Page 6 of Poison Evidence

“That is why I am taking you. Now get up and walk.” He smacked her shoulder with the flat of the blade.

He would hurt her, even terrorize her, but at least he knew he couldn’t kill her.

She slipped the slime-covered stiletto from her foot and shifted to the other one. Fear had her in a tight grip, but she couldn’t let it win. She had so many plans, a life ahead of her now that CAM was nearly complete.

“Hurry up.”

She tossed a glare at the man over her shoulder. He’d been shorter than her when she wore the heels, but now when she stood, they’d be about the same height.

Her dreams for the future flashed through her mind—her career, her plans for motherhood. Patrick wouldn’t steal those from her too.

She planned her motion carefully as she stood, one heel in each hand, spiked end out. He pushed at her back again, and she exaggerated her stumble, twisting to grab a tree for support but really using it for leverage as she pushed off and slashed at his face with both heels, aiming for his eyes.

His mask was cloth—like Spiderman’s—not rubber like the other Avengers had worn. The fabric split and ran like cheap nylon.

He dropped the machete to protect his face and let out a scream and a curse that was definitely Arabic.

He tackled her and slammed her into the trunk, but not before she’d gouged one eye. Blood spread outward, darkening the already red material.

When science fails to blind, use a stiletto.

His hand closed on her throat, and he pressed her neck into the tree as he cut off her air. She aimed for his face with the heels again, but he knocked them away with his free hand.

She tried to gouge his wounded eye, but he held his head back, out of reach. She kneed him in the groin. He flinched but didn’t release his iron grip from her windpipe.

All at once, he lurched backward and was slammed into a tree.

She took a deep, gasping breath, but hope faded as she recognized Thor. Not a savior. Another of Patrick’s associates.

“We need her alive, asshole.”

This accent was…Russian?

“Ivy!”

The shout—Jack’s voice—came from the garden. A glance in that direction showed she’d been dragged quite a distance and was deep in the swamp. She waded deeper into the swamp, where the vines were so thick they concealed her. Anything to escape these men who wanted her and CAM.

The men cursed—one in Arabic, the other in Russian—and followed her into the swamp.

Jack shouted her name again, closer this time, and she waded deeper into the brackish water, angling in his direction. She wanted to shout back, but her attackers were closer and would find her first if she did.

“Shit. Let her go,” the Russian said. The men slipped into the dark recesses of the mangroves.

“Ivy!” Jack said again, and she waded through the muck toward his voice, not answering until she had him in sight, in case Thor and Spiderman remained nearby.

She brushed aside a vine. “Jack! Spiderman and Thor—”

His arms circled her, pulling her to his chest. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have left you.”

She pushed him away, rejecting the embrace. “We have to get CAM and get out of here. Now.”

She broke into a run. For all she knew, Thor and Spiderman had already taken it.

She ran to a side door at the edge of the garden, bypassing the chaos in the ballroom. Inside, she took the stairs two at a time, glad she’d left the stilettos in the swamp. She was out of breath by the time she reached her room on the fourth floor, but grateful to see the door was intact. She fished her room key from her bra and unlocked the door.

Jack, who’d followed without question, nudged her aside before she opened the door. In the blink of an eye, a gun filled his hand. Where did he get that?

She waited to ask the question until he’d entered and scanned the room.

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