Riddle Me Wicked

Chapter 1-1

Chapter 1

Running for your life did wonders for coloring vocabulary. If his father could have caught even a few syllables of Ian Tunbridge’s current language, he would have had a coronary.

The expletives tore more easily from his throat than wrenching his foot free from the muddy earth, but eventually, Ian succeeded. The sudden freedom jerked him off-balance, and his arms flew out instinctively to stop himself from falling flat on his face. As he scrambled back to his feet, blood oozed from the fresh scrapes on his palms, while his ankle now sported an unmistakable twinge. All that pain, however, was inconsequential compared to the greater problem currently at hand.

The men chasing after him.

He wished, not for the first time, he’d had time to grab his coat before he’d been forced to run. His thin cotton jumper did little to protect him, and already, sweat glued it to his back. He was lucky he’d thought to grab shoes, though lucky was not the word he’d use to characterize his current situation. Mad. Horrific. Terrifying. Those were all perfectly good words, and unfortunately, far more accurate. At least, they had only shot at him once. And how ironic he considered a single gunshot in any way a good thing.

Someone shouted, and the crash of his pursuers split into two. One group stayed behind him, while another of indeterminate size began to swell around to his right. He had no idea how many men chased him through the thick trees. When the gunfire within the camp had woken him just minutes earlier, Ian had only risked a single glance out of his tent before scrambling to get dressed, get out, and get away as fast as he possibly could. It didn’t even make sense that they’d been attacked. It was a routine dig, without real historical significance beyond gathering some additional Native American artifacts for the main display back in London. Only a handful of people had even known they were there.

He blinked against the angry tears that burned in his eyes. As far as he could tell, none of his colleagues were left. What a bloody waste.

His chest began to burn from his frantic pace. He was hardly out of shape, but an adrenaline-fueled dash through the northern California wilds was not the same as his carefully controlled sessions at the gym or the occasional trek in order to get to a dig site. The muscles in his legs screamed in protest, like someone was dragging hot pokers through the sinew, and his feet grew heavier with every step. His boots were made for rough terrain, not for swift running, and they weighed him down almost as much as his tiring body. If he didn’t do something about it soon, his escape would have been for naught.

A break in the trees thrust him out into the open. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two men flanking him to his right, the smaller of the pair gaining proximity more quickly than his mate. Both carried guns. Both lifted them as soon as he came into view. That was all Ian wanted to see.

He dove to the ground the second before the gun’s retort made the air reverberate. Though it was loud, it didn’t sound near, but he didn’t have time to contemplate why, rolling toward a nearby tree in a vain attempt for cover. A sharp rock dug into his back, the sting of blood mingling with the sweat, and his fingers curled around it, picking it up and throwing it as hard as he could in the direction of his pursuers.

It didn’t matter if it hit or not. The point was to let them know he would not go silently into the night.

Another shot rang out, this one closer.

Ian reached the foot of the tree and scrambled to his knees to get to its other side. He was brought up short by a pair of black boots and khaki-covered legs.

“There is nowhere to go, Mr. Tunbridge,” said a soft, accented voice. A foot lashed out and slammed into Ian’s stomach, driving him back against the tree trunk.

The force knocked the wind out of his lungs. Gulping for air, Ian squinted up at the unsmiling face of a burly, dark-haired man, sleek hair pulled into a ponytail, a corduroy coat unable to cover his paunch. The sound of dry branches cracking tried to drag his attention away, but he kept his gaze steady, knowing that it would be the others who had been shooting who approached.

“My apologies if my survival instincts got in your way,” Ian said as soon as his breathing had calmed enough for him to speak. “I have a rather adverse reaction to guns, you see. They tend to make me do irrational things. Such as run for my life.”

“Who ever said your life was in danger?”

Ian stiffened. There was no way he had imagined the attack on the camp. “Perhaps it was the random gunfire around my head, and, oh yes, the fact that you killed my team.”

“A necessary cost.”

Strong hands scooped beneath his arms on either side, dragging him up and away from the tree trunk. Ian reacted without thought, slamming his right elbow into the jaw of the man on that side, shifting his weight so that it threw the one on his left off-balance. It worked for a moment, loosening the grips, but the swift c**k of multiple guns made him freeze before he could work free.

“I do not want you dead, Mr. Tunbridge.” The voice was still even, still soft, and the more he spoke, the more convinced Ian became the accent was Slavic in origin. “But I have no qualms ensuring you never walk again.”

It was enough time for the men to resume their bruising holds on his arms, pulling Ian upright, though he stood a solid four or five inches taller than both of them. Now that he could assess his pursuers, he counted seven of varying ethnicities and sizes, all but their apparent leader carrying guns. One had blood stains on his coat. Another had a hole in his worn jeans with a cut oozing beneath it. Otherwise, everyone appeared unscathed from their earlier encounter.

His heart hammered against his ribs. He had no idea what this was about, why his insignificant archaeological team had been attacked or what they could possibly want with him. He was nobody, a scholar from Oxford in love with history and culture. He knew nothing about guns, or men who carried guns, or men who would chase other men through forests wielding guns. Clearly, though, he was of some importance to these people.

Ian pulled himself even straighter. It was pointless to show fear. He got the distinct impression it would matter little to the dark-haired man.

When Ian didn’t speak for a full minute, the man nodded as if they’d reached some agreement. “Let’s go,” he instructed the others, turning on his heel. “We have delayed long enough.”

The men holding Ian yanked him along to follow back into the thick trees, making him stumble for a moment before he found his footing again. His ankle throbbed, but he refused to limp.

He very much doubted it would gain him any sympathy anyway.