Tormented (The Condemned Series Book 3) Page 3

  Curling around her, he braced himself as their cell righted itself once more. Gravity following suit, barely giving him time to turn them both, before his back slammed into the ground, her landing hard atop.

  Laughter from outside only pissed him off more. “Did you enjoy the ride? Is our new meat tender enough yet?”

  He shut them out. Concentrated on the unmoving, naked female sprawled on top of him. His dick smashed against her stomach and, always an inappropriate fucker, already at half-mast. She could be badly hurt. Or dead. Her neck broken by her restraints or the fall. She—

  “Here.” The smack of familiar metal against his hand. “Get back to work. Who knows when they’ll tip it again.”

  So, not dead. Or rattled, apparently.

  He considered teaching her a lesson about what happened to those who tried to order him around, but since killing her would run counter to his best shot at escape, he took the chain instead.

  “How can I reach you now when I couldn’t before?” He didn’t question how he knew she’d have the answer.

  She didn’t disappoint. “Their idiocy made us momentarily weightless and confused the release mechanism. It reset to default mode and, as a result, we gained more slack in our chains. It won’t make a difference, though, if we can’t break it.”

  Outside, the pounding continued.

  Inside, a knee brushed his thigh. The warm heat of her wriggling against his hip.

  “Our chains are twisted.” She shimmied further up his chest, skin silkier than possible gliding over his hip and belly, wakening nerves he’d long thought dead. “I’ve got to get them untangled before 223’s men flip us again. Otherwise, we’ll end up twisting in midair from our leashes, dead before those fools even make it inside the hold.”

  “You’ve got a real way with words.” His voice sounded too husky. “I wonder what else you can do with that mouth?”

  “You have a strange sense of humor, felon.” Soft flesh brushed his chest.

  He blinked. Whoa. His murderous cellmate’s tit was rubbing against his chest—and unlike with his side and lower belly, the nerve endings she was pressed against worked. Tight and puckered, that perfect globe felt as far from cold marble as one could get.

  Flesh and blood and female. Not so robot-like, after all.

  She rolled off him. “Done.”

  She’d untangled their chains. While he’d been thinking about tonguing her nipple.

  Irritated, he got back to work, pouring every bit of frustration and worry for Grif into the press of his fingers.

  “Did you purposely protect me when we were airborne?” She’d crab-walked back as far as she could, stretching the chain once more to improve his chances of breaking the link—or maybe just to get away from him.

  He barely hid his wince. Thank Janus for the darkness. “No,” he lied, mostly to himself.

  A long pause. “Foolish.”

  She didn’t believe him, either.

  For some reason, his lips twitched upward. Woman might be soft on the outside, but inside she was living up to his nickname: a stone-cold robot bitch. Kind of like him with his team. Under different circumstances, he might have almost tolerated her.

  “Enjoy the ride, rats?” The taunting was starting up again.

  He worked the link faster.

  “I’m going to pound that pussy so hard once we get the go-ahead,” shouted another man. “Yours, too, soldier boy.”

  “Why don’t you come in here and make those threats to my face?” he shouted. “And if you’ve done anything to my friend I will tear you limb from limb.”

  The ensuing laughter from outside still wasn’t loud enough to cover the disdainful sniff from nearby.

  Or her next words, “Emotion is not what we need right now.”

  “That’s loyalty, assassin,” he shot back. “And concern for my friend. I doubt you know a Dragath thing about any of that.”

  Another long pause. “True.”

  The link snapped.

  He blinked. Holy shit. He’d done it.

  Not so fast, robot girl.

  Reacting fast, he seized the short dangling chain that hung from her neck. Just in time. Since his “partner” was already scrambling back.

  “Going somewhere?” Wrapping the loose chain around his wrist, he dragged her closer, a thrashing fish on his line. “We had a deal. I did my part. Now it’s your turn.”

  She drove her palm toward his throat. He barely ducked in time. And wasn’t nearly so lucky with his next maneuver, her other fist slamming into his gut.

  A strike that would have bowled most men over. But most men didn’t have extensive scar tissue or nerves deadened by brutal torture.

  “Is that all you got?” he taunted.

  A growl of rage. The whisper of air as another lethal blow streaked toward him, this one meant for his temple.

  “Tsk. Tsk. That sounds like emotion.” Ducking her blow, he swiveled behind her—best to get out of the way of those killer hands—and wrapped his chain around her neck and over the metal collar, pinning her to him. She was faster and, yes, better trained, but he had brawn on his side.

  He secured the chain across her airway. Pressing hard. Until he heard a wheeze. “That’s right. One little flick of my wrists and that windpipe of yours snaps like a straw.”

  A small growl, but she remained unmoving in his hold. The lithe lines of her body pressed to his, that perfect ass jammed against his bare thigh.

  “Good girl,” he said, mostly because he knew it would piss her off.

  “I have not been a girl for a long time, felon boy.”

  Again, his lips twitched upward before he realized what was happening. With a shake of his head, he got back in the game. “Here’s the new plan. You use the jagged edge of the link I broke to create a similar crack in one of my links. I’ll take it from there.”

  “If I don’t?”

  “I’ll kill you and drag your lifeless body along as I use your barbed link to free myself.” She wasn’t the only one who could paint a vivid picture.

  A creak near the main door echoed through the hold. As if their captors were messing with the locks. Shit. They’d decided to skip another round of giant spinning-wheel torment and move straight to up-close rape and torture.

  “It’s time to decide, assassin.”

  A slight pause. Then, “Fine. Let’s do this. But make no mistake, what’s between us is far from over.”

  Her vow was a shot of dark liquor to the veins. “Can’t wait to see what you got.” Her back pinned to his chest, he crouched low. “Find the broken chain. Pick it up.”

  Bare skin rasped against his as she followed his directive, her hands scouring the ground. Her movements quick and efficient. Proof she’d heard the locks being disengaged as clearly as he had.

  Crushed as she was to his front, he knew the instant she found it, her back flexing as her hand closed around the metal.

  He tightened his hold on the leash around her neck. “If you try to use that to stab me, if you try and whip it backward to knock me out, if you do anything but what I’ve ordered, I will jerk back this leash and you’ll be dead.”

  She didn’t respond. But she did get to work. Her arm rising and falling as she slammed the sharp edge against one of his links.

  A shaft of light split the darkness, spilling into the hold. Cursing, he closed his eyes to avoid being blinded.

  He’d run out of time. Fuck him.

  Despite all the bullshit and the banter, shit had just gotten real.

  “Stop.” He loosened the chain around her neck. “Get behind me. Make it look as if you’re still chained. I’ll take down as many as I can while you slip out.”

  She stilled.

  He opened his eyes, his pupils already adjusting. She’d turned to look over her shoulder, her eerily beautiful face even more shocking up close, her hand with the chain still raised in midair.

  Their gazes locked.

  “It’s too late for me. But you have a sh
ot.” He answered the question he saw in her stare.

  She might be an assassin. Might be everything he despised. If he could choke the life out of her himself, he probably still would.

  But he couldn’t stand by and let what happened to Saralynee happen to her. There would be no “divesting the assassin of her spirit,” as 223 had vowed. Not while the irritating female’s warm skin was still imprinted on Ryker’s flesh, reminding him of just how human she was.

  A quick death was one thing. Rape and torture another hell altogether. No one deserved that. Not even her.

  “Move,” he ordered. The door was beginning to rise faster, the dirty, ragged fingernails of their captors snaking beneath to hurry it along. “They’ll be inside soon.”

  She didn’t budge, her expression giving nothing away as her gaze bore into his. Then, shaking her head, she severed her stare and turned back around. “Foolish.”

  She drove the chain downward—in a different spot. Shattering the link. As if she’d known all along exactly where she needed to target her strike in order to free him.

  The pressure on his neck eased, a small length of chain dangling from the collar at his throat. “Why—?”

  “Two against the mob. Better odds.” She glided to his side, raising the chain that had previously leashed her to the wall. “Don’t make me regret my choice, felon.”

  He assumed a similar combat stance. They might not have been armed with much—just two lengths of chain—but he suddenly liked his chances better than he had before.

  He was ready for this. Ready to get the hell out of here and find Grif and take 223 out and—

  The door, almost a third of the way up, slammed shut.

  Plunging them into darkness once more.

  “What in the hell?” He blinked. Tried to adjust.

  A siren blared. Panicked shouts. The rattle of locks snapping back into place. Then, the voices receded, the tread of footsteps fading.

  As if…as if 223’s men had retreated.

  “Any theories?” The buzz of aggression and impending battle had clogged his jacked-up brain, ensuring logic did not come as easily as it should.

  “I’m…not sure.”

  “Whoa. That had to hurt to say.”

  A low growl.

  He shifted away, fists still raised. With 223’s men no longer an immediate threat, alliances had switched again. His greatest threat was once more her.

  Something hard hit the side of the hold. He stumbled forward, sliding a few paces. Another slam.

  “Shit. More tipping.” He grabbed for the chain in the wall. “Find an anchor.”

  She shook her head. Stayed where she was, her feet spread wide apart as if she was on a rocking board. “No voices.”

  “What?”

  “No voices,” she repeated. “Or footsteps. That force is neither human nor animal.”

  He cocked his head. Shit. She was right. “What is it then?”

  “Boulders.”

  “Boulders? Why would…” His voice trailed off. “Ah, hell.”

  “Yes. Likely from a rising dust storm,” she concluded—and the pitter-patter of a hundred tiny needlelike objects hitting the roof and walls was suddenly all too easy for Ryker hear. “The planet is rife with them at this time of the lunar season. 223 and his men have likely run for shelter to avoid being crushed. A luxury we don’t have.”

  Thank you, Dragath25.

  They were so screwed.

  5

  “We can spend our time trying to kill one another. Or we can find a way to get the hell out of here before the storm does what 223’s men haven’t yet managed.” Her cellmate’s words came fast and hard.

  Her grudging respect for the man climbed another notch.

  No matter how much she might crave it, expending energy to take him out would only leave her more exhausted—and, should she succeed, trapped with a rotting body. “I’ll scour the space for anything that might indicate a weakness we can exploit.”

  “I’ll try the door.”

  Her enemy’s pounding echoing behind her, Jade used her hands and feet to survey the place. And found four more sets of collars and chains attached to the wall. She stored that information away and kept exploring, pleased to discover a small screw wedged tight into one cell corner.

  “Given the darkness, our health, weight, and ages, we can survive a week at most without water. More likely four to five days. But over time, our cells will shrink. Our mouths go dry. There’ll be no need to urinate, but our joints will swell and ache. Our body temperature will lower as we grow unable to regulate it. We’ll become lethargic and, as our brains swell, we’ll lose the ability to make logical judgments. Of course, that assumes that the dust storm lasts long enough to keep 223 and his men at bay for any useful length of time—and that our prison somehow manages to avoid being torn apart by wind or debris from the storm itself. An unlikely prospect given the size and strength of our cell and the average power of the storm’s eye.”

  “Always a ray of sunshine.” A low grunt. Almost sounded like a chuckle. “You definitely have a way with words, but you’re not wrong. And I’ve got to say, I find your bluntness refreshing, robot girl.”

  Since no one would ever know, she allowed her lip to curl in the darkness. “My name is Jade Lakotesh.” It wasn’t much, but it was one of the few things that was truly hers.

  A slight pause. “Ryker. Walsh Ryker.” Some of the hard edge had slipped from his voice, making his vowels sound almost lilting. A soothing brush against her skin. An effect she liked very much. “I think we skipped full introductions the first time around.”

  When they’d been trying to kill each other and obtain the weapon from 223. An objective that appeared further and further away as their impending deaths grew more likely. There was a growing chance, in fact, she’d perish even before her employers’ nano-bomb detonated.

  “Any luck?” She moved closer to the door, but not so close she’d be hit if he swung suddenly. Her screw tight between her two fingers, perfect for an eye-gouge.

  “Not yet.” He kicked the door hard.

  Another unabashed flare of emotion? She couldn’t deny that his outburst echoed through her in a way she liked. The frustration in his tone so apparent and unvarnished. As if he didn’t care who knew.

  She forced herself to focus. “Our best bet is to try and turn one of the floor cracks into an actual hole.”

  “That will take time.”

  “Yes, more than we likely have.” She dropped to her knees and dug in with her makeshift tool.

  After a short pause and a snort, the banging against the door struts resumed.

  It was strange to work as part of a team, even a temporary, dysfunctional one. The Facility never encouraged partnerships. They preferred individual operatives who drew less attention, blended easier, and slipped more effectively in and out of hostile environments. Plus, if ever killed, a lone death would be far easier to erase than a cluster.

  People like her weren’t meant to be remembered.

  “Have you experienced one of these dust storms before?” Her cellmate’s question caught her off guard.

  She’d expected quiet. But she supposed anything was preferable to the direction of her thoughts. So, she answered. “No.”

  A slight pause. Then, a hiss of air through his nose. “How come you’re only wordy when it comes to death and destruction?”

  “Don’t mock me, felon. You won’t like the consequences.”

  “Come and try it, assassin. We’ll see who ends up sorry.”

  She was still trying to puzzle over why his taunt didn’t annoy her quite so much this time when he spoke again.

  “I had no idea these dust fuckers could get so bad. I was imprisoned down below in the mines. With my team. No storms there. Who knew I’d ever end up grateful.”

  More support for his claim that he was a soldier and part of a unit, used to having others watch his back as he watched theirs.

  The opposite of her experi
ence.

  Still, she did not like to appear deficient. “It is a natural phenomenon, produced by the position of the two moons.” She ground her screw into the floor, frustrated with her lack of progress. “The storms can vary in ferocity and length, but most are long lasting and extremely fierce, especially since there is little ground vegetation to anchor the dust, rocks, and boulders that make up the majority of planet flora and fauna.”

  Another slight pause. “Will the storm cover the entire planet? Or just parts?”

  “According to my briefing, they occur with greater vigor in this area, but are planetwide. Why?”

  “Curiosity.”

  Liar. She could scent it. Most likely, he was concerned for more than this Grif person. “Do you reside on this planet with other”—she altered her word choice at the last moment—“teammates?”

  “Yes.”

  Now he was the one who’d gone uncommunicative.

  She wondered if the rest of his crewmates were like him. If they worried as much about his survival as he did theirs.

  His silence did not last long. “Do you know where 223’s keeping this new shuttle of his and where he got it?”

  Since there was no harm in giving him the truth, she said, “There was a scientific mission to Dragath25 a while ago. 223 and his men brought the ship down. There was only one known survivor. After they scavenged what they needed, 223 repaired the shuttle enough to gain flight capabilities. It’s poorly hidden in an area not too far from the settlement. I disabled it before going for the weapon, but 223 is resourceful. Like with the weapon itself, I’ve only bought some time, not grounded him for good.”

  “Tell me about the weapon.”

  The man was a talker. She considered simply not responding, but concluded the appearance of cooperation was the wiser course.

  “It’s a laser with two modes. One that can be set to target particular swathes of land, and everything in it. People. Buildings. The other mode, however, is worse. It can amplify the power of mode one and turn in on itself, effectively creating a bomb with devastating reach. Enough power, in fact, to kill not only a handful of people, but entire populations. Especially if such a weapon were flown into Council headquarters at the heart of New Earth’s main city. The effect would be chaos. A substantial loss of life to a population already struggling with starvation, famine, and overcrowding. It would not just be the Council that would be destroyed, but the tenuous fabric of life that has sustained the people of New Earth since the last wars.”