Page 33 of Stolen Faith

“Yes.” Rowan felt his lips twitch again.

“So you fly scary Navy SEALs and Army Rangers around in fancy stealth helicopters?” Izabel asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Rowan debated telling Brennon that he’d flown several missions with DEVGRU and SAD onboard. He’d make sure to use the acronyms and let Brennon google them—and figure out they meant SEAL Team Six and the CIA—when they got out of this.

If they got out of this.

“Okay wait, maybe that’s a plot point. Someone keeps saying Night Stalker and the other characters don’t know what that means.”

“I mean, the president thanked us by name after the mission to—”

“Take a day off, Hollywood.” Izabel interrupted Rowan to give Brennon a playful wink, then turned back to Rowan, her smile fading. “If you’re a pilot, why do you know so much hand-to-hand combat?”

He could go into details about how members of special mission units were cross-trained, even while retaining specialized roles, but that was at least partially classified and complicated, so he simply said, “Sometimes I have to get out of the helicopter.”

“That is the most badass thing I’ve ever heard another human say,” Brennon breathed.

“So you broke the redneck asshole’s arm, after almost taking all his guys out. Pissing him off and probably humiliating him in the process.”

Rowan nodded.

“He’s out for blood, Rowan.” Izabel gave him a concerned look.

His dad had raised him on the “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” philosophy, which meant there were no kissed boo-boos or post-nightmare cuddles in his childhood. Signs of weakness were always met with the words “suck it up” or “grow up” or “stop crying, or I’ll give you something to cry about.”

Rowan wasn’t sure how to explain that her concern was misplaced. He was fine. Just pissed off at himself.

“Hopefully, he’ll calm down before he comes back,” Izabel said to herself as much as to them. “I mean, they aren’t going to want to hold us any longer than necessary.”

The timeline concerned Rowan. And from Izabel’s pinched expression, she was worried too. Maybe that was his fault. Maybe by fighting, he’d made what should have been a simple kidnapping for ransom into something more.

But until something changed, the smartest course of action was to stay put. He had no idea how many hired mercenaries Camo Cast had, and it would be stupid to assume that the change in location meant there was less security.

It was possible, of course, because a remote location meant if they did escape, there might be no neighbors to run to, no busy roads for them to find. That could mean not everyone who was at the mansion had shifted locations with them. If he was really lucky, maybe Camo Cast had run out of money and the mercenaries were off the job.

Too many possibilities, not enough information. People who panicked and ran rather than waiting for extraction ended up dead.

Rowan hoped that Izabel was right. Hoped that money was about to change hands and they’d be going home.

Chapter Eight

For a while, they lapsed into silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Now Brennon watched as Rowan did another scan of the cabin, trying to imagine what the Night Stalker—coolest fucking name ever—was looking for. “What are our odds of escaping?”

Though he’d posed the question to Rowan, Izabel cleared her throat and said in a very serious voice, “I’d say ninety-nine percent, taking one percent off for the chains.”

It had been clear to Brennon that Izabel was joking, but Rowan—big surprise—took her seriously. “Unless there’s a clear and imminent threat, we stay put. If the situation changes, you two will run.”

“We wouldn’t leave you,” Izabel said.

“Izabel,” Rowan started.

“She’s right,” Brennon interrupted. “We’re sticking together. Jesus, man. It’s Action Movie 101. The second anyone leaves the hero, they get captured by the bad guy or killed.”

“We’re already captured.” Rowan rattled his chains like Jacob Marley.

“No splitting up,” Brennon reiterated. “My wilderness survival skills are as weak as my ‘got your back, Jack’ fighting skills.”

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