I opened the first door to my right off the hall and found an abandoned washroom with a pair of rusted out avocado green appliances and a funky, moldy smell thick in the air.

The next room I glanced into was empty except for some crap in one corner, and I saw that one of the boards over the window had slipped enough to let sunlight in.

There was one door left and I took a deep breath, my exhale turning into a keening wail as I opened it and found my mother lying on an inflatable mattress that had been shoved into one corner.

Her sightless eyes were turned to the ceiling, and dried puke ran down the side of her face from where it was pooled in her mouth. It was obvious she was dead. I staggered into the room, still crying, and went to touch her to see if I could find a heartbeat, but I couldn't bring myself to place my fingers on her unmoving body. She had rubber tubing wrapped around her upper arm and the syringe was still in her vein. The wounds and scars of her years of abuse to her body showed dark against the gray-green parlor of her skin.

I wanted to sit there and cry, and wait for someone to come rescue me, for some miracle to bring my mother back to life, but I couldn't. The practicality that my father had drilled into my head forced me to stand and go back out into the hall, and strip the man there of all his weapons. In addition to the gun I'd taken off the first thug, along with two guns and a couple of knives from the other, I retrieved a cell phone that actually had service.

For a moment, my mind went blank as I stared at the phone, then I swiped at the screen with a shaking finger and dialed Sarah's number.

After three rings she picked up. "Hello?"

"Sarah," I sobbed.

"Swan? Oh, my God, Swan! Where are you?"

"I don't know. I need help. Mom's dead, I don't know where Smoke is, and there are bad guys on their way."

There was shouting and yelling in the background, but Sarah's voice was almost too quiet to hear. "Mom's dead?"

"Yeah. She OD'd."

A second later, Beach's familiar, raspy voice came over the line. "Swan, where are you?"

"I don't know. Look, this phone has a good charge left. I'm going to try to hide it in this house, then go get Smoke. I don't know where he is, if he's alive, or who may be with him. Five guys are on their way up here, and I don't think this abandoned house is good for making a stand. I'm going to find Smoke, then we're going to run."

"Help's on its way," Beach said in a tight voice. "You just keep alive and we'll find you. Do you know who took you?"

"No idea, these guys aren't wearing cuts, but I think the mastermind of this whole thing is a guy they call Chief. Oh, and Cruz is involved."

Beach started to rant, but I cut him off. "I have to go find Smoke. We'll be waiting for you somewhere nearby."

After placing the phone on the top shelf of an empty cupboard in the dilapidated laundry room, I stepped out onto the back porch, all too aware of the hard snap of the weathered-out boards beneath my feet. The feeling of time running out spun through me, and I hurried across the dried out yard. There were no signs of any other homes or the rumble of traffic, so I was pretty sure wherever we were was in the middle of nowhere.

I didn't have a problem finding the rusted shed at the back of what passed for the yard next to the huge, rotting barn that was slowly falling in on itself. There was a generator set up not too far away, and I followed the bright orange chord to the shed door. I did a quick recon of the building, but there were no windows to see if anyone was inside. With my heart in my throat, I banged on the side of the shed, then waited for some kind of reaction. When nothing happened, I did it again, and this time there was a low moan that made the hair on my arms stand up.

Smoke.

Without another thought, I raced to the door and tugged at it, sending a prayer of thanks as it rolled easily upwards.

That prayer died the moment I took in the man tied to a metal bedframe in the center of the room.

His shirt hung in tatters and blood marred every surface of the beautiful body I knew as well as my own. Bruises covered his face and if I didn't recognize his tattoos covered in dried blood, I wouldn't have recognized this man as Smoke. He appeared to be passed out and my stomach threatened to empty itself when I caught sight of a table filled with what had to be torture tools, some of them covered in dried blood.

"Please, please be okay." I staggered to him and dropped to my knees on the side of the bed, the various guns and knives sticking out of my waistband digging into my ribs. "Smoke?"

No response, just a low groan that made it hard for me to breathe.

I was afraid to touch him, or even breathe on him, but if I left him here we were both as good as dead.

A quick scan around the room revealed a pallet of bottled water, like the kind that you'd get at one of those super stores, up against the far wall next to a beat up, old, white fridge. The refrigerator was humming steadily, and I ran over to it and jerked it open. There were chilled bottles of water inside, an answer to a prayer, and I grabbed two before running back to Smoke.

Turning his head to the side so I wouldn't drown him, I poured the cold water onto his face and got an immediate reaction. He sucked in a huge breath, and his blackened, swollen eyes opened, the barest of slits. With a pained moan he tried to sit up, but the rope around his wrists kept him pinned to the bedframe. I placed my hand on his right shoulder, the only place I could find that didn't seem to be injured, and pushed him back down.

"Smoke, it's me, Swan."

He blinked up at me, "Swan? Alive?"

"Yeah, I'm alive and so are you. We're getting us out of here, now."

"Where...rest?"

"I killed the two men in the house, but five more are on their way up."

"Chief?"

"Gone."

"Billie?"

"Dea...dead. Overdose."

"Baby...so...sorry."

That, in a nutshell, showed just how much I mattered to Smoke. Here he was, looking like he'd been dragged behind a truck then set on fire, and he was trying to comfort me over the loss of my mother, one of the people responsible for doing this to him...to us. I dared to place one feather-light kiss on his bruised and cut lips, trying to convey in that gentle touch how much I loved him, and how thankful I was that he was alive.

"Hang in there, my love, I'm going to get us out of here."

Chapter Twenty.

My hands trembled as I carefully cut the rope away from the skin of his sore, abraded wrists. When I went to cut his legs free, I was happy to see he still wore his boots. His shirt was a total loss, but I thought his jeans, other than being crusty with blood from cuts on his stomach, were serviceable. Every wound, every slice, felt like my own, and by the time I was done, I was in agony over his pain.

I helped him sit up and poured more water over him, washing away the blood on my hands and on his injuries. There were lots of small knife cuts, but only a couple deep ones, at least from what I could see. There were also patches of his skin that were burned and blistered, making my heart and body ache as if his wounds were my own.

"Anything hurt inside?"

He slowly shook his head. "Hurts, but I don't think broken."

My hands fluttered over him as I tried to figure out where to start. I had to bandage the worst wounds and pray the others didn't get too infected. Then again, if I wasted any more time we were dead anyway. Time to get moving.

"Smoke, I have to go see what supplies I can grab from the house. Can you walk?"

He took a deep breath and slowly rolled his neck, his battered face pulling up tight. "Yeah, they didn't break bones. Eyes swollen shut, but okay. They were savin' takin' 'em out for later."

I wanted to slice Chief up into little bits and feed him to himself, but that wasn't an option right now. Instead, I gave Smoke one of the guns I pilfered, wrapping his least damaged hand around it the best I could. "Hang in there. I'll be right back."

His reply was lost in a pained moan as he stretched his arms out, and I had to bite back a sob when I saw that someone had burned away part of his dragon tattoo, and that his nipple ring had been ripped out.

A blinding rage tried to descend, making me want stay here, to seek revenge and make everyone responsible for this pay, but Smoke was in no shape for a fight. I wanted to be out in the forest, where I had the tactical advantage, than in a house I knew nothing about where we could get trapped inside. I had no idea how long it would take Beach to find us, but when I spied our luggage opened with our stuff strewn about in the back corner of the kitchen I grabbed my empty oversized duffle and shoved a change of clothes for Smoke and myself inside. I had no idea how long we had left, and we both needed to get out of our blood-soaked garments.

A quick search of the kitchen didn't reveal much other than a half empty box of cereal in the cupboard along with some protein bars and an unopened bag of chips. All of those went into the duffle along with as much water as I could comfortably carry. Before I went any further, I took a few precious seconds to wash myself off in the cold, mineral-smelling tap water from the sink, getting as much of the blood off of me as I could using the anti-bacterial hand soap. A disturbing thought about all the nasty diseases that could be in the blood that had gotten in my mouth, spun through my mind, and I fought not to think about it.

Even in the warm air, I shivered from the chill of the water, but it helped clear my head the faintest bit. I needed to see if there were any more weapons stashed around the house...and I needed to get what I assumed was the medical pack from the room where my mother was.

My scavenging yielded a really nice rifle, a Knights SR-25 carbine, along with about one-quarter of a box of ammo. Unfortunately, the carbine didn't have a sight, but if it came down to it, I was a good enough of a shot to compensate. In the living room area, I found a six pack of soda along with some folding chairs, a half empty bag of chips, a full ashtray, and an old tarp. The soda was heavy so I opened one can and chugged it as fast as I could to get the sugar and caffeine running through my system. I also ran upstairs and grabbed the lantern, taking a peek out through a broken window to try and figure out the best way to go. The old house faced a large open forest on one side. Across the road was a big hill with some boulders and exposed rock ledges. If we could get to one of those rock overhangs I figured there would be one deep enough for us to hunker down in.

Much easier to defend a cave than sit in the middle of a forest.

I just hoped Smoke would make it.

With my heart slamming in my throat, I went back to the room that held my mother and looked down at her. I hated to leave her in such an undignified state for the others to find, but I knew I didn't have the time or the emotional strength to clean her up. Instead I laid the tarp over her and left the room at a sprint with the backpack securely on my back, the duffle over my arm, and the loaded rifle in my free hand.

I found Smoke leaning against the entrance to the shed, squinting into the sunlight. He tensed when the door slammed behind me, and I called out, "Can you walk? The only things here are bikes. I don't know how to drive one, and I'm pretty sure you're in no shape to drive anything right now."

"Yeah, hand is fucked up...no shifting." He heaved in a breath. "Fuckin' hurts but I can walk."

"Here, I brought you a clean shirt." I reached his side and helped him remove the shredded remains his old one. At the sight of his back I retched and had to step back and bend over with my head down. Someone had either cut out or burned off the Iron Horse MC Symbol in the middle of the church on Smoke's back. It was now a raw, nasty wound that must have hurt like a bitch.

"Smoke..."

"Later, baby."

"Right. Come on."

Before we'd even taken two steps I knew Smoke was in no condition for any kind of hike. He staggered, then used me as a crutch. His weight along with the packs made it almost impossible for any kind of speed. We were three steps out of the shed when I heard the rumble of motorcycles in the distance. I couldn't tell how far away they were because of the odd way sound moved through the hills and the forest.

My heartbeat accelerated, and I looked between the house, the shed, and an old barn that was leaning like it was about to fall in on itself. I quickly decided the barn was the best place because it looked like one of the least likely places to hide. Even as we shuffled to it, I was afraid to open the side door. It took a couple tries but I finally managed to yank it open and step inside.

It was a fucking mess, and perfect for hiding. There were old boxes, furniture, farm equipment, and just about everything known to God and man crammed into the barn. It was all moldering junk now, but whoever owned that house must have been a hoarder at some point. Next to me, Smoke panted, the heat of the barn oppressive, and I propped him against the wall for a moment before scouting out a path.

"Lean on me, I know this hurts, Miguel, but you need to go just a little farther."

He gave a rusty, pained laugh. "Hearin' you call me Miguel made me get a semi. Guess I ain't gonna die after all."

I shot him a brief, disbelieving look before pushing and pulling him through the mess. I made sure to block our path again and tried to erase any interruptions in the dust.

The bikes were a roar now, and I struggled to help Smoke climb the rickety ladder to the rafters that were also stuffed with crap, praying neither collapsed beneath our weight. By the time he was half way up with me helping him as best I could, the bikes had been turned off and I waited with sweat pouring down my back to hear the first sound of alarm.

Thank fuck we were in the loft by the time a panicked cry came from somewhere outside. Soon more shouts joined it as I set our packs down and began to pull out weapons. When I glanced up at Smoke, he was the color of cheese and I knew I had pushed him too hard. Fresh blood seeped from his wounds, and I wanted to rant and scream about how unfair it all was, how this was such bullshit. My mother was dead, my fiance might be dying, and we were outnumbered and stuck in the middle of fucking nowhere with a limited number of weapons and very little ammo.

Basically, we were fucked.

For a moment, I gave into the hopelessness and stared at the dust motes dancing in the sunlight pouring through the cracks in the boards.

The cracks in the boards... What could I see through those cracks?

Grabbing the rifle and ammo I tried to pick my way past a pile of rusty bikes that could trap my feet and spill me to the floor. Then, I tried to avoid a large blotched mirror that showed a monstrous reflection of me. I was coated in dried blood and looked like I was a stunt extra during the bucket of blood scene in the movie Carrie. When I gazed at myself, my eyes were empty and cold, and I saw someone savage, someone absolutely capable of killing to defend herself staring back at me, and that made me smile.

I looked through one of the larger cracks, stealing a glimpse of the back yard where the motorcycles were. One of the three men stood there yelling on a cell phone. I bit my lip, racing through all the implications of trying for a shot now. The rifle wasn't mine, I didn't even know if it worked, and it would be a huge risk for just one man.

Then another joined him and I decided on my course of action and stuck to it.

My breath came out in a smooth, cool rush as I shut down. Nothing mattered, not my body, not my bruised heart, not my grief over my mother or my anger at the people who had done this to us. It was all inconsequential now.

Nothing mattered but the shot.

Line up the sight.

Wait for an opening.

Take the shot.

In two successive, loud bangs I ended the lives of two more men, and a distant part of my mind that I tried to ignore, reminded me of my growing kill tally. Of all the families that now hated me, the children who would grow up without fathers. The mothers missing their sons.

I watched carefully, waiting for more men to run out.

Sure enough, a guy appeared on the porch, a big black man with long grey dreads. Just as I took the shot he moved, resulting me in missing the first one. The second and third caught him in the stomach before he disappeared around the side of the house so I was pretty sure he was out of commission by his pained screams.

From the other side of the barn came more men's voices, and I tried to hear what they were saying, but I couldn't make anything out from where I crouched.

After the initial round of voices, things went quiet and I began to worry.

I liked them shouting, running around panicked, but I didn't like not knowing where they were and what they were doing.

I didn't have to worry for long because it soon became apparent what their plan was and it really sucked.

The first thing to catch fire was the house.

At first, I thought I was imagining the smell of a burning building, but the flames soon flickered into my line of sight and my heart dropped.

They were trying to flush us out.

My mouth went dry as I wondered if they'd do the shed next, and then the barn.

What if they were lighting the barn on fire right now?

I grabbed my rifle and tried to get back to Smoke as quick as I could but I got tangled up a couple of times in my haste, making a racket I would have worried about if the fire burning the house hadn't started to roar and snap like an angry dragon. Large fires get loud, extremely loud. With that horrible noise playing as the soundtrack to my own personal hell, I came back to my man, only to find him passed out with a thready pulse.

"No, no, no," I whispered and tried to find a place on him I could touch, frantic to keep his heart beating. "Please, Miguel, please don't leave me alone. Please stay with me. I promise I'll save you, I swear it. Don't go. Hold on."