Chapter 5
Issa opened her eyes, her body frozen, afraid to move for the pain she knew would shoot through her system. She studied the coverlet over her, the white pillowcase under her head, wondering how long she’d been here. She had no sense of time. No idea how long she’d been away from her own home, how long she’d been kidnapped. She didn’t know if the men who’d done this had enough time to track her down or if they’d chosen to run. An insidious anger flowed through her. For what those men had done to her. What they said they’d done to her pets …
She had so much hatred that she didn’t know how to stop it from poisoning her soul. Those men had enough hatred for everyone in the world. And all because of her family apparently. Although the kidnappers hadn’t explained, she didn’t understand and couldn’t even begin to sort out why they needed her. … Yet the boss would use any method to get the answers he wanted. Answers she hadn’t been able to give because she didn’t have them.
At least she was alive.
She focused on that. She didn’t know if she’d gone from bad to worse because pillowcases did not mean she was safe here. Somebody had treated the wounds on her feet. Although sore, even as she lay here, she knew they’d been cleansed. And the hands on her body had been gentle, caring, but that didn’t stop the fear inside her.
So whoever this was, she’d thank him, but, at the same time, she needed to get the hell away. Potentially the sheriff would be after her too. In the deep recesses of the confusion of her brain, memories were mixed up. She was so afraid she might have killed one of her guards.
She’d been covered in blood when she’d crossed the stream, falling as her raw feet struggled to keep her footing. It had been a relief to realize, when she stepped out on the other side, that most of the blood was gone. And then Roash had found her. She’d seen his broken wing and done what she could to make it easier for him.
That he brought her here was a miracle. But, as someone who needed more than one miracle, she hoped more were available. Her bladder was full. She had no idea how long since she’d gone to the bathroom. Neither did she remember the last time she’d had water.
Her body was dehydrated and broken. But, using the same methodology she’d always used to connect to Roash, she’d used it to help herself. Hence, Roash still sported a broken wing as she’d taken enough of his spirited energy for her own use, but that had left him short. How sad was that? She felt bad about that, but she’d been in desperate need. At the crooning beside her ear, she turned her head slightly to see the big falcon standing guard on the headboard. She murmured, “Hey, big guy. How are you doing?”
Roash rumbled back at her. Not a cry but more a murmur of gentleness. She smiled and took that comfort back under again as she slept. This time deeper, easier, and more peaceful.
When she woke the next time, she still didn’t feel better, but she needed to get up and empty her bladder. It refused to be silenced. She pulled off the covers first and stared down at the oversized T-shirt and massive sweatpants that she wore. Even her feet were covered. She should’ve been sweating in this getup. Instead it was a cozy nest she hated to leave. From where she lay on the bed, she could see a bathroom across the floor. And yet the distance appeared to be miles away.
She had to stand up. Slowly shifting to a sitting position, she only cried out once as her injured shoulder jerked. She had to sit straight because of her ribs, and so many other body parts screamed for attention, yet she couldn’t do anything for them. But what she really needed was to get up onto her feet and make it to the bathroom. She took a deep breath and gathered her strength.
“Let me help you.”
A huge man strode across the bedroom. She froze, her eyes dark as they watched him without an expression. She’d learned a long time ago to never let anybody know what was going on inside. But he didn’t appear to care one way or the other.
She was scooped up, her breath coming out in a harsh gasp as her ribs were dislodged.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’m sure all of you hurts. And I don’t quite know how to stop that but with the passage of time.”
She never said a word.
He stood in front of the toilet. “Do you want to risk standing on your feet?”
She contemplated the toilet and then said, “Yes.”
Her voice was so faint he leaned closer.
He nodded and gently lowered her until she had a hand on the vanity beside the toilet and a hand on him. Then she slowly dropped her feet to the floor. She blew her breath out and put weight on them. Waves of pain rolled up through her stomach, slamming into her ribs and her throat.
She shuddered, and he quickly dropped her pants, plunked her butt on the toilet, and pushed her head to her knees. He grabbed a large bowl out of the bathtub and held it near her mouth. She fought to hold back the acid in her stomach. When she finally managed it, she sat back and groaned. “That was worse than I thought it would be.”
He nodded. “We will have to do this for several days until your feet scab over.”
She opened her eyes and stared at him. “I don’t think I want to ask.”
“Don’t then,” he said reasonably. “When you’re better, we’ll discuss some of these injuries. Right now I need you to go the bathroom and then call me, so I can pick you up and carry you back to bed.” He stared down at her. “Got that?”
She nodded. She really wanted to protest that she could get there on her own, but she wasn’t so sure she could.
As if reading her mind, he said, “Do not do anything on your own right now. Your feet are in bad shape, and so is the rest of your body.”
The corner of her mouth turned down. “Got it.”
He walked out of the bathroom but didn’t shut the door. He was out of sight, but she had no idea where he was. And it didn’t matter.
Her bladder released as if it finally knew it was safe to do so. When she was done, she managed to pull up her pants without standing. He walked back in, scooped her up, and softly sat her on the vanity. “Can you reach the water?”
He turned on the faucets, and she washed her hands. It was the first time she’d really seen her hands. Lots of scratches were over her fingers; her nails were bloody and filled with dirt. She shook her head. “You saved my life. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now let’s make sure we get you back to health again.”
She lifted her gaze to him, seeing a hard-chiseled chin and a slight dimple in his cheek when his mouth twitched. “I didn’t mean to be such trouble,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper.
He shook his head. “None of that. You’re in trouble. I can help.”
She gave him a ghost of a smile. “I don’t think anybody can help. And the longer you keep me here, the greater the chances are my kidnappers will come after me and kill both of us.”
He studied her face, his gaze intense as he searched deep into hers. She wasn’t lying. She was at the end of her rope. If she couldn’t even walk to the bathroom, no way could she run.
Finally he gave her a clipped nod. “Let them. I don’t die easy. And I’d be sure to take as many with me as I could.”
“There could be one less,” she whispered. “I think I killed one with a bat. But I don’t know for sure. The memories are all mixed up.”
His arms came around her. He picked her up and walked into the bedroom. As he sat her on the bed, he said, “Good. That’s one less for me.”
She lay back down, her face pale from the pain … everywhere.
He pulled the covers over her. “Now sleep. Your body needs to rest.” He turned out the light she hadn’t realized was on, and the room was instantly showered in darkness.
Then he turned and strode out, leaving her once again alone.
*
Back in the kitchen, Eagle set out fixing a simple chicken soup. His grandmother had been a diehard believer that chicken soup would fix anything broken in the body. He figured it couldn’t hurt. He didn’t consider his chicken soup to be on par with his grandma’s, but, over the years, he’d gotten darn good at it. He also figured he deserved a hell of a reward for not plying the injured woman with questions. A dozen or more were ready to spill out. At the very least he should’ve asked her name. She hadn’t been terribly forthcoming. Stoic—that was a good word to describe her. Fearful, she had been ready to run. Although he wasn’t sure she could. He figured the damage to her feet had been early, to stop her from that very thing.
When he’d cleaned them, Gray had said someone had taken a knife and sliced the bottom of her pads, not very deep, but just enough that, with every step, they would split and cause her excruciating pain. The torture had been extensive and continuous, so that she was either held for someone’s sadistic pleasure or somebody wanted something from her very badly. That she’d been tortured for as long as she had been, he figured she hadn’t given it to them. Now the real question was, did she have what they wanted, or had she been tortured for nothing because she didn’t know anything? He’d seen that happen too. He’d also seen an insurgent leader who liked to torture for fun. For him it was stress relief. The screams of others made him feel better.
Darkness settled outside. With the soup simmering to his satisfaction, he turned his attention back to the weaponry he had laid out on the kitchen table. He took very good care of his arsenal. Right now each was getting a special bit of attention. As he cleaned and oiled them, he lined up the ammunition he might need. No way in hell would somebody get into this house and get at her without him being ready. There was still no guarantee he would fight off an attack, as that would depend on what they had for weapons and the sheer numbers of those coming. If it was one or two, no problem. But, if fifteen to twenty, his body was still organic, and it took bullets like anything else.
He’d heard what she’d said, that maybe she’d killed one man. There hadn’t been any emotion in her tone when she’d said it. He hadn’t known if that was deliberate or pure detachment so as not to feel the pain of having taken another’s life—and possibly the loss of clear memory over the event. He’d done enough missions and seen enough action that the pain of killing someone in self-defense was something he could deal with.
In her case, he suspected trauma was responsible for her lack of emotion.
He glanced through the open doorway where she slept once again. He’d tucked her back into bed, and she hadn’t moved. He didn’t even think she had rolled over. He worried about her ribs though. Remembering what he’d planned to do earlier when he heard her getting up, he reached for his phone and called Annie. When the gruff old veterinarian and ex-military nurse answered, he asked, “Do you have a portable X-ray machine?”
“Yes,” she answered testily. “But it’s still not that portable.”
“Portable enough to put into the back of the vehicle and come to my house to take an X-ray of something extremely damaged?”
“Maybe.”
“I got an unopened bottle of Jack Daniel’s sitting here for you.”
“As much as I like my liquor,” she said with a snap, “I still have bills to pay.”
“The price?”
“What’s the broken item?”
“A secret.”
“Goddammit, what kind of trouble are you in now?” she asked in a huff.
“Maybe killing trouble.”
He heard her suck in her breath. “You could call for help.”
“I am,” he said quietly and hung up the phone.