Ransom by Callie Rhodes
Chapter Six
Ransom should have heard Fulmer's men coming the moment their vehicle left the camp and started off across the rough terrain of the field. Hell, he should have been preparing for the arrival of this second wave the moment he'd eliminated the first.
Fulmer wouldn't rest until he had confirmation of Gretchen's death. If there was one thing he knew about Fulmer, it was that he was relentless.
Not relentless enough to do his dirty work himself, of course. Whoever was hurtling toward them—three men in an open jeep with a powerful engine—they had no idea how expendable they were to the man in charge.
Which didn't make them any less evil, of course. Ransom had spent eight years watching what went on in the Basement. In all that time, Fulmer only allowed two kinds of people down into his torture chamber—the most vicious and the most vulnerable. But no matter which column they fit into, they met the same fate.
As would these soldiers.
Fulmer had chosen his attack dogs well, finding men who not only wouldn't balk at the nature of the job—but would actually enjoy it. Which made Ransom’s failure all that more galling. The soldiers headed for them had done nothing to camouflage their approach, and yet he'd missed the sound of the engine, the stench of adrenaline, the ugly scent of their blood lust.
And Ransom had almost let them take him by surprise. He'd been distracted, caught up in memories and emotions he hadn't dredged up in years—all of them triggered by the beta woman's soft, complex fragrance, determination, and canniness. Focusing on her had made him so sloppy that he temporarily forgot where he was and what he was doing.
If he hadn't picked up on the danger when he did, that sloppiness could have gotten them killed.
Well, probably not him. After witnessing the deaths of hundreds of his alpha brothers, Ransom knew exactly how much effort it took to kill an alpha. It would require a lot more than the firepower the three soldiers were packing.
But Gretchen? The streaks of red blood marring the fabric covering her knees and elbows were a testament to just how fragile she really was.
This beta woman was turning out to be a hell of a pain in the ass, with her probing questions and stubborn refusal to leave, but she was also the key to telling Ryan's story. She wasn't just his insurance, telling the truth of what happened in case he went down in the process of killing Fulmer—she had the power to get that story in front of the whole country, to ensure that Ryan's name would never be forgotten.
All Ransom had to do was not make another careless mistake.
He braced his arms on the gully's ledge and hoisted himself up, then rolled under the cover of a poplar tree. He spotted the vehicle instantly, kicking up a massive cloud of dust and flattening the tall grass in its path, coming in fast. Ransom's khaki pants and a gray shirt would help serve as camouflage, but he doubted it would be necessary—the soldiers thought they were pursuing a female beta in a yellow skirt and flowery top.
"That thing has gotta be wrong."
The SUV was close enough now that Ransom could clearly hear the soldiers speaking. He glanced back at Gretchen to make sure she'd stayed put, then focused intently on their conversation.
"Negative, sir," a second voice responded. "Fleming's signal is coming in strong and clear. A thousand feet ahead and closing."
"Then where the hell is he?" his superior barked impatiently. "I've got at least five miles of visibility, and there's no one there."
"Eight hundred feet…six hundred…four hundred…"
"Stop fucking counting," the leader hissed. "I can see, and there's no one—oh, fuck!"
Ransom felt as well as heard the sickening wet thump of the SUV's wheels rolling over the body of the soldier who'd been shooting at Gretchen. It had been sufficiently concealed by the tall grass that the driver hadn't seen it until they were literally on top of it.
He slammed on the brakes, sending the vehicle into a skid that dug deep welts into the earth. Before it even came to rest, the soldiers jumped out and ran to their fallen comrade.
"Holy shit," a third, panicked voice said. "His whole head is…oh, God. Did the wheels—did we—"
"No. Pull yourself together, Benson." The leader was standing a few feet away with a look of disgust on his face, using his boot to part the grass in front of him. "Cooke's over here. What's left of him, anyway."
"What the fuck happened to them?" Benson was backing away, looking like he was about to vomit. Ransom allowed himself a small smile; Fulmer's screening process evidently wasn't foolproof.
"That little bitch reporter couldn't have managed this," the leader said, pulling his phone from his pocket. "So who the hell did?" He stabbed a number into the phone; it was answered instantly. "Sir, there's an issue. We've found the initial strike team, but they're dead."
Ransom took grim satisfaction from imagining Fulmer receiving this news on the other end of the line. It looked like he owed a debt of gratitude to Gretchen Conrad from the Omaha Register. She'd delivered more than just a chance to share Ryan's memory—her escape had forced Fulmer out of the shadows, giving Ransom the opportunity he'd been waiting for.
He crept slowly forward until he was poised at the edge of the clearing, just beyond the tree line.
"That's just it, sir," the leader was saying. "I don't know what killed them. No apparent gunshot wounds, and the injuries—there's no way they were made by a human. I mean, a bear, maybe, but they were literally torn—oh fuck."
The phone fell from the soldier's hand when he caught sight of Ransom barreling toward him. He'd come out of his crouch at a run, and the soldier was still fumbling to raise the automatic rifle strapped across his chest when he made impact. The shock of seeing an alpha hurtling toward him remained on the soldier's face even after Ransom hooked an arm around his neck and shattered his spine.
The beta was dead when he hit the ground.
The other two soldiers managed to get off a few shots as they retreated, but Fulmer obviously hadn't prepared his team for the possibility of engagement with alphas threats. Which was shortsighted but not surprising, given how little regard the director had for lives other than his own.
Bullets dug into the ground behind Ransom as he closed in on the fleeing soldiers, running faster than their reflexes could keep up with. He barely slowed to snap the second beta's neck in the same manner as the first, then took the third down head-on, smashing into his chest full force and sending him flying. Ransom closed in on the beta's landing spot, ready to finish him off.
But the beta was already dead, his internal organs crushed by the impact, his unseeing eyes rolled back in his head, blood trickling from his mouth.
Stillness returned to the vast field as Ransom dusted himself off. The wind riffled gently through the grass. A hawk circled its quarry in the distance. Underneath the blue sky and bright summer sun, Ransom caught the sound of Gretchen's pounding heart. A second later, the breeze brought him the acrid scent of her fear. Even down in the shelter of the ditch, she was terrified.
But before he could check on her, there was something he needed to do.
Ransom walked over to where the dead commander lay and searched the grass for the phone he'd been carrying. There was no need to rush; Ransom knew that the bastard on the other end wasn't going anywhere.
He found the device and wiped off a splatter of blood from the arterial spray that had resulted from bone shards slicing through the soldier's neck. Then he pressed it to his ear.
"Keep sending men, Fulmer, and I'll keep putting them down." A muffled curse on the other end let Ransom know his message had gotten through loud and clear.
"Which one are you?" Fulmer demanded.
Ransom gave a harsh laugh. His days of taking orders from anyone were over. "I'm the one who's going to kill you. The one who's going to bury your body so deep in that smoking pit that only the devil will be able to find you."
In the background, Ransom could hear the shouts of soldiers, clanking gear, and engines coming to life. Fulmer had already given the order; reinforcements were on the way. It made no difference to Ransom. He'd take on every soldier posted at the charred remains of the CIDRF in exchange for tightening his hands around Fulmer's neck and watching the life drain from his eyes.
"That's going to be tough to pull off," Fulmer said calmly, with a trace of amusement. Even after everything that had just happened, the bastard still thought he was untouchable.
"I've faced worse odds."
The fact that Ransom was still alive was a testament to that—and ought to have served as a warning to Fulmer.
"But you don't have to anymore," he said, injecting a wheedling tone into his voice. "We don't have to be enemies, you know. The fact is that I'm grateful for your service. And now that you're free, I might be able to help you stay that way."
Ransom suppressed the growl that threatened to burst from him. Fulmer had no idea how transparent his lies were—but that made him no less dangerous. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"I'm willing to spare your life and give you your freedom," Fulmer said magnanimously, even though, from this vantage point, Ransom could see the flurry of activity in the makeshift army camp as heavily armed soldiers rushed to their vehicles. "I just need to know if you've already killed the woman."
Ransom stilled. For the first time ever, he detected a hint of worry in the evil bastard's voice. And not because a seven-foot alpha wanted to shred him with his bare hands, either. For some reason, Fulmer was concerned about a single unarmed, wounded beta woman.
Ransom didn't bother pretending he didn't know who Fulmer was talking about. "Why do you care about her?"
"All I need to know is if she's alive or dead. If her corpse is lying out there with the rest of my men, freedom is yours. And if for some reason it's not, all you have to do is finish the job, and I'll get you on the next train headed for the Boundarylands."
Ransom retraced his steps to the gully, where he found Gretchen sitting against the far wall with her arms wrapped around her legs. Her cheeks were streaked with dried tears. There was blood on her clothes and dirt under her fingernails.
Ransom frowned as he considered her. For some reason he couldn't fathom, this pathetic, vulnerable creature was the one thing Fulmer feared. Not him, not over a hundred rogue alphas—but Gretchen Conrad of the Omaha Register.
In that instant, Ransom's plans changed. He would still have his vengeance, but the years had taught him that Death was a patient partner. It would be waiting when Ransom came calling.
First, though, he would make Fulmer pay….slowly, exquisitely, until he was stewing in the kind of helpless terror that he'd inflicted on so many innocent lives. Only then would Ryan be avenged.
"She's alive, you son of a bitch," Ransom snarled into the phone. "Alive and under my protection, where she is going to stay so she can tell the whole damn world exactly who you are."