Page 102 of Their Cruel Love

Nothing more. It is close to the truth.

Marcus stares, horrified, eyes wide, my blood spattering his face. A muscle tic twitches beside his brow.

I rock back and forth, spin, and wonder how to make the most of this limited freedom. At my ankles, my feet feel like balloons—the rope hauls at skin and muscle where my weight jams it onto me.

I’m turning slowly, bound to block andtackle, and soon I will face the sea and they will know what Marcus has done. Pain throbs and arcs into me, jangling pain receptors.

I could try the pole dancing trick, curl up to my feet, and maybe release my ankles?

The blade in his hand points skyward. Stray sunlight beats upon the ancient metal. Inhaling harshly though the gag, I squint at Marcus, and he mouths a word I cannot catch.

Though I’m upside-down, I see a new yet familiar figure dragged upon our stage, up from the path to this hill of ruins.

They’ve caught Aimee.

She has her hands fastened at her back, and she is sobbing. She wears a jacket, has new boots, and I wonder at this as her escort, another sunglass-wearing guard, clouts her, makes her drop to her knees on the graveled ground. He draws his gun, and it seems as if he intends to blow out her brains from the back to the front, but the arc of his draw continues higher.

Then he starts to shoot, and Aimee whips her hands from behind her back. With some small Uzi-type weapon, she too fires at the five other sunglasses and gun-toting dudes. Before those can even think to drag a weapon from a holster, they’re rolling about with holes in them and blood splashing their clothes.

I’m upside down and stunned, but I remember my plan.

Ankles. I’m a huge target up here. I curl up and reach for the rope at my ankles, holding on above them with one hand while I try to, somehow, undo the knots.

It’s impossible. The tension on the knot is too great.

“I’ll get it.” Marcus stands and slices the main rope above my feet. Only then do I realize he’s still cuffed and cannot catch me. I’m plummeting headfirst, falling with my hands stretching toward the ground, but he grabs one ankle and takesmost of my weight. Abruptly halted, my body twisting and swinging, I see the drama unfold on the hilltop.

A helicopter rises almost silently, apart from a soft rumbling roar as it clears above the cliff line. It floats forward, and from within, men spill, abseiling down on ropes. One man sits in the doorway and fires a weapon in single precise shots. More of these mercenaries run onto the hill from below. Rifles high, they fire sporadically.

After Marcus carefully lowers me, someone throws him a key to the handcuffs.

A minute after it begins, the only sound is the chopper and the screaming from one wounded man. Several others are down, lying still, quiet, and bloody. The five guards with their obvious guns are dead—sprawled across the dirt and the thin grass. Bastion is alive, having thrown himself to the ground. He raises his head and looks about. Strangely, he seems calm, yet these are our rescuers, and they have killed so many.

Marcus pulls me to my feet and removes the gag.

He cuts the rope below, freeing my legs, drops the sword to the side, then holds my hand to steady me. Blood has rushed from my head, and I’m dizzy after being the wrong way up for so long. I bend my knees into a half crouch, lower my head. At the stretch on the back of my legs, pain spears in, reminding me of the split skin. Perhaps the bleeding is taking its toll.

I lean on Marcus as he wraps his arm about my shoulder.

The hovering chopper is blasting dust, leaves, and anything not nailed down across the landscape.

“We are alive!” I’m smiling despite the screaming and the insane violence.

I am alive, and so is Marcus, and…thank god, so is Razor. Someone has freed him. He lopes our way, his face bruised and bloody, but a grim smile occupies him as he surveys the carnage. Many are dead, but not us.

I cannot stop marveling at that.

“Razor.” As I straighten, he takes my hand, kisses it, kisses my face, holds me to his chest.

“Ouch. My ass. Hurts.” My panties feel as if they’re barely hanging together.

“Ha. That was something.” He turns me a little to see it then grabs Marcus and kisses him on the lips then laughs. “You bastard. Well done. It got through! That message got through!”

“Yes! We’re safe. We did it. Fuck though, at least ten are dead. No more kissing, you. Your friend is handy with a gun, Phoebe.”

“Yes. She is.”

We are the epitome of chaos, hugging and kissing, saying stupidly obvious things, while these soldier merc types are trailing about with guns, checking wounds, disarming, slapping on dressings, and holding weapons on those who need subduing. There are…I count them…six guests still alive plus Bastion.

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