Page 53 of These Reckless Hearts

With the way the river is moving, we could be a long way from camp.

My knees dig into rocks as the rush of water fills my ears, drowning out everything but the icy feeling that I don’t know if I’ll see my guys again.

“Someone! Anyone!” My throat catches, and I cough. Pain explodes in my chest cavity. “Please,” I croak.

I drag myself up and stumble down the mountain in bare feet. I slice the bottoms raw on rocks and pebbles, searching for any sign of the tent or Wyatt, Stone, and Lucas.

The river keeps raging, almost like the Hoover Dam burst open. I cry out for them every few seconds until my throat is as tender as my feet.

My body was numb after I pulled myself out, but as feeling starts to return, I realize how battered I really am. There’s an excruciating pain in my side I’m afraid to inspect, and the blender-like rapids left me with considerable bruising.

Through the shadows, I spot a piece of cloth that’s stuck on a tree that barely peeks out from the rapids. I run to the edge of the river, poke my foot into the water, and nearly get swept away again. I force myself back, screaming the guys’ names as loud as I can. Another whitewater rush comes through and takes the scrap with it, along with the branch it was on. It tumbles over itself, and I lose sight of it in a few seconds, taking with it any hope I’d had that it could’ve been a piece of clothing or the tent or something.

“Turn around,” a voice demands.

I still. My breath catches in my dry throat. My heart leaps, hoping it’s Ninja or Pete, but as I turn, those hopes get dashed when I find a man dressed in tan fatigues. He has a bandana wrapped around his forehead, and an automatic rifle pointed at my chest.

I don’t think. I run. I take off toward the river, scrambling along its side. The intruder curses behind me. He shouts something, then a mechanical voice responds, “Roger that.” It dawns on me that this is probably Lance’s military crew, and they have walkie-talkies or another comms system.

Ninja was carrying our satellite phone last I knew. I can only hope he still has it and is calling someone for help.

I don’t get very far before a hard body slams into me from behind. I fall to my stomach, the wind getting knocked out of me. “Don’t run,” he demands.

“Who are you?”

He shoves my head into the dirt and rocks, sand sticking to my lips as I suck in staccato breaths. He places his knee between my shoulder blades and leans his weight on me. “Don’t. Move.”

I groan at the extra load shifting on my already sore body. “Did you do this?” I ask. I strain my ears toward the river, listening—hoping someone will come.

“We had to flush you out somehow.” He chuckles darkly like he’s said something truly funny.

“Stone!” I yell, using every last ounce of strength I have.

He chuckles again. “We didn’t hear anyone else but you, so keep trying, little girl. Not that it will matter. You were our only objective.”

Pain rips through my chest as the sound of boots crunching alert me to other people, but they’re not mine. The voices are the same dull, professional tone my captor uses. They talk about “recovering the objective” as if finding twenty-year old, treasure-hunting females is their job.

“Told you it would work,” one of the fatigue-wearing men hollers from above. “Just like we did in Iraq.”

“Congratulations,” I spit. “You’re pinning a girl to the desert floor. I can see the cause for celebration.”

The pressure on my shoulder blades increases. “We don’t care what we do as long as we get paid, sweetheart,” my kidnapper informs me.

My stomach turns over, but mercifully, he lets up and yanks me to my feet, pushing me toward another body. I almost fall but am wrenched to a standing position at the last second, my arms pinned behind my back. It’s too dark to make out the finer features of the men’s faces, but there are five of them—each dressed in the same tan camouflage. Military boots, hats, and guns round out their uniforms.

“Make the call,” the one who found me instructs. “We’ll bring her in.”

“You know you’re working for a sadistic asshole, right?” I question, trying anything to get out of this. They ignore me, so I put my mouth to better use. “Wyatt! Lucas!”

“Jesus. Someone fucking gag her.”

Just as I’m dragging my next breath in to call for Stone, a rank piece of cloth is shoved into my mouth. I gag, eyes watering, but I breathe in through my nose instead. I struggle against the fabric, the area behind my eyes heating.

While they march me away, tears slip down my cheeks. I peek back at the river, but I’m forced around again and hustled forward. The crunch of their boots on the desert mountain floor drown out everything until I think I hear the faint call of my name.

I stop, and the man in control of me runs into my back. He curses, pushing me forward again, and I hiss when I stub my toe on a rock. When he grabs my arm, instincts kick in. Finn showed me a move to get out of this hold, and the possibility of my name being called erupts a flood of hope as ferocious as the one that took me away.

I capture his hand with my other, windmill my arm around to put him in an armlock, then kick out his knee. He falls to the ground, releasing me, and I take off, yanking the disgusting cloth from my mouth. “Lucas! Wyatt! Sto—”

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