Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 29744 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 149(@200wpm)___ 119(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29744 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 149(@200wpm)___ 119(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
"Crystal," Memphis says.
"She isn't to be left alone until we find whoever this was," Bentley adds.
"It was a man," I mumble. "He was dressed in black and wearing a mask. I noticed him right after... Gwen!" I gasp, my heart slamming against my ribcage when I realize she isn't with us. "We have to find Gwen."
"She's safe, Winter. I saw her and Cyrus slip backstage just before you yelled gun," Bentley says. "She'll probably meet you at your dressing room."
"She's okay? You're sure?"
"I'm sure, sweetheart."
"Okay," I mumble, relief coursing through me. And then dread follows right behind it, sending bile crawling up my throat. "The fans. Was anyone else...?"
"I don't know," Cash says. "That's what I'm going to find out as soon as we get you to the dressing room with Riley and Cami."
I bob my head in a nod, too overwhelmed to say anything. I don't even know what to say anyway. Someone just tried to shoot me in front of a thousand witnesses. Who? Why?
I have no enemies. Heck, aside from the people here right now and their spouses, I don't have many friends, either. And my family wants nothing to do with me or my music. I'm just a curvy girl with a voice who got lucky. That's it.
But someone just tried to kill me.
"Come on, Winter," Bentley says, his voice both far away and too close as my teeth chatter. "Let's get you to your dressing room."
I nod again, ready to be anywhere but here. Right now, I think I'd rather be anyone but me.
Chapter Two
Ronan
"Get out!" I roar, running full tilt toward the group of soldiers standing in the middle of the overgrown village square. "Get the fuck out of there!"
Ericson turns toward the sound of my voice, scanning the mountainside for me. I wave my arms in the air, hoping like hell he sees me on the ridge. At this distance, my voice echoes, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. If any of it is audible to him, I don't know.
But I shout again, hoping like hell he hears what I'm saying. "It's going to blow!"
My lungs burn. So do my legs. I ignore both, pushing for more speed as I scramble over rocks, try to get to my team before it's too late and the entire old village goes up.
Ericson spots me, lifting his arm in a wave.
I fire off curses, spitting them toward the sky and whatever god is listening up there. If one is listening at all. I'm not so sure anymore. Not after two decades of serving in every hellhole known to mankind.
This one might be the worst. Nothing has gone right since we've had boots on the ground. Our radios are shot. The Somalian insurgents know we're here. My entire team just walked right into the middle of a village rigged to blow. And I'm too fucking far away to make a difference for any of them, a full mile of steep, rocky terrain still standing between us.
"Get the fuck–!"
The powerful blast rips through the village without warning, a fireball shooting skyward. The percussive blast knocks me off my feet. I land on my back, screaming in fury. In grief. In utter fucking helplessness.
Too late. I'm too goddamn late.
I come awake with a strangled gasp, sitting upright. My heart pounds a frenetic, sickening rhythm, pumping adrenaline through my system. Fight or flight locks every muscle in my body, demanding I do something…but there is nowhere to run, and no enemy left to fight. There hasn't been in two years. At least not for me.
"Fuck," I curse, scrubbing my hands down my face in an attempt to clear my head of the nightmare. It doesn't work. The sound of the blast still rings in my ears.
Wait. No. That's my phone.
I snatch it from my nightstand, dragging myself from the bed at the same time. My sheets are drenched with sweat. Same as every other goddamn night.
It's been two years since I lost my team in Somalia, and the memories of that day still haunt me. So does the week I spent in the mountains afterward, outnumbered, trying like hell to make it to the rally point with a group of insurgents on my six the whole way.
I'm still not sure how the fuck I made it out of there alive or how many insurgents I killed on my way down the mountain. I wasn't fueled by a desperate need to survive, but by pure rage. It's taken the better part of the last two years to work it out of my system. It took most of the first to heal from my injuries. Three gunshot wounds. A knife to the back. Exposure. A raging infection.
What didn't kill me damn sure didn't make me stronger. It took a year of physical therapy and a grueling exercise routine to get back some semblance of who I used to be. I'll never fully be that man again. I'll never serve again.