Damian heard the boots too. His eyes darkened. He looked up at the girl standing over him. "Get me out of here," he ordered, his voice tight.
Helen crossed her arms over her chest. A cold, mocking smile touched the corners of her mouth. "Why would I risk my neck for a dead man?"
"I can write you a check that will buy this entire mountain," Damian grunted, fighting a wave of nausea. "Get me out, and your life changes forever."
Helen looked at his expensive, ruined clothes with utter boredom. She turned her back on him and took a step toward the dense brush.
Panic and fury spiked in Damian's chest. He forced his hands into the mud and pushed himself up. His legs gave out instantly. He crashed back down onto the hard ground.
The impact tore his wound open. Fresh, hot blood soaked through the tight bandages. A low, agonizing sound ripped from his throat.
Helen stopped. She closed her eyes for a second, letting out a heavy, irritated sigh. She turned around and walked back to him.
She bent down, grabbed him by the collar of his ruined suit, and hauled his massive frame off the ground with a violent jerk.
Damian gasped, his vision swimming. He felt the terrifying, unnatural core strength radiating from this seemingly fragile girl.
Helen threw his heavy arm over her shoulder. She wrapped her arm around his waist, practically carrying his dead weight as she dragged him deep into the thickest part of the woods.
Every step sent fire shooting through Damian's abdomen. To keep himself from passing out, he forced his brain to work. "What's your name?" he demanded, his breath hot against her neck.
"Jane Smith," Helen lied smoothly, not missing a step.
Damian's brow furrowed. The name was painfully generic, the kind of alias a ghost would use. But the blood loss was making his thoughts thick and slow. He couldn't interrogate her.
Helen dragged him behind a waterfall of thick ivy vines, shoving him into a dark, narrow cave hidden in the rock face. They were completely out of sight.
She dropped him onto a flat, damp stone. She immediately went to the cave entrance, pulling a thin tripwire from her pocket and rigging it across the opening.
Damian watched her fluid, militaristic movements through half-open eyes. The suspicion in his gut burned hotter than his wound. "Give me your phone," he ordered, trying to project authority. "I need to contact my extraction team."
Helen walked back to him. She reached into the front pocket of her flannel shirt.
Damian held out his trembling hand, expecting a satellite phone.
Helen's fingers flicked out. She slapped a damp poultice of crushed, pungent leaves directly onto the side of his neck, right over his carotid artery.
The heavy sedative hit his bloodstream like a freight train. Damian's vision violently tilted.
He realized what she had done. Rage boiled in his chest. He stared at her face, fighting the darkness, trying to burn her features into his memory.
Helen looked down at him. Her expression was completely empty, like she was watching a bug struggle on its back.
Damian's eyes rolled back. His head hit the stone. He was out cold.
Helen waited three seconds. She reached down and unbuttoned the rest of his shirt to check his breathing.
Her eyes stopped on his chest. Right over his heart, there was a bizarre, jagged scar. The skin around it was flushed red and radiating an unnatural, burning heat against her knuckles.
Helen frowned. She pulled a small, rusted tin of homemade herb paste from her pack and smeared a thick, earthy-smelling layer over the burning scar.
She wiped her hands on her pants. She reached into his pockets, pulling out his leather wallet, his encrypted phone, and a small GPS tracker hidden in his watch. She shoved them all into her bag.
She grabbed handfuls of dry brush and threw them over his legs, hiding him in the shadows. She brushed away their footprints near the entrance.
Helen hoisted her backpack onto her shoulders. She walked out into the freezing night air, leaving Damian and the generic fake name behind in the dirt.
