Their Mountain Captive by Kayla Wren

8

Alec

The truck lurches beneath me, the engine roaring as we pound down the rock face. We’re sliding and veering, glancing off outcrops, and there’s no way my truck is making it through this morning.

“Hold tight,” I grit out, stating the obvious.

Dante doesn’t give me shit for it. That’s how freaked he is. He leans between the front seats, one hand gripping my headrest, his knuckles brushing against the back of my head.

“Is he following?” A voice pipes up from the backseat. A glance in the rear view mirror shows Dante pushing firmly on Roxy’s shoulder, holding her down without looking. Good.

“He will.”

If we’re lucky, Angelo will have a short hike to his transport. We might get a ten minute head start—maybe fifteen if we’re truly blessed.

Better make it count.

“Where are we going?”

“The nearest town.”

“Won’t he expect that?”

“Yes.”

“Then why—”

I speak over her, my voice raised above the crashing truck and screaming tires. “Trust us, Roxy. You need to trust us. I know we don’t deserve it, but I swear we’ll keep you safe. And as soon as we’re sure Angelo doesn’t care about you, we’ll let you go. Okay?”

She grumbles something, but it’s drowned out by the thump of the truck down the dirt path. I lurch forward, bracing myself against the steering wheel.

It’s shameful of me, but I fucking love driving like this. It was my favorite part of FBI training. Even now, with our lives on the line and Dante’s feral brother snapping at our heels, vicious glee swarms in my chest. I wrench the wheel, slamming my boot flat on the gas.

Hell. Yes.

“Stop enjoying this,” Dante murmurs, his voice soft yet cutting through the chaos. A knuckle rubs at my hair, and my heart pounds harder.

“You just worry about Roxy,” I croak. In the mirror, I see him rubbing her shoulder. His thumb swipes back and forth over her bunched purple sweatshirt, soothing her, soothing us both, and the image of them wrapped around each other on the deck jabs at my brain.

My gut churns. It’s ugly, this jealousy, and the worst part is I’m not even sure where it’s directed. Who I’d want to take the place of in that tableau—whether I want Roxy crushed against my chest, her soft curves against my hardness, or Dante pressing me against the railing. And none of it fucking matters, since Roxy hates both our guts, and we could all die here anyway—

The truck rockets down a left fork in the path, bouncing between the trees. In the distance, tents pitched by a creek flash bright red, blue and yellow between the trunks; the ground levels out beneath the tires.

“Trust me,” I tell them again, then slam on the brakes. We screech to a stop, skidding over the dirt, smoke rising from under the hood. Then I turn in my seat, throw the truck in reverse, and veer off the path into a dark cave.

We barely fit. For one sickening moment, the truck wedges between the cave walls. Then I gun the engine and we shove inside, the truck doors buckling inward, pale blue paint left behind on the rock.

I kill the engine. It still whirs, cooling, smoke leaking into the gloom. We sit in the inky darkness, the only light spilling through the cave entrance twenty feet away, the only sound our ragged breaths.

“Sit up.” Behind me, Dante pulls Roxy upright. He leans over and pops her door open a crack. “Be ready to run.”

“My ankle—”

“It’s a sprain, not a break. Run on it, Roxy.”

I close my eyes as her breath hitches. “Okay.”

We did this. We brought her here. If we’d believed her when we met her, if we just helped her like she wanted, she’d be miles away by now. Safely in town, with her foot properly bound.

She’ll never forgive us. I hope she doesn’t. Which stings worse than it should, because if we’d met Roxy any other way, if we’d gone for a drink in the town and seen her leaning at the bar…

I’d have talked to her. Tried to make her laugh.

It doesn’t matter. Wishful thinking gets us nowhere.

Sounds echo in the cave. The plink of water, dripping further back in the darkness. The rustle of bat wings. The cooling tick tick tick of the truck engine, overheated and overworked.

And our breaths. We’re panting, all three of us, inhaling deeply through our noses as we try to calm down.

Out beyond the cave entrance, distant shouts echo from a picnic area. At the base of Lonely Mountain, the area gets a face lift. The air warms, the trees are greener, and the creek rolls lazily past, its earlier crushing rapids forgotten.

People bring their kids here. They play ball and cook hot dogs.

And now Angelo Marino is on the prowl.

“We can’t stay here,” Dante mutters, like he’s just thought the same thing.

“A few more minutes.”

“But—”

“Trust me.”

We wait in the darkness, hyper aware of each other’s bodies. Then: a distant roar. The thunder of heavy tires down the mountain path. If we made half the racket that Angelo’s making, it’s a wonder there are still kids nearby at all. If I were out there fishing or playing catch, you’d better believe I’d be running for cover.

“He’s gone past,” Roxy murmurs. “The sound’s fading.”

“Ten more minutes.” I can feel them glancing at each other, sharing a doubtful look in the dark, but this is my background. I know men like Angelo. “He’ll sense that he lost us. Then he’ll backtrack up the mountain. Go down the other fork in the road.”

“He’ll come past the cave,” Dante points out, always so reasonable. Never flustered—not by real danger. Only by terrible clothes.

“He won’t notice.”

“Angelo notices everything.”

Maybe. Maybe I’m trapping us here, fish in a barrel, but it’s too late to make another play. And when the engine roars back up the mountain, screeching even louder this time, Angelo’s fury broadcast over the mountainside, we all freeze.

None of us breathe. None of us even twitch.

He crashes past, a symphony of tortured metal. The breath leaves my chest.

“Fuck,” Dante mutters.

“Yeah,” Roxy agrees. “Fuck.”

“Let’s go. Now.” I kick my door open—no point in keeping quiet. Either Angelo is gone or we’re dead anyway. “We go on foot. Blend with the crowds. There are tourist buses down off the mountain.”

“I came in on one of those.” Roxy shoves her door open with a grunt, wriggling to the edge of her seat. “It smelled like egg mayo.” Dante’s rounding the truck, going to lift her again, but I stride faster, beating him there.

“Your arm,” I mutter. He doesn’t buy it, and I avoid his eye as I hoist her against my chest.

He’s hurt.

It’s for the best.

* * *

Lonely Mountain isn’t like the Grand Canyon or El Cap. It doesn’t attract hordes of tourists with glossy brochures, or feature in Hollywood films. It’s scenic, yes—so brutally beautiful it’s hard to look at—but it’s harsh, too. People die here, mobsters aside.

You don’t just summit Lonely Mountain on a bucket list whim.

If you want to climb it, you have to earn it.

But that’s on the mountain proper, when you get up above the tree line, with your thighs burning as you push up into the thinning air. The real Lonely Mountain begins closer to the clouds than the ground.

At the base, though… it’s summer camps and corporate retreats. Identical cabins and hourly boat rental on the pristine lake.

“I can’t believe you’re writing about this shit hole.” Dante glowers at Roxy, still in a foul mood since I picked her up in the cave. She’s back on the ground again, standing on her good foot as we line up for the bus, but it’s my side she leans against.

Dante doesn’t like that.

I do.

“I’m not writing about this.” Roxy scowls back, affronted. “I was writing about the lower peaks. You know, the cool bit. Above the tourist trap and below all the death.”

“You got pretty high.”

“I’m not great at maps.”

Dante scoffs. “How do you accidentally climb a mountain?”

“How do you mistakenly take someone captive?” she shoots back.

I hush them both, urging Roxy to shuffle down the line. We’re exposed out here, and even though Dante’s picking a fight, I know he feels it too. The lake shore is nearby, glittering sapphire in the sunshine, and it’s sinister somehow. The laughs of children sound all wrong. Warped and shrill.

Adrenaline. It’s normal, but it’s instinct, too. Screaming at us that Angelo’s still close, he could come back at any time, and if he sees us here, no one in this crowd will be safe.

“Back to town, folks?” The driver eyes us with blatant interest. And who can blame him? We look like a sight.

Roxy—bedraggled and hopping on one leg.

Dante, one palm clapped over his bloodstained sleeve.

And me, staring around us so hard that my eyes run dry. I blink, digging my wallet out of my back pocket.

“Please.”

“You all together?” The guy’s eyes are bugging out as he takes us in, standing too close to be normal. There’s something lecherous about his tone, dripping with insinuation, and Dante’s already bristling when Roxy pipes up.

“You got a problem with that?”

The driver jerks back: a bristled old man faced with a pint-sized firecracker of a woman. He wets his lip; shakes his head.

“No, ma’am.”

He still looks scandalized, but Roxy just smirks as she loops her arm around my shoulder.

“Help me up, Alec,” she murmurs, smooth as silk.

This is not the time. Not the time to mess with the bus driver; not the time to feel my blood rushing south. I grit my teeth and help her up, paying with the other hand, and I don’t speak again until we’re settled in the back row.

Me next to the window.

Roxy pressed against my thigh.

And Dante glowering in the center seat.

They start murmuring together, and I tune them out. I stare out at the lake, scanning the crowds for dark hair and amber eyes, and as the minutes pass and I don’t see him, my pulse slows.

She’s right. It does smell like egg mayo.

“What’s the game plan?” A sharp elbow digs into my side. Roxy’s brown hair tickles my arm as she turns to me. “When we get to town. What’s next?”

“We hide out. Let Angelo think we’ve left the area. Then get you to safety before we run.”

She nods, chewing her lip, and I know it’s wishful thinking, but she almost seems sad to leave us.

“Where will you go?”

“Why?” Dante interrupts. “Will you put it in your article? Tell the cops?”

“Maybe.” She whirls around and glares. “You don’t think you deserve it?”

He says nothing, the bus rumbling to life beneath us. Then, quietly: “Somewhere warm. By the sea.”

It’s impossible to miss the longing in his voice. He stares out at the glittering lake as the bus lurches around. And I’m glad when Roxy traces her fingertip over his wrist—a comfort neither of us deserve.

Dante clears his throat. Then very deliberately, he takes her hand, winding their fingers together.

My turn to stare out of the window. The trees blur past, and my eyes glare unseeing out of the smudgy tinted glass.

Lake shore and tree trunks.

It’s a shitty goodbye.