His hands tightened, his fingers digging into her airway and the vulnerable vessels in her neck. The snow blocking her vision grew black.
I’m going to die.
His face was beyond her fists and nails. She flung her arms to the side, digging, grasping for anything, trying to picture where his gun had landed. Her fingers felt nothing but fine grains of snow.
I’m sorry, Truman.
She dug deeper and found frozen packed ground. Her fingernails scraped the dirt, shooting agony up her arms as they ripped. Her right hand found something large and rough and round. She gripped it, seeing the irregular shape of the rock in her mind. Sucking in a desperate, ragged breath, she clutched the rock and propelled her fist out of the snow, aiming for where his head should be.
He gasped as the collision sent waves down her bones, and he released her neck. His balance rocked, and she sank her strength into rolling to one side, flinging him off her body and into the snow.
Mercy scrambled onto her hands and knees toward where her ax had landed. Her fingers found the wood handle as she felt him grab the back of her coat. She let him pull her upright, both her hands now gripping the ax. Moving up to one foot, she spun with all her weight and knocked him off balance again.
She swung blindly with her ax. He shouted, and the sound of metal meeting teeth told her she’d struck home. He landed on his hands and knees and then clasped one hand to his bloody mouth.
Standing behind him, Mercy raised the ax over her head, her gaze locked on the back of his skull.
He’ll die.
Good.
She paused as he spit blood and moaned.
Fierce barking sounded to her right, and she turned to see a black wolf rushing her, its jaw wide open, its pointed teeth white in its dark mouth.
“Stop!”
Ten feet away, the black wolf slammed to a stop. The beast growled, low and threatening.
It’s a dog.
Mercy lifted her gaze, her ax still raised, searching for who’d shouted at the dog.
“Mercy!”
THIRTY-SIX
Truman and Bolton were silently trudging after Rowan through the snowy wilderness when a gunshot sounded, echoing across the bleak sky.
At the noise, they stopped and stared at each other.
A second gunshot boomed.
The shots were close by.
“Dammit,” said Rowan. “Thor!” Far ahead, the black dog froze against the white of the snow, his head swerving in the direction of his handler. “Here!” Thor raced in their direction, snow flying behind him.
“Which direction did it come from?” Bolton murmured, turning in a circle. “That way?” He pointed.
“That’s what I thought,” answered Truman, now that his heart had resumed beating.
Mercy?
He removed his gloves and unholstered his weapon as Bolton did the same.
“I won’t have my dog getting shot,” Rowan stated as Thor arrived and sat at her feet. She eyed their weapons, and her hands twitched. Truman knew she was armed. He’d spotted the familiar bulge at her ribs as she put on her orange vest.
But she left it at her side.
“Let’s go,” Truman ordered. He led off in the direction he believed the shot had come from. He jogged in the snowshoes, adrenaline keeping him moving, weaving among the thin trees. Behind him Bolton panted, and Rowan murmured to her dog.
We’re close.
A third shot sounded.
Truman ran harder.
Most people ran away from gunfire; he always ran toward it.
The sparse cover of the trees ended, and a wide expanse of snow spread before them. Far up ahead two people were fighting.
Truman sprinted up the gentle slope, his weapon ready, Bolton and Rowan on his heels.
Rowan said something, and Thor took off like a bullet.
The fighting woman hit the man in the mouth with her ax.
Mercy.
Truman knew her shape; he knew her movements. It was Mercy.
The man was on his knees, a hand to his bleeding face. Mercy raised the ax over her head, and Truman’s heart stopped again.
She’s going to split his head open.
She paused, the ax wavering in the air.
Thor caught her attention, and she turned to protect herself from the black attacker.
“Stop!” shouted Rowan. Thor halted.
“Mercy!” The name burst out of Truman, directly from his heart.
She looked past the dog. Truman was too far away to make eye contact, but an instant connection lit up his brain like a firework. In his mind his fingertips felt her skin, and his nose smelled her scent. As he ran closer, horror clogged his throat at the sight of the bruises and scabs on her face.
But their eyes locked.
She lowered the ax as if its weight had suddenly tripled, and took a hesitant step in his direction. “Truman?”
His name wavered in the air.
The bloodied man on his knees gathered himself to knock her down. Truman halted and pushed his weapon forward, his arms shaking with exertion. “Behind—”
Mercy was already spinning back toward her attacker, the tip of the ax handle in one hand. Her momentum swung the blunt end of the ax into his temple and he dropped. Mercy stood over him, the ax ready again. He didn’t move.
“Asshole.” Mercy’s curse floated across the snow.
“I like her,” muttered Rowan. “Heeere!” she ordered Thor. The dog shot across the snow.
Truman slowed to a walk, his energy evaporated, but nothing would stop him now.
She was alive.
His fiancée turned her head, keeping one eye on the man in the snow while watching the three of them approach. She swayed on her feet.
Her face was black, blue, green, and a hideous shade of yellow. Scabs crusted her lips and nose. Her black hair was a stringy, tangled mess.
She was beautiful.
He strode directly to her and wrapped her in his arms. She shook and quietly sobbed, her face buried in his coat. He was barely aware of Bolton cuffing the man in the snow and pulling him into a seated position.
The stress, anxiety, worry, and despair of the past several days melted away, and his head throbbed at the release.
He had her. She was back. And he wasn’t going to let her go again.
His eyes squeezed tight, his lashes growing damp.
“Stop right there!” Rowan snapped, making Truman jump and lift his head. Beside her, Thor growled, and Bolton raised his weapon.
Rowan had spoken to a small approaching figure. A girl.
Mercy spun around. “Eden! It’s safe. Come here, honey.”
With a hesitant look at a glaring Rowan, the girl approached. The missing teenager, Truman realized as the girl fell into Mercy’s arms the same way she had fallen into his.
Mercy’s green eyes met his. “Eden helped me escape. We need to locate her mother.”
“Her mother is already waiting for her,” Truman said, unable to look away. “I didn’t know if I’d find you.” His voice cracked.