Aftershock. Jill Sorenson

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      Lauren sat upright, trying to make sense of the situation. A flashlight rolled toward her, resting against the bunched blanket. The edge of its beam revealed Garrett on top of Mickey, pounding the hell out of him.

      He’d saved her.

      Tears filled her eyes. She clapped a hand over her mouth, sobbing. Garrett’s fist connected with Mickey’s nose, breaking the cartilage. Blood gushed from his nostrils. Lauren shrank away from the sight, horrified.

      “Motherfucker,” Garrett muttered, turning Mickey over on his stomach and wrenching his arms behind his back.

      An ominous click in the distance brought the action to a halt.

      “Let him go,” a voice drawled.

      Lauren searched the dark edges of the cavern, her shoulders trembling. Jeb was leaning against a burned vehicle, smoking a cigarette. Although he stood in the shadows, she could see a glowing ember, along with the hard glint of metal.

      Did he have a gun?

      Garrett kept his hold on Mickey, noncompliant. Both men were panting from exertion, steam rising from their bodies.

      Lauren snaked her hand toward the flashlight.

      Jeb released the safety on his weapon. This time, the sound was unmistakable. “I wouldn’t do that, honey.”

      She froze, her fingertips tingling. Garrett didn’t move.

      “You don’t want to see her brains splattered all over that blanket,” he said in a cool tone. “Let Mickey get up and walk.”

      It was clear that Garrett didn’t want to follow Jeb’s orders, but he had no choice. After a short hesitation, he released Mickey. As soon as he was free, Mickey scrambled to his feet and, holding his ravaged nose, lumbered toward Jeb.

      The pair dissolved into the black abyss.

      Lauren and Garrett didn’t speak for a few seconds. She struggled to catch her breath and calm her racing thoughts.

      Mickey had almost raped her.

      If Garrett hadn’t intervened, she might have been assaulted and beaten and dragged back to the pickup.

      “Are you okay?” he asked.

      “I don’t know,” she said, touching her face. Her cheek bore the marks of Mickey’s fingernails and her jaw ached.

      Garrett picked up the flashlight and inspected her injuries. “That motherfucker,” he repeated through clenched teeth, glancing toward the north corner of the cavern. Then he continued his examination, shining the light down the center of her body. He seemed relieved to find her pants intact.

      Lauren pulled the edges of her shirt together with trembling hands. The lace cups of her bra barely covered her breasts. “I thought it was you.”

      His gaze rose to her face. “What?”

      “It was dark. I didn’t know who was attacking me at first.”

      He gaped at her in dismay, unable to formulate a response.

      “That was the scariest part. Thinking it was you.”

      “Jesus,” he said in a hushed voice. “I’m sorry.”

      “It’s not your fault.”

      “Yes, it is.” He looked like he wanted to punch himself a few times. “I told you I was going to keep watch and I fell asleep.”

      She couldn’t blame him for drifting off. They’d had an exhausting day.

      “Fuck,” he yelled, raking his fingers through his hair. “This is so fucked up!”

      “Do you think they’ll come back?”

      “Yes. Maybe not tonight, but eventually.”

      Her stomach twisted with dread.

      “There’s something I should tell you.”

      “What?” she asked, warning bells sounding in her head.

      His throat worked as he swallowed. “One of the vehicles in the north corner is a prisoner transport van. It got smashed to hell, like your ambulance.”

      “I don’t understand.”

      “Those men are escaped convicts.”

      It took a few seconds for his words to sink in. They were trapped in rubble with critical victims, dead bodies and armed criminals. According to a couple of Spanish-language broadcasts, which Penny had translated, disaster crews were dealing with mass casualties. The freeways were impassable and several large buildings had collapsed.

      A quick rescue was unlikely.

      “They must have taken the gun from a guard.”

      She glanced away, fresh terror coursing through her veins.

      “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I thought they’d be sleeping off the alcohol, not coming over here to attack you. I had no idea they were this dangerous.”

      Lauren took a deep, calming breath. The only way to get through this was to move forward. Garrett could beat himself up all he wanted, but she had to focus on the next step. There wasn’t time to get emotional.

      She checked her watch: 5:04 a.m. The last aftershock had hit at 1:30. She’d gotten at least three hours of sleep.

      Her shirt was torn, and the temperature had cooled significantly. Rising to her feet, she found a jacket in the pile of clothes Garrett had collected earlier, and she shrugged into it. “I have to check on the patients.”

      He followed her with the flashlight, pointing the beam where she needed it. Mrs. Engle moaned in pain. Lauren gave her as much morphine as she could spare. Her other patient, the man with the head injury, was still unconscious.

      Lauren was glad they were both alive.

      She gathered a handful of medical supplies and a small mirror, checking the scratches on her cheek. Although the marks were barely noticeable, she scrubbed at them with antiseptic wipes. Her face was filthy. After cleaning every inch of exposed skin above her neck, she went to work on her chest, determined to remove the stain of Mickey’s touch.

      Garrett stayed silent, and kept his eyes averted, but she noticed his concerned expression. Her hands stilled. If she scrubbed any harder, she’d bleed.

      Clearing her throat, she trashed the soiled wipes and zipped up her jacket. More comfortable treating patients other than herself, she turned to Garrett. He didn’t appear injured. Mickey must not have landed any blows.

      Maybe he only hit women.

      “Let me see your knuckles,” she said.

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