Page 90 of Defending You
He took deep breaths, praying for success, and slowly lifted the wrist on his injured arm with his other hand, holding it straight out in front of him.
It was torture, and he sucked in through his teeth, clamping down on the scream he refused to release.
And then, just like that, his shoulder shifted back into joint.
He was out of breath, but the worst of the pain was gone. Now, to deal with the blood.
He explored the wound with careful fingers. A bullet had grazed him where his neck met his shoulder—not deep, but it’d been close. Another inch and it could’ve hit his spine, or an artery.
Thank You, Lord.
The wound was mostly clotted now, telling him he’d been unconscious for too long.
Every minute he spent patching himself up was another minute Cici spent with monsters.
He patted his holster, expecting to find his gun gone. It wasn’t, though. Somehow, those men had not thought to take it.
He searched the area, hope flickering when he spotted debris from the motorcycle scattered among the rocks. The bike itself lay twisted against a boulder on the far side of the gorge, its frame bent beyond recognition. He hobbled that direction, ignoring the pain in his body that came from tumbling down a thirty-foot slope, and hopped the narrow stream.
His duffel bag was nowhere to be found. They must’ve taken it, which meant the burner phones were gone, along with any chance of calling for backup.
He picked through the wreckage, tossing aside chunks of twisted metal and plastic. There—a flash of leather wedged beneath a fallen branch. He yanked Cici’s purse free, his hands shaking as he unzipped it. She’d had a burner phone, hadn’t she? It had to be here.
He dug through her bag. The bag of jewelry was there, along with her wallet, lip gloss, tissues. He grabbed the tissues, dipped them in the stream’s clear water, and dabbed at his wound. Heneeded something to patch it up, but unlike him, Cici didn’t travel with first-aid supplies.
No phone, either.
Nothing in her bag would help. He shrugged out of his sweatshirt, careful of his injury, then took off his T-shirt and tore it into strips. He folded a small scrap and placed it over the wound. The rest he used to hold the makeshift bandage in place, covering the bandage and then wrapping the strip of fabric around his body, hooking it under the opposite arm. He tied it off.
It was the best he could do.
After pulling his sweatshirt back on, careful not to jostle the bandage, he hooked Cici’s purse on his arm and jumped back over the stream.
He needed to figure out where they’d taken her, but climbing out of this ravine would be a challenge with just one good arm. He studied the steep walls, looking for handholds among the exposed roots and rocky outcroppings. He found a spot that looked manageable, with a series of natural ledges carved by years of erosion.
With Cici’s purse slung across his good shoulder, he began the ascent. Every movement sent fresh waves of pain through his injured shoulder, but he gritted his teeth and pressed on. Dirt cascaded down as his boots scraped on loose stones. Halfway up, his grip slipped, and he slid back several feet before catching himself on a jutting root.
He stopped, realization hammering worse than the throbbing wound.
This was his fault. If he hadn’t been so stubborn, so determined to prove to Bartlett that he was capable of handling this job alone, he’d have asked for backup. Not that Cici’s sister wasn’t good, but all her information about who Gagnon was and what he was doing hadn’t prepared Asher for this ambush.
He needed a real team of trained pros on his side. He never should have tried to get Cici back to Shadow Cove on his own. Now…now if he didn’t find her, find help, she’d pay the price for his arrogance.
By the time he hauled himself over the lip of the ravine, his vision was swimming again. He lay gasping on the forest floor, sweat stinging his eyes. But he’d done it.
Now he needed to find their trail.
The accident site wasn’t hard to locate. He studied every twig, every rock, half-expecting to see Cici’s body somewhere.
Tire tracks scarred the wet earth, and broken branches marked where the motorcycle had careened off the road. He found boot prints in the soft ground, multiple sets converging where they must have grabbed Cici. The thought of rough hands on her made his jaw clench, his head pound.
He saw where they’d pushed the bike. Saw where they’d dragged him. He followed the marks and stared over the cliff, seeing the distance he’d fallen in a new light.
He was lucky to be alive. He’d be finished if they’d thought to take off his helmet before throwing him down. Thank God for small favors—and big boneheads.
Maybe they’d believed him dead. If not, they must’ve thought the fall would kill him.
He turned and followed the tracks back to the road, where tire impressions showed that at least two vehicles had parked. Looked like they’d headed back toward Millerville.
