Page 67 of Depraved

He sighs and gives the others a lazy wave. “Try not to fuck up her face.”

I have to act now. I fling myself at the leader with a shriek of protective rage. I can’t let them use me to lure Brandon into danger.

His eyes widen at my sudden, wild attack, and he barely steps to the side in time to avoid my knife. Instead of plunging into his neck, it glances off his tactical vest.

One of the others grabs my wrist and wrenches it behind my back. I drop to my knees with an agonized shout, and the blade clatters to the floor.

My captor increases the upward pressure on my arm, and my shoulder screams in protest.

Or maybe I’m the one screaming.

I’m forced onto my front, until my cheek presses into the rug, and my free hand claws at the soft fibers for purchase.

The man’s weight settles over my back, holding me immobile.

“Tracker?” the leader asks, sounding almost bored.

Another man is waving some sort of black wand over my body that reminds me of a metal detector.

“Found it.”

They know about the tracking device.

The knife flashes in my peripheral vision, and pain slices into my shoulder. My assailant digs the tracker out of my flesh, and I can’t smother another scream.

The tiny device is no bigger than a grain of rice. The man flicks it away, and it skitters across the floor.

I breathe through the pain.

If Brandon can’t track me, they can’t set a trap for him.

He won’t die because of me.

Not again.

But I’m not ready to let them take me from him so easily.

My captor hauls me upright, and I twist and kick. He barks a curse when my heel connects with his shin.

Despite the pain I inflicted, his grip on me doesn’t loosen.

I jab my elbow back into his stomach, but all I earn is a bruise when I slam it into his bulletproof vest.

More men appear at the end of the corridor. I thrash.

The leader laughs. “She’s a wild little thing. Whoever gets her better enjoy a challenge.”

“The bitch kicked me. It’s not fucking funny.”

A fist tangles in my hair, wrenching my head back. I don’t stop fighting. My fingernails rake the leader’s face.

His grin morphs into a snarl, and he barks at one of his men. “Who has the tranq gun? Put her down.”

A silvery dart punches my chest. I jerk in my captor’s hold.

My limbs grow heavy. I kick weakly, but there’s no strength behind it.

The corridor dims as my body sags.