Midnight Captive (29 page)

Bailey leaned down and kissed him, running her palms along his broad, sculpted chest. “You’re right. We’d better get started.”

The hotel bar was deserted, save for the bartender and one other patron at the far end of the long, gleaming counter. It was two thirty in the morning, but the sign on the door said the bar didn’t close until three, so Sullivan wasted no time planting his ass on a stool and tapping the counter. The other customer paid him no attention—his dark head was bent over a cell phone, one hand playing with the stir stick poking out of his drink.

“Rum and Coke,” Sully muttered. “Hold the Coke.”

The bartender didn’t even crack a smile. “Key card.”

Aw, shit. He’d forgotten how insane this hotel was about security. Nothing got charged to a room unless a key card was produced, and Sullivan had left his upstairs. He could’ve paid in cash—if he hadn’t left his wallet upstairs too.

But no way was he going back up there. He couldn’t face Liam right now.

“I forgot my key and my wallet upstairs,” he told the barkeep. “But you can still charge it to the room, can’t you? Just type my room number into your little computer.”

The man hesitated.

“Come on,” Sully cajoled. “You know I’m a guest. You
saw
me here last night, mate. I know you did, because I saw you.”

After a beat, the bartender muttered, “What’s the number?”

“Two-ten.”

Swift fingers moved over the keyboard on the register. The man scanned the screen and said, “Derek Pratt?”

Right, the room was under D’s name. “Yep,” Sullivan said lightly. “That’s me.”

A second later, a rum—hold the Coke—slid in front of him.

He took a long slug, letting the alcohol burn his throat and heat his insides.

Bloody Liam.

Why couldn’t he have left well enough alone?

Sullivan drained his glass and slammed it down on the counter. He was about to signal the bartender for another when his peripheral vision caught a flash of movement. The dark-haired customer from the end of the counter slid onto the stool directly beside him.

“Derek Pratt?”

Sully’s muscles tensed as he studied the other man. Skull-trimmed hair, shrewd brown eyes, a tidy goatee.

“That is your name, right?” the man prompted.

Sullivan nearly corrected him—until he noticed that the bartender was listening in. Not wanting to admit he’d lied, he gave a quick nod. “Yeah, that’s me. What can I do for you, mate?”

Muscled forearms rested on the counter as the man clasped his hands together. “Mr. Pratt . . .” He chuckled. “You have no idea how long I’ve been looking for you.”

Sully gulped. “Well. You found me.”

“Yes.” The man’s deadly smile sent a chill through Sullivan’s body. “I found you.”

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She found an empty table and sat down, twisting off the beer cap and swallowing the lukewarm alcohol. She didn’t like the taste of beer much, but she wasn’t in the mood for anything stronger. She had to stay alert. And she definitely needed to find a place to sleep tonight.

Panic bubbled in her throat as she imagined spending the night outdoors again. She’d kept expecting bandits to pop out of the shadows, which had made it impossible to fall asleep. She’d been in outlaw territory for nearly a week now, and she wasn’t even close to adapting to her rough, dangerous surroundings. She’d thought her training would help her survive out here.

She hadn’t expected to be this damn afraid all the damn time.

Taking a breath, she glanced around the room. Despite the low chatter and occasional chuckles, nobody looked relaxed. Shoulders were stiff. Gazes were guarded. She was beginning to suspect this kind of behavior wasn’t uncommon. Since she’d left the compound, she’d realized that nobody was immune to the Global Council’s control. Even those who considered themselves free—the outlaws—continued to look over their shoulders.

When the GC had taken over four decades ago, they’d decided the only way to avoid another war was to rule with an iron fist. The Council members insisted that the devastation of the world would not have happened if a strong global regime had been in place, so they eliminated conflict-causing factors like class, religion, free will. The new system worked, to some extent. Hudson couldn’t deny she’d been happy in the city, at least before Dominik had decided to turn her into a prisoner in her own life.

She supposed she was an outlaw now, too. A target, like the rest of them, and it was a culture shock to be thrust into this new world, surrounded by people who were determined to cling to whatever freedom they could.

Her gaze drifted to a table near the door, where four men spoke in hushed tones. They made a formidable sight. Gorgeous, masculine, oozing deadly intensity.

One in particular captured her attention. Late twenties, early thirties maybe, with cropped brown hair, cold hazel eyes, and muscles galore. He wore a fitted olive green jacket that most likely hid the slew of weapons beneath it, and everything about him screamed
warrior
. The broad set of his shoulders, the way his hawklike gaze swept over the room even as he carried a conversation with his companions.

Her breath hitched when the object of her perusal turned his head and looked at her.

Heat.

Holy crap. Nothing cold in his gaze anymore, just bold, undisguised fire.

He wanted her.

Ignoring the sudden pounding of her heart, Hudson wrenched her eyes away and gulped down some more beer. She felt flushed, her hair like a heavy curtain smothering her shoulders and back, but she didn’t dare
pin it up. Even though the tattoo at the base of her neck was buried under layers of makeup, she still wasn’t taking any chances. If anyone so much as suspected who she was, she’d be killed in a heartbeat.

A high-pitched giggle sounded from the other end of the room, and Hudson turned to see a woman with blond hair and double Ds emerge from a dark corridor, flanked by a tall man with piercing blue eyes and a killer grin. He had the arrogant swagger of a guy who’d just gotten laid, and his companion’s bee-stung lips and tousled hair confirmed it. The man gave her ass a playful spank, then sauntered over to the table Hudson had been observing.

Surprise, surprise. Sexy blond guy was with the sexy foursome.

As he sat, his gaze collided with hers, and a faint smile lifted the corner of his mouth. It faded when the dark-haired outlaw she’d been trying not to ogle muttered something that silenced the group.

Hudson sighed. Now definitely wasn’t the time to get all hot for a sinfully sexy stranger. She had more pressing matters to deal with—so many of them, her head was starting to spin.

Find a place where she could lie low for a while. Scavenge some supplies. Figure out how to get the hell out of West Colony. Evade Dominik, who’d no doubt sent an army after her.

Maybe the folks who ran this place would help her find a safe haven—

“Down on the floor, assholes!”

She’d been so lost in thought, she hadn’t sensed the danger until it was too late. She didn’t have time to unsheathe the knife on her hip, because cold fingers grabbed her arm and yanked her to the dirty cement floor.

“Stay down, bitch!”

There was a blur of movement, loud expletives, and angry shouts as a dozen men stormed the bar and advanced on its patrons.

Bandits.

Shit.

The man who’d thrown her down had neglected to search her for weapons, so she still had possession of her knife, along with the rest of the sharp steel blades strapped to her body. She gripped the bone handle and slowly slid the hunting knife down to her side, lifting her head to assess the situation. She’d heard of bandits, but this was her first encounter with them.

They looked a lot like the homeless people she’d seen in her father’s photographs of prewar Los Angeles. Threadbare clothing, dirty, reeking of booze. The Enforcers didn’t differentiate between bandits and outlaws, but Hudson only needed two seconds to recognize the difference. Outlaws fought for freedom and, sure, they raided GC supply compounds when it was needed, but they were fighting against a government they opposed, not with one another.

These men were scavengers. Broken, desperate vultures who didn’t belong, not in GC society and not among the rebels. She’d heard that bandits had no consciences, no remorse about robbing and killing and raping anything in their paths.

As her heartbeat accelerated, she stayed flat on the floor as the bandits manhandled the patrons in the smoky room, kicking anyone who so much as yelped. The leader of the band, a man with dark hair and a bushy, overgrown beard, hopped the counter, assault rifle in hand.

“We want all the booze,” he snapped at the bartender.

Hudson slithered under the cover of the table. From the corner of her eye, she noticed that the five outlaws had remained seated and were watching events unfold
with bored expressions on their respectively handsome faces.

“Get down on the ground!” shouted one of the bandits. He was a short, skinny man with a shaved head, his unimposing physique made deadly only by the gun he waved at the group.

“No, thanks,” the outlaw with black hair and an even blacker scowl replied.

“You wanna die? Is that it?” The bandit cocked his pistol. “Because I’m perfectly happy to—”

The five men sprung to action. One second the table was upright, the next it was whipped on its side with two of them diving behind it for cover. Hudson saw a blur of arms and legs, flashes of steel and silver.

An outraged moan cut the air as the skinny bandit suddenly found a knife lodged in his upper arm. He staggered forward while his fellow robbers launched themselves at the men, their quest for alcohol forgotten.

It was a bloodbath. A gunshot boomed, sending one of the bandits crashing to the floor two feet from her head. More shots echoed in the room, making her ears ring.

She watched the scene unfold in morbid fascination. The outlaws didn’t even break a sweat, and they were completely unfazed by the fact that they were outnumbered. Fists connected into jaws. Grunts heated the air. Another explosion of gunfire took chunks out of the cement wall.

A furious male curse made her wince, and she twisted her head in time to see the blond outlaw stumble backward. He lifted a hand to his neck in amazement, and even from across the room, she saw his hand come back stained with blood. He’d been hit. And yet he didn’t even miss a beat as he raised his gun and fired twice, eliciting
a shriek of agony from the longhaired bandit who’d been attempting to finish him off.

A thud. Two. The bandits were dropping like flies.

Silence finally descended over the room, broken only by the groans of those lucky enough to be alive.

“Well, that was fun,” the man with the black eyes remarked. He sounded thoroughly bored.

A scuffed boot crossed her line of vision. She shifted in time to see the thick sole stomp on the chest of the bandit leader, the one with the beard. When she raised her gaze, she discovered that the boot belonged to the man with the smoldering hazel eyes.

“I suggest you round up your buddies—the ones who are still breathing—and get the hell out of here,” he said coolly.

“Fuck you,” was the strangled reply.

With a heavy breath, the man hauled the bandit to his feet. “Fine, we’ll do it the hard way.”

He grabbed the guy’s arm and broke it with a sickening
crack
.

Hudson flinched at the bandit’s shriek of pain, watching in amazement as the outlaw manhandled the injured man to the door. He stopped and glanced over his shoulder in an unspoken command, and his men wasted no time hauling the remaining intruders out of the bar.

Patrons slowly got to their feet. Dazed. The bartender rushed toward the blond man, but he brushed off her arm and continued toward the door, an unconscious man hanging over his broad shoulder.

Hudson stood up on shaky legs and stared at the bodies littering the floor. Eight in total. A bloody massacre. She wasn’t surprised when a few customers made a beeline for the dead, frantically rummaging through pockets and looting the lifeless men.

She was sheathing her knife when the outlaws returned.
The blond had his palm clamped over his neck, and she could see blood oozing between his fingers.

“Everybody all right?” their leader asked gruffly.

The bartender hurried over. “Thank you,” she blurted out.

He ignored the declaration of gratitude. “Two of my guys will stay here tonight in case those assholes decide to push their luck and come back. But I suggest you close up shop. Location’s been compromised, which means you’re bound to encounter more of this shit.”

She nodded rapidly. “We will. We’ll close up tomorrow.”

“Good.”

He glanced around the room, his hazel eyes resting on Hudson. Warmth instantly flooded her belly, traveling through her body until every inch of her felt hot and achy.

After a long moment, he broke the eye contact. “Let’s move out,” he barked at his friends. “Xander, you and Pike take care of the bodies and make sure these folks stay safe.”

“No problem. Oh and, Connor,” the other man added dryly, “get Ry cleaned up. He’s bleeding like a stuck pig.”

Connor. The name suited him.

Hudson couldn’t take her eyes off him as he turned and marched to the door, providing her with a nice view of his taut backside. It wasn’t until he disappeared through the doorway that she snapped out of her trance.

Ignoring the startled looks from the other people in the bar, she raced out the door, blinking to adjust to the darkness. The lights that had once illuminated the parking lot of the hospital had been knocked out, and parts of the pavement were black and cracking, most likely from the fires or explosives that had been set off by the looters all those years ago.

Everything beyond the walls of West City looked this
way—dead trees and blackened earth, crumbling buildings, and overgrown neighborhoods—and the coastal cities that hadn’t ended up underwater were still flooded to shit.

Hudson stopped only to grab the duffel bag she’d stashed in the bushes, then raced across the parking lot. She caught up with Connor just as he reached the beat-up Jeep parked in the lot.

“Wait!”

He froze. Turned his head slightly, greeting her with suspicion.

She stumbled toward the vehicle, aware of how foolish she was being. How reckless.

But she knew without a shred of doubt that the answer to all her problems was standing right there in front of her. This man, with his warrior body and cold eyes and military precision—
he
was the solution.

“Yeah?” he muttered.

“You . . . What you guys did back there . . . I just wanted to . . .”

A soft chuckle sounded from behind her. She spun around as the blond guy with the bloody neck—Ry?—approached the Jeep, tailed by another dark-haired outlaw.

“See? I told you chicks got off on violence,” Ry told his friend. He fixed his blue eyes on her. “But listen, gorgeous, don’t bother with Connor. He’s too bossy in bed. Me, on the other hand . . . I’ll let you do
whatever
you want to me.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “Thanks, but that’s not what I want from him.”

“Your loss,” he said lightly before hopping into the backseat.

“What the fuck
do
you want?” Connor demanded.

Their gazes locked, and a rush of awareness sailed through her again.

“Say whatever you want to say so we can get the hell outta here.” Irritation crept into his deep, raspy voice.

“I . . .” She swallowed. “I—”

“Spit it out, sweetheart.”

She opened her mouth, and four desperation-laced words flew out of it. “Take me with
you.”