Page 193 of Roulette Rodeo
Nothing. Not even a twitch.
I check the others quickly—all breathing, all with steady pulses, but none responding to voice or touch. The smell hits me then, cutting through the smoke. Sweet and chemical, with an undertone that makes my stomach drop.
I know that smell.
It's the same cocktail they used at the Crimson Roulette for "difficult" clients. The ones who needed to be compliant but conscious, aware but unable to resist. Marnay's special blend, he called it. Imported from somewhere in Eastern Europe, impossible to trace, perfect for making people cooperative.
Or, in higher doses, completely unconscious for hours.
This was the setup. The renovation inspection was fake—probably hired muscle dressed as construction workers. They'd offered a drink, a toast to the project maybe, and my trustingpack had accepted. Why wouldn't they? This was Jackknife Ridge, not Chicago. This was supposed to be safe.
My hands pat frantically at pockets, searching for anything sharp. Talon has a multitool somewhere—no, that's in his work jumpsuit. Corwin might have medical scissors—nothing. Rafe's pockets are typically organized but empty of anything useful.
Finally, in Shiloh's tactical pants, I find it. A folding knife, probably kept there out of habit more than necessity these days. My fingers are clumsy with heat and urgency, but I manage to flip it open.
The ropes are thick, professional, but the knife is sharp. I saw through them as quickly as I dare, terrified of cutting him but more terrified of the creaking sounds from above. The farmhouse won't last much longer.
Shiloh slumps forward as the ropes release, and I barely catch him before he hits the floor. He's heavy—God, he's so heavy. Two hundred pounds of solid muscle, and I need to move him now.
The rope I'd wrapped around myself becomes useful. I loop it under his arms, creating a crude harness, and apologize to his unconscious form.
"Sorry for the headache you're gonna have," I mutter, then start dragging.
Every muscle in my body screams as I pull him across the floor. The months of comfortable pack life have softened me some, but the muscle memory from Malrik's training is still there. All those sessions dragging weighted sleds across the gym floor, him screaming about functional strength and real-world application.
"Thanks, Mal," I grunt, pulling Shiloh inch by torturous inch toward the door.
The heat is getting worse, if that's even possible. Sweat pours off me in rivers, evaporating almost before it can drip. My lungsburn with every breath, and I can feel the exposed skin on my arms starting to blister.
But I get him out. Far enough from the structure that he won't burn if it collapses. Then I run back.
Corwin is next. He's heavier than he looks—all that lean muscle is denser than expected. The smoke is thicker now, and I'm coughing constantly, my makeshift mask doing almost nothing.
"Come on," I wheeze, dragging him across the same path I'd taken with Shiloh. "Work with me here, Doc."
He doesn't, of course. Can't. But I pretend his dead weight shifts slightly to help, pretend I'm not running on pure adrenaline and desperation.
Two down.
Talon is third. By now, my system has figured out the rhythm—loop the rope, lean back, pull with legs not back, ignore the screaming muscles and burning lungs. He's built thicker than Corwin but not as heavy as Shiloh. Still, by the time I get him clear, spots are dancing in my vision.
One more.
The farmhouse groans ominously as I stumble back inside. Beams crack overhead, sending showers of sparks down like deadly rain. The front section looks ready to cave in completely.
But Rafe is still there, still tied to that chair, still unconscious.
The knife is slippery with sweat and soot, but I manage to cut his bonds. He's the smallest of them—still six feet of lean muscle, but after dragging the others, he feels almost manageable.
"Come on, Ice King," I murmur, looping my exhausted arms under his. "Let's get you out of here."
I'm halfway to the door when he stirs slightly, a groan escaping his lips.
"Red?" His voice is thick, slurred from whatever they gave him.
"Don't worry, Ice King," I pant, still dragging him backward. "I got you."
"Run," he manages, the word barely audible. "Leave... run..."
