Wyatt lifts his hand to shield his eyes from the sun’s glare and stares up at it. “Hey, is that Doug Johnson’s new chopper for his fly fishing tours?”
I take in the brushed metal sheen of the bird’s sides and shake my head. “No. Wayne told me the other night that Doug did his new helicopter up in a full desert camo wrap. He says it looks spank.”
The helicopter slows to hover forty feet above us, and Wyatt shoots me a weird look. “What’s it doing?”
“Maybe they’ve never seen two people have a picnic on the top of a plateau?”
Wyatt flashes them a thumbs-up signal. “Maybe they think we’re in trouble or something?”
“I have no idea—” I’m staring at Wyatt lying beside me when two men appear out of nowhere standing over him.
They didn’t rappel down or climb up—they just appear out of nothing.
My body reacts on instinct.
My veins burst to life with a level of adrenaline I’ve never felt before. There’s a power inside of me that demands to be set free. The locked box inside my chest goes crazy, trying to break open.
I jump to my feet and launch myself at the closest of the two. I don’t know who these assholes are or how they got here, but I know instinctually it’s bad. “Wyatt!”
I connect with my guy in a flying tackle and take him to the ground. The plateau isn’t huge, so we end up perilously close to the edge. His eyes widen as if he’s shocked I am fighting back.
Yeah, well, it’s not the first time.
Men at the bar are often surprised when I step into a fight and level them. “This is a private party, asshole. You weren’t invited.”
He grunts and grips my upper arms. Skin-to-skin contact sends a jolt of electricity through me like he’s hardwired to a semiconductor. I’m thrown back by a pulse of power that fritzes out my gray matter and lights me up inside.
Chunks of stone and loose gravel cut at my exposed skin, and it takes a second for my mental hamster to get back in his wheel.
Wyatt is fighting his guy, and the one who threw me is closing in to double-team him.
Not bloody likely. I roll back to my feet and go at him again. This time he’s ready for me. He lifts his fist to take a swing, but I’ve been dodging fists since I was ten years old.
Ducking the swing, I take the low road and go for his balls. As my knee connects with his groin he doubles over and throws his hands out. He shouts something I don’t understand, and I’m knocked off my feet and thrown through the air behind a javelin of searing hot flame.
Sailing backward toward the edge of the plateau, I scream for Wyatt, but the men grab him and all three of them vanish.
Gone. Poof. Into thin air.
What the hell? My racing heart pounds behind my ribs but there’s no time for answers.
I hit the stone. Scrabble for purchase. It’s no use.
In a split second, I’m over the edge and falling…