Living with the Dead - By Kelley Armstrong Page 0,116

Then a voice came from the back near the bathroom. “Move it. Mr. Nast wants us on the road pronto. We’ve got to grab that clairvoyant girl before dark.”

“Take his legs and I’ll . . .”

Hope didn’t catch the rest or the response, but the gist of it was that they were trying to get someone outside. Rhys. The gas would hold the rest of them until they’d moved their comrade to safety.

She waited until they’d gone. Then a cough came, so soft it was more a throat clearing. Hope crawled toward it. A sliver of light filtered through the fog from the drawn curtains, meaning Robyn was next to the front door. Perfect. A few more feet and Hope would be—

Her forehead smacked into the door. Hands caught her, tugging her down with a “shhh.”

She reached to pat the hand, tell Robyn she was okay. Her fingers touched a ribbed cuff. Rhys’s sports jacket.

Hope spun, fists flying into the fog. One struck home, the impact jolting up her arm. She swung the other in the same direction. It hit with a smack. Then fingers vise-gripped around her wrist hard enough to make her yelp. Rhys wrenched Hope’s arm behind her back. Her eyes flooded with fresh tears, salt stinging her burning cheeks. She tried to punch with her free hand, but he slammed her onto the floor, nose hitting hard, pain exploding.

Rhys crouched over her back, pinning her down, arm still jacked up behind her back. When she wriggled, he ratcheted her arm higher, making her gasp.

“Shhh!”

She smashed her foot into his leg. He yanked her arm higher and she bucked until the pain forced her to stillness, panting and blinking back tears.

Rhys yanked Hope to her knees.

“Up,” he whispered, with a heave that forced her onto her feet.

She heard fingers sliding along the wall, as if searching for the knob. The door eased open, and a breeze gusted in, pushing the fog back as Rhys propelled her through. The fresh air hit like an icy blast. She gasped. Her throat and lungs and eyes burned. Even her skin felt hot. Her stomach roiled.

Rhys kept pushing her. She smacked into someone. A hard blink and she could make out a short figure in front of her. Another blink brought the face into focus—a preteen girl fixing Hope with a glower before shouldering past, muttering.

Hope glanced behind her. Rhys was blinking hard, eyes streaming. He swiped his jacket sleeve across them and reached into his pocket. Hope threw herself forward. He pulled her back, wrenching her arm up without a beat. A shake of his hand, unfolding his sunglasses, and he put them on.

“Keep walking.”

Hope looked around through the glaze of tears. Another gust of wind rattled along the motel front, shaking the screen doors and sending fast-food wrappers swirling about their feet. The sun needled her eyes. Strands of hair whipped her face. One head shake and she knew she had more hair outside her ponytail than in it.

She pictured what she looked like, rumpled and disheveled, eyes streaming as she grimaced against the sun like a kidnap victim pulled from an underground hole. With a guy at her back, wrenching her arm up, she obviously wasn’t out for an afternoon stroll. If anyone noticed, they decided not to care.

As her eyes and lungs cleared, her stomach chimed in, wanting its share of attention. Typical. Motion sickness or nerves always set her gut roiling like a teakettle, bubbling over at the slightest provocation. And right now, the tear gas had it feeling provoked.

When she stumbled over a sidewalk crack, her mouth filled with bile. She gagged and forced it down, the taste only making the nausea worse.

“What’s wrong?” Rhys said gruffly.

Hope swayed, her free hand clutching her stomach. “The gas. I feel . . .”

“It does that. Just keep going.”

“I-I don’t think—” She took a deep breath, head tilting back. “Okay. That’s better.” She took one more step, then doubled over, moaning and gagging.

“Oh God, I’m going to—”

She swung, so fast his slackening grip fell from her arm. He grabbed for her, catching her wrist. And that is when the Aikido lessons paid off, Hope’s body instinctively recognizing the hold and reacting without instructions. A wrench, a grab, a flip and he was on the ground with his arm now pinned up behind his back.

At that moment, someone decided to notice. A burly middle-aged man lumbered from the parking lot, glaring at Hope from under bushy brows. A woman