Page 5 of Ranger’s Protection

"There are four of them," I hear myself say. My voice sounds distant, disconnected from my body. "Four men on motorcycles. You're alone. The math doesn't—"

"The math is I'm trained for this and you're not," he interrupts. "So, get in the bathroom before they get up here and the math becomes irrelevant."

He's right. I know he's right. The logical part of my brain, the accountant part that lives for numbers, probabilities and risk assessment, is screaming that he's absolutely right.

But the other part of me, the part that's been alone in this terrible room for days waiting to die, can't handle the idea of hiding in a bathroom while someone else fights the men who want to kill me.

Can't handle the idea of him getting hurt because I witnessed something I shouldn't have.

"I can help," I say, and even as the words leave my mouth I know how ridiculous they sound.

Graham's expression doesn't change. "Can you shoot?"

"No."

"Fight?"

"Not really."

"Tactical training of any kind?"

"I... took a self-defense class once. Four years ago."

"Then you help by staying alive and out of the way." His tone isn't cruel, just factual. The way you'd explain to a child why they can't help perform surgery. "Bathroom. Now. Please."

The please does it.

I grab my duffel bag. It’s stupid, pointless, but it's the only thing I own anymore, and bolt for the bathroom. It's tiny, barely big enough for the toilet and shower stall, but it has a door that locks and a tub I can crouch in.

Good enough.

I slam the door and twist the pathetic push-button lock. Throw my bag in the tub and climb in after it, curling into the smallest shape I can manage. The porcelain is cold against my knees. The shower curtain, stained and smelling faintly of mildew, brushes my shoulder.

I'm shaking so hard my teeth chatter.

From the main room, I hear Graham moving. Something heavy being dragged: the dresser, maybe, pushed against the door? Footsteps crossing to the window. The metallic click of his gun again.

Then nothing.

Just my breathing. My heartbeat. The distant roar of motorcycle engines still on. I press my hands over my mouth to muffle the sound of my breathing and count. It's what I've been doing for days when the panic gets too big: counting, calculating, finding patterns in numbers because numbers make sense when nothing else does.

One. Two. Three. Four men on motorcycles.

Five. Six. Seven days I've been hiding here.

Eight. Nine. Ten seconds since I heard anything from Graham.

Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen—

A crash from the main room makes me jump so hard I bang my elbow against the tub. Loud voices. Male voices. Angry.

"—saw them come up here—"

"—check every room—"

"—alive, Demon wants her alive—"

My blood turns to ice at that last part.