice sharp and guttural.

"Saan?" An answer croaked from the right.

The first man's shoulders tensed, and his stance shifted like a predator sensing its prey. "Doon."

The rustling to my right grew louder. Branches cracked, mud squelched. The man in thongs turned toward the sound, and his movements were razor-sharp as his rifle snapped into position.

"Baka dagang tubig," the second voice called, louder, more confident.

The man in thongs gestured sharply with his free hand. "Masyadong malaki ang ingay para doon."

I pressed harder against the bark, my body trembling.

"Natatakot ka ba, bunso?" The voice came from my left, deeper than the others.

Jesus. How many of them were there? I’d counted four on that rubber raft. Maybe more had followed them.

Something heavy splashed into the water.

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