Page 78 of Forging Caine

One man grabbed my right bicep, exactly where the bullet had punctured the muscle four months ago. I swallowed a cry, shifting my balance enough to drop from the chair and out of his grip, but the other followed behind, wrenching my arm against my back and punching my bad shoulder.

“Don’t hurt him,” snapped Fiori. “Let’s go.”

They’d twisted me enough that I caught sight of Samantha. Her phone lay in pieces on the ground, the key fob shattered. She’d downed the man who’d been behind Baptiste, but the other grabbed a fistful of her hair.

“Hey!” yelled a man at a table nearby.

Screams erupted from the crowd. What was going on? I couldn’t move to see anyone else.

Samantha’s hands flew to her head, and she latched onto the wrist of the man holding her. It wasn’t enough, though.

A dark blue helicopter landed in the green space. Fiori and Baptiste were already on their way. It must have been the one he kept on his yacht.

The man holding Samantha ripped something from a pocket, put it to his mouth, and jabbed it against her neck.

She shrieked, sending ice splintering through my veins.

A jolt of power surged through me, and I threw my head back, connecting with the nose of the man behind me. He let go.

Samantha’s legs gave out underneath her, and the man released her hair, throwing her over his shoulder before she hit the ground. He dashed toward the helicopter and I scrambled to my feet, trying to catch them.

Two of them ran with handguns. That must have been what scared everyone else away from helping.

Blood pounded through my body, my injured bicep, through my back and shoulder where they’d hit me. Pain streaked through my head, but I pushed forward. “Samantha!”

Fiori climbed into the helicopter. Baptiste followed him. One guard, two, three, and the one carrying Samantha threw her in before climbing in himself.

Ten feet. I was almost there.

And the two guns turned on me.

I stopped. Getting killed wouldn’t save her. “Take me with you!”

Fiori yelled over the sound of the rotors spinning above him. “You’ll do the work for me?”

“I will. I swear!” Anything for her.

He patted one of the gunman, who holstered the weapon and held a hand to me, hoisting me inside.

I collected Samantha’s limp body, practically falling into a seat as the helicopter took off. The interior held two facing rows of four abreast, with another two in front. The bodyguard next to me fastened my seatbelt, while the one with the broken nose scowled from the seat opposite me.

Jason—of course—was the pilot.

That’s why he hadn’t been behind us. So much for Cristian’s assurances Jason would keep us safe.

I cradled Samantha against my chest, staring out as we lifted off.

The guard who’d gone after Samantha first was trying to sit up by the table we’d been at, while a thin man and a woman with shocking white-blond hair ran toward him, guns out. Navy windbreakers. They separated to surround him, and the yellow letters ‘FBI’ on their backs were a kick to my gut. Had they followed us? Or had there been a tracker in the key fob, as well as the recorder?

I pressed my lips to her head.

If we’d held them off for five more minutes, it wouldn’t have been too late.

Instead, I held my unconscious fiancée in my arms. Her lungs expanded slowly, far shallower than when she slept.She’s going to be fine. You have her. She’s not alone.

The FBI would get information from the man they had. They’d find us.

They had to.

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