Page 65 of How Much For A Broken Heart?

RYDER

The explosion was deafening, and before I could react, I felt August covering me with his body. In that split second, he shoved me to the side, his quick reflexes saving us both from the worst of the blast. The world became a chaotic blur of noise and stone and rubble debris rained around us. That couldn’t have been the bomb we’d left behind, this had to be another blast. A booby trap?

Fallen debris collected on me, making it difficult to breathe, and August’s muffled voice reached my ears, his urgent words barely audible amidst the chaos. “Ryder? Talk to me.”

“M’kay.”

I managed to nod, though it was hard to see in the dusty space. August shifted off me, and I rolled to all fours, weapon drawn, covering whatever the fuck he was doing as he assessed our situation—we only had ten minutes left on that other timer, and we needed to get the fuck out.

“Door’s moving.”

With a determined strength, we worked together to clear the debris blocking our path, not stopping until we had created enough space to crawl through. Inch by inch, we leveraged out from under the rubble—our muscles straining with effort—forced our way through the space, and tumbled into yet another wide room, a chamber empty for the most part, and the remains of a smaller blast zone behind the door.

This is some fucked-up first shooter video shit.

We stood to full height in the vast space, then in sync, we checked and cleared the area as fast as we could—no munitions, drugs, or worse, people—locating the next exit and tunnel.

My heart pounded as I scrambled through the narrow, dimly lit tunnels, waiting for the next explosion, the next trap. The claustrophobic darkness seemed endless. I could hear August’s heavy breathing ahead of me, but the desperate urge to get out was becoming unbearable—how long did we have left until the main explosion, and what was it worth when we hadn’t even found Amos?

After what felt like an eternity, I saw a glimmer of daylight ahead. Relief washed over me, and for a brief moment, I let my guard down. The thought of escaping the suffocating tunnels and emerging into the open air filled me with hope.

Something hit the back of my knee and I stumbled, then I felt the cold, unforgiving metal of a gun press against the back of my head. My heart skipped a beat, and my blood ran cold. I froze, and then, my assailant—Amos, I was sure of it—stabbed my leg, upper thigh, and I went to my knees in blinding agony as he stabbed me a second time, and a third in my back.

Then, he gripped my hair, and a chilling voice whispered in my ear. Amos. “Call for him.” I couldn’t see August beyond the blinding daylight anymore, and I knew we were in serious trouble.

“No,” I refused, willing August to get out, find the team, and fix this. He took the knife and carved into my neck, pushing me to the ground.

“Call for him.”

“He’ll kill you,” I said, satisfied this was exactly what was going to happen. I might not get to tell him I loved him as blood pooled under my arm, but Amos was a dead man walking.

He stepped on the back of my neck, slicing through the leather holding my rifle safe and kicking away my weapon, all in the space of a few seconds.

We remained in shadow, but anyone outside would be able to see me now.

“Aubrey? August? Or whatever your name is, take a bow.”

August blocked out the sunlight—it was the only way I knew he was there. “Let him go,” he said, in an even, almost gentle tone.

“I’m not doing that with you. You die; I leave.” He pressed his foot harder, and I tried to scramble free, but I was dizzy and wondered how much blood I was losing. “On your knees,” he demanded of August, who was now blocking out more light as he came closer.

“Run,” I managed, and Amos ground his foot down.

“On your fucking knees,” Amos snarled at August, and at last he was close enough I could see him, watched as he went to his knees, dropping his weapon and linking his hands behind his neck.

“No.” I tried to shove Amos away, kicking up, but he wasn’t moving. He was cackling.

“I’m gonna kill you slowly, and then, find that little girl and—” His words stopped, he gurgled and fell to his knees next to me, grabbing his throat, pulling at the knife embedded there, his eyes wide, one hand clawing out at August, who was still on his knees, one hand in front of him, empty, the other with a gun.

One bullet, then another, and Amos fell to the floor, flat, the knife forced deeper into his throat. Then, August was with me, and there was chaos, shouting. Someone hefted me up, slung me over their shoulder, ran from the end of the tunnel into the light, stumbling, then righting themselves, running until the ground lifted and a deafening explosion shattered the air. We fell, me and the man carrying me—August—tumbling until we came to a rest, and then, he scrambled to grab me and hold me tight.

“Amos dead?” I managed and tried to sit up, August patting my body, checking for wounds.

He cursed and examined his hand covered in blood—well, shit.

“Dead,” he confirmed.

“I never understand why the bad guys start a monologue…” I tried to chuckle, but my chest hurt, my thigh hurt, fuck me, my throat hurt.

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