Page 80 of Isabelle’s Forbidden Love

There was a sound coming to the left of him now, and Orlando instantly whirled in its direction, and fired. He heard the shuffling of feet, but no cry of pain.

“We’re coming in,” Samson announced through the earpiece.

Orlando had expected as much. The men from Scanguards had heard the gunshot. There was no way he could dissuade Samson now from entering the building.

“Where’s LaRuson now?” Orlando whispered into the mic.

“Lost him,” Thomas said. “We’re blind.”

What the fuck? How could they lose his heat signature?

“The drone is down.”

Either LaRuson had somehow shot the drone down, which was unrealistic, or scrambled its signal, which was much more likely. In either case, it was bad.

“The video link is down too,” Samson reported. “We’ve gotta get to Isabelle.”

Orlando was already running. He didn’t care if LaRuson got him with more of his silver throwing stars, he had to get to Isabelle. Panicked, he headed down a short corridor, then turned again until he saw a dim light shining from one room into the corridor. He approached, his gun still drawn, and squeezed himself against the wall, then turned his head to look into the room.

In the fifteen-by-twenty windowless room, Isabelle was chained to the wall, duct tape over her mouth. She was bleeding from various wounds on her face, arms, and torso. She was alone. Wide-eyed, Isabelle stared at him and shook her head frantically, mumbling something against the duct tape.

Orlando ran into the room and charged toward Isabelle, when he heard a faint beep.

“I found her,” he said into the mic. “Haven, I need the bolt cutters.”

He stopped in front of Isabelle, and shoved the gun in the back of his waistband. “It’ll be all right.”

She shook her head, tears in her eyes. He ripped the duct tape from her mouth.

“No, it won’t. You triggered a bomb.”

Isabelle tipped her chin past him, and he saw what she meant. In one corner of the room, which had been in his blind spot when he’d entered, sat a crudely-built bomb. The faint beep he’d heard upon entering the room had been the sign the bomb had been triggered—by the looks of it activated by a motion sensor affixed to the bottom of the doorframe.

“Fuck!”

“How long?” she asked.

He focused his eyes, but there was no clock, no display that showed a countdown. The bomb could explode in a second or in an hour. There was no way of knowing. “Fucking bastard!”

Orlando turned back to Isabelle and covered her as best he could with his broad body. “There’s no clock.”

Isabelle sucked in a breath.

“Samson,” Orlando said into the mic. “LaRuson has booby-trapped the place. There’s a bomb in the room where Isabelle is chained. It’s been triggered, but I don’t know how long we have.”

And that was clearly by design. LaRuson was waging psychological warfare against them.

“Fuck!” Several curses came through the earpiece.

“I can’t diffuse it,” Orlando said with regret. “I have to cover Isabelle. My body will absorb the majority of the blast. She’ll have a chance to survive.”

“No, Orlando,” Isabelle begged. “Save yourself. It’s suicide.”

“I don’t care if I die. But you deserve to live.” He looked into her eyes, knowing this would be the last time he would lay eyes on her. He pressed himself closer to her, making sure to cover her with his body as much as possible.

“I’m coming in with the bolt cutter,” Samson announced.

“No!” Orlando protested. “Samson, don’t! There’s no need for both of us to die. Think of Delilah. I promise you Isabelle will survive as long as I shield her. Just make sure LaRuson doesn’t kill me while I’m shielding Isabelle.” Or he’d be dust, and Isabelle would have no protection against the blast.