Page 87 of Escape Velocity

Chapter Eighteen

Max’s voice came shooting up the stairs. “She isn’t here. Get the hell off us.”

Amber knew at once that a search party had found them, and Max was trying to warn her so that she could get away.

She shot out of bed, found the boots she had worn in the swamp, and looked toward the window. There was a large tree outside with a branch within reach, and she moved instinctively toward the escape route.

Raising the sash as quietly as she could, she stuck one leg outside—then stopped.

Suppose she got away? Then what?

Escape into the swamp by herself? She didn’t even know where to find the ship. And she certainly didn’t know how to fly it. Plus, she wasn’t going to leave Max and Rafe to the mercies of the swamp rats. Pulling her leg back into the room, she picked up the knife that she had laid on the bedside table and started for the door.

With the weapon in her hand and wishing she had on more clothing, she walked down the stairs toward the room with the sofa and chairs.

Halfway down, she stopped, staring at Max and Rafe who stood with their hands tied behind their backs and with a mob of swamp rats around them. Most were young men, and all were disheveled from a night in the wilderness. But neither the head man nor the security chief was with them. She was pretty sure that meant this was a rogue search party.

Max looked up when he heard her, his eyes full of pain. She knew he had hoped she would try and escape, yet here she was walking toward the men who had hunted them through the night.

Those men were staring at her, too, and what she saw in their eyes was hostility and determination—along with an appreciation of her bare legs. Again, she wished she were properly dressed, but there was nothing she could do about it.

“You were stupid to think you could get through the bayou at night,” one of them said.

“We made it this far,” Max shot back.

“Yes, to the house that the outlanders from the city used when they came to steal our wealth. Before we rid ourselves of them.”

“Oh great,” Rafe muttered.

“And now you have brought a spy to our camp.”

“No,” Max objected. “None of us is a spy.”

“LaTour speaks the truth,” another man yelled, and there were murmurs of agreement. “The woman is a spy for Commissioner Tudor.”

The attention of the group switched back to Amber, and she held up the knife, making a slashing motion. “Stay back unless you want to get cut.”

Some of the men took a step back. Good.

Her eyes fixed on the man who had accused her. “Why do you think I am a spy for him?”

He raised his chin. “The disguise is washed off your face. You look like the women who are brought to Tudor’s house. But I could tell who you were, even with the camouflage.” His voice hardened. “Put down your knife, little deceiver.” He made a harsh sound. “Why don’t you try another song instead? Maybe that will charm us.”

“No.”

He turned, saying something she couldn’t hear to the men behind them. In the next instant, four of them sprang into action, grabbing both Max and Rafe by the arms and holding them in place while two other men pulled out knives and held them against Max and Rafe’s throats.

“Put down the weapon,” LaTour said again, “Or they die.”

Suddenly Amber felt as though she’d been frozen inside a block of ice. She had come boldly down the stairs without a plan. Now she was going to get Max and Rafe killed.

Her mouth was so dry that she could hardly speak, but she managed to say, “Yes, I look like those women. And yes, I am one of them.”

“You admit it.”

She ignored him and kept talking. “He brings us to his secluded house to torture and kill us because it gives him sexual pleasure. And I have vowed to die rather than let Tudor do the same to me.” As she spoke, she turned the knife around, aiming it at her own chest, willing herself to keep her hand steady.

The whole scene seemed fixed in an endless second of time.

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