Holding his Hostage - Amy Gamet Page 0,25

crunch of snow beneath heavy feet could be heard outside the camper, and her stare locked on the window beside the bed.

Probably just a neighbor out for a walk.

Or a giant bear.

Or someone here to kill me.

She felt like a rabbit stopped dead in the road, the grill of a tractor trailer looming. The anxiety that had been her near constant companion locked her joints in place, sure as the rust on the Tin Man.

Maybe it was Sloan, with his night vision goggles and gun, or maybe Richard Bannon had actually tracked them down. Her stomach lurched at the thought, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

No. They’d been careful. HERO Force had made sure they hadn’t been followed leaving Sloan’s house. It had to be something else. There must be a rational explanation.

Shouting erupted outside the camper and she jumped, the voices deep and male. She and Lucas bolted upright in bed. “What’s going on?” he whispered, and she shushed him. There was angry yelling, then a voice that was definitely Sloan’s. Should she go out there and help? He’d told her to stay put, but what if he needed her?

Suddenly, the camper rocked, the weight of something slamming into it. Gus started barking and Lucas leaned into her body. “I’m scared.”

“I know, sweetie. It’s okay. Sloan will take care of it.”

“Who’s out there?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did April come back in?”

A high-pitched hum vibrated in her ears, time instantly slowing to a crawl. She lifted his chin, demanding his attention. “What do you mean? April didn’t go outside.”

“Yes, she did. While Sloan and me were getting cookies.”

Jesus Christ!

April was out there, and Sloan had a gun. Gone was her earlier inertia. She flew off the bed. “How long ago was that?”

“I don’t know. Like twenty minutes?”

She raced for the door. “Stay with Fiona! Don’t come outside!” She fumbled with the lock on the camper door, unable to open it in her desperation to do so. “Sloan!” she screamed as loudly as she could. “April’s out there!”

15

Sloan was ambushed from behind, the NVGs ripped from his head and his weapon knocked from his hand. He landed a punch on his attacker, propelling him into the camper, and grabbed his tactical knife from his ankle holster. His attacker advanced, and Sloan got a slice of his arm before being kicked in the groin and going down.

Son of a bitch.

The other man took off. Sloan moved to get up, his good arm grazing the cold metal of his handgun, and he grabbed it before coming to a stand. His hands were steady on his Glock, and two figures centered in his line of vision across the campsite, but without the NVGs, he couldn’t see shit. “Put your hands in the air!” The smaller of the two men did as he was told, but the bigger one took off running into the woods. With his weapon trained on the stationary figure, Sloan’s finger hesitated over the trigger.

The figure sobbed once, the voice high, like a woman’s. “It’s me, April.”

A huge wave of protectiveness crashed over him. He hadn’t even known she was outside, and she’d been in danger—first from her attacker and then from himself. “Stay there!” He flew back into search mode, scanning the area for the tango who’d gotten away, spotting a figure running across a clearing some hundred yards away, outlined by the white snow. He aimed his weapon.

“No!” screamed April. “He’s my friend!”

His limbs continued to move as his brain took a moment to comprehend, Joanne’s story about April’s online boyfriend forcing the pieces into place. He stopped running and turned around. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“No. It’s okay.”

“Instagram?”

“Yeah,” she said meekly, tears evident in her voice.

“For a nice guy, he packs a hell of a punch. Why the fuck did he come after me, then?”

“You scared us with your gun and that thing on your head!”

“Damn it, April, you scared me.” He walked slowly back to her, his hands on his hips. “What the hell was he doing here?”

She shrugged, still crying. “I wanted to see him. He lives nearby.”

“Then you tell somebody. You don’t just sneak out of the camper at night and let me think we’re being attacked, for God’s sake.” He was yelling and she was already upset, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. What if things had gone down differently and he’d used his Glock, never knowing it was her? Or what if his goddamn prosthetic had gotten her killed? The possibility had his hand