Page 18 of Stolen Faith

Rowan looked around, assessing. Three of the five were still standing. One mercenary, and two men in urban camo. He either had to play a numbers game or focus on the biggest threat.

One of the non-mercenaries fumbled with an air rifle, pulling it off his shoulder awkwardly. Air guns were dangerous, though people made the mistake of thinking they weren’t, confusing airsoft guns with air guns. But air rifles…those were an added degree of dangerous.

The mercenary was better trained, and therefore the more dangerous of the two, but the air rifle was a clear and present danger.

Rowan tackled the man with the rifle, bending to take him out at the knees. Once he was on the ground, Rowan grabbed the stock of the rifle and slammed it against the man’s throat, hard enough to fracture the cartilage in his trachea. Holding the gun by the barrel, he surged to his feet, then swung it like a baseball bat, hitting the other camo-pants guy in the stomach. He doubled over, then went to his knees.

For a moment, Rowan had hope that maybe, just maybe, he’d get them out of this.

It was a short-lived hope because he’d made a mistake. He should have taken out the mercenary. Should have focused on the more dangerous opponent. Because unlike the men in camo, the mercenary had remained totally calm and in control. He waited until Rowan finished using the rifle as a bat, then took aim and fired.

There was a hiss of air, and a sharp pain in the back of his shoulder. Rowan reached back, trying to grab the dart and pull it out before too much drug was released into his body. He couldn’t reach it.

Rowan surged to his feet, looking at the overturned couch. Izabel lay on the floor halfway between the overturned couch and the wall, a dart in her upper arm.

Fuck.

Rowan took a step, but it was too late. His blood was pumping from the fight, circulating the tranquilizer. He made it one more step before he fell to his knees.

“Just go down,” the mercenary said coolly. A booted foot slammed between Rowan’s shoulder blades, and he toppled to the floor.

The last thing he remembered was the sound of the man with the broken arm vowing revenge like a B-grade movie villain.

Chapter Five

Blindfolded, hobbled, and being led to an unknown fate against overwhelming odds.

Rowan could handle this.

There was a reason his former unit, the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, was nicknamed the Night Stalkers. Rowan had flown impossible missions, in the dead of night, both delivering and rescuing Tier 1 and special ops teams for missions behind enemy lines.

The regiment’s adopted motto was “Night Stalkers don’t quit.” Rowan had ridden a damaged helicopter down, walked away from the crash, then hunted down and captured the fucker who hurt his beloved bird.

But he’d done all that while well supplied and in combat situations, not wearing the remains of an ill-fitting suit with two civilians depending on him.

Rowan rolled his shoulders, and someone hit him in the back. The blow was hard and focused—probably the muzzle or butt of a gun. He grunted, as much in surprise as anything, and took a step to catch his balance.

The chain between his ankles pulled taut, clanking, and he almost went down.

“Don’t touch them,” Izabel’s voice rang with command.

Damn, his fiancée had big old brass balls. Behind the hood that covered Rowan’s face, he smiled.

Then Izabel made a hissing noise of pain, and Rowan’s stomach clenched. She might be brave, but she was vulnerable. They all were. He couldn’t see her, didn’t know what they were doing to her.

“Izabel?” Rowan said.

“Yes?” She sounded pissed.

“Brennon?”

“Present.” Brennon sounded like a bored teenager responding to roll call.

Rowan smiled again.

“Shut the fuck up.” The voice had the same thick Southern accent as the man whose arm Rowan had broken, but it didn’t sound like the same man.

There was a muffled thud, and Brennon grunted.

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