“Vika,” he said, his voice nothing more than a broken scrape.
She was still standing in front of his wheel, her little body quavering, her arms wrapped around her middle. “The others,” she said, and motioned to the otherworlders. “Let’s free them and go.”
She still wished to leave with him.
He would do whatever she asked.
He rushed to Kitten’s wheel. She had been struggling against her bonds, and blood was dripping down her arms. He reached out, yanked, and ripped one of the bars from the wheel, taking a huge hunk of wood with it.
“Watching you work was a real pleasure,” she said. “But you aren’t part of AIR, are you? I’m guessing you’re black ops all the way, baby.”
Silent, he reached for the second bar.
Footsteps sounded behind him, and Kitten paled.
“Go,” she said. “Come back for me later. With guns. And Dallas.”
He turned. Four other males and two females had just run into the tent. They stopped to catalogue the carnage, as if they couldn’t quite believe what they were seeing. One of the females unleashed a blood-curdling scream.
His gaze swung to Vika. She was at Criss’s wheel, tugging ineffectually at one of the bars. Tears streamed down her cheeks as the rest of the otherworlders begged and pleaded with her to hurry.
He had a choice to make. Vika, or all the others. Right now, he couldn’t have both. The knowledge frustrated him, enraged him further, and guilt immediately began to chew on his bones. Because honestly? He didn’t need a moment to think. He already knew what he was going to do: grab Vika and run.
He would come back, though. There was no question about that. He wouldn’t leave these people defenseless for any longer than necessary.
Decided, he rushed to Vika’s side and scooped her up.
“If you want to save anything here,” the Targon called, “I’d return in nine days.”
Why nine days?
“My bag,” Vika gasped out. “Please! I need it.”
The males had finally looked past the pile of dead bodies and the pools of blood and noticed him. Shouts erupted. Solo backtracked, grabbed the bag’s strap, and fit it over his shoulder. The moment the weight settled against him, surprise filled him. Little Vika had carried this thing? On her own? It had to weigh a hundred pounds, at the very least.
Another group of men entered the tent, claiming his attention—and Jecis occupied the center. His stormy gaze locked on Solo, and the skull he always carried with him, the one that moved of its own accord, separate from his own bones, that dark presence, tilted back, stretched open its jaw, and shrieked.
One day, we’ll have our showdown, Solo vowed, and ran in the opposite direction. One day very soon.
Twenty-four
Hurry, my beloved, and be like a gazelle or a young stag on the mountains of spices.
—SONG OF SOLOMON 8:14
SOLO CARRIED VIKA AND her bag through the night, into the mountains. He had to be freezing. She was. And he was naked, and frost practically coated the air.
“I brought you clothes and shoes,” she said through chattering teeth. “They’re in the bag.”
Maybe he replied, maybe he didn’t. Either way, he kept going.
What had happened inside the tent . . . Total devastation was the only way to describe it. He had morphed into the raging red beast the others had called him. He had hurt people. He had killed.
He had protected.
She hadn’t been afraid of him, and the knowledge had stunned her. He would never hurt her, and deep down, where the knowing he’d taught her about swirled, she’d understood that. She’d been afraid for him.
Any moment, someone could have walked into the tent with a gun and shot him. If that had happened, her father would have killed him, not just to punish him for what he’d done but because Jecis would have feared him, even behind the cage.
“I can walk,” she said, not wanting him to have to carry the entire burden of their escape.
He set her down without ever breaking stride, clasped her hand, and dragged her behind him. They maneuvered around trees—so many trees!—and over thick stumps. An eternity later, he glanced back at her.
“Questions? Concerns? Comments?”
“Where are we?” she asked. Jecis hadn’t said. All she knew was that she’d never been here.
“The New Kolyma region of the Russian Far East.”
“Siberia?”
“Yes. Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”
Up, up, faster and faster, he led her through the snow. Snow on the ground, snow on the beautiful trees. A true winter wonderland, stunning in its beauty. Harsh in its treachery. How quickly could a person freeze to death out here?
Sadly, that wasn’t the least of her troubles. Jecis would follow. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. He would feel no rush. After all, he could locate Solo at any time. But he would gather the troops and come after them.
Vika would be wise to ditch Solo now and strike out on her own. It was what she’d planned to do while they were trapped in the Nolands. Now . . .
She just couldn’t bring herself to leave him.
He looked back at her, saying, “Shout if you need me to stop.”
“I will.” And she almost shouted a thousand times in the next five minutes, but somehow, she held the sound inside. She wanted as much distance between them and the circus as possible, even if she had to suffer to get it.
The higher up the mountain they went, the thicker the trees became and the rockier the terrain. Eventually, Vika lost track of time. All she knew was that she was shivering uncontrollably and her muscles were as heavy as boulders. Her lungs burned.
Solo glanced back at her a second time, slowed his pace, then stopped. “We’ll stop for the night,” he said. He wasn’t winded and didn’t seem cold.
“Because you found a safe place?” she asked hopefully.
“Because you’re tired.”
As she’d suspected. “I don’t care. Keep going until you find a safe place.” They needed every advantage they could get.
He studied her intently, pride glowing in those baby blues. “Very well.”
Was that pride directed at her?
She expected to leap back into motion. Instead, he dropped the bag and unzipped the top. The clothes she’d stolen from her father rested on top. Although not a single garment belonged to Jecis. Rather, Jecis had stolen them from the Targon and were the perfect size for Solo.
Size—the reason no one human had bought them. The material was as black as night, and possessed a soft, luxuriant quality.