Surviving Today
Mande Chambers
SURVIVING TODAY
By Mande Chambers
Copyright © 2015 by Amanda Chambers-Quiroz.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Book and Cover design by DesignsByRachelle.com
First Edition: January 2015
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to my mother, Marie Treloar. Without her support I wouldn’t be where I am today.
And this book is also dedicated to a young woman who proves every day how strong, brave, and special she is, Kailynn Reidinger.
PROLOGUE
Unknown Place
Prisoner Number One
Betrayal.
That one moment in time where everything is crystal clear and that knowledge cuts you deeper than any knife or sword ever could. The worst thing about the act of betrayal is that only someone close to you, someone that you trust or love, has the power to destroy you with one act.
A stranger could never have that sort of devastating effect on you. They just aren’t capable of holding the kind of emotional power over you that is needed for the act to be successful. It’s the people that you hold dearest, the people you love—the degree of love involved doesn’t matter—that have the power to bury the blade so deep into your back that you may never recover from that act. Think Julius Caesar.
As I pulled the knife out of my back—this time literally—I let it fall to the sand at my feet. I ignored the blood on the blade and the wet, sticky river of it flowing from the wound as I turned around to face the one person on the planet I never believed would be my Brutus.
I didn’t even bother to try and staunch the blood gushing from my side. I was too shocked for it to register that I should. I raised my hands, still breathing heavily from the battle that had just recently come to an end.
I swayed on my feet as my body lost more of its life force, keeping my hands up in complete and utter surrender. I didn’t ask why. I didn’t beg for mercy. I just stared into the dark, soulless eyes of the one person I trusted the most in the world.
The one person I loved beyond a shadow of a doubt.
I watched with open eyes as he pulled the trigger of the gun in his hands. I felt the pain of his betrayal more than the impact of the bullet.
After all, when you weren’t human, and you had supernatural healing abilities, bullets and knives were the least of your concerns.
The memory fades as I was distracted by a noise.
My eyes popped open as someone approached my cell. I continued to lounge against the wall as I listened to their calm heartbeat. Their rapidly beating pulse betrayed their calm demeanor.
The locks on the other side of the door turned, signaling the person was planning to stop in for a visit. How kind of them. I wondered what gifts they were bearing this time.
The door creaked open, and he stepped in.
Well, I had to give him credit where credit was due. The man had balls coming in here after what he pulled.
Wait. Why was he wearing a gas mask? Oh, no. He wouldn’t.
Yep, he did. He dropped the canister, letting the gas fill the small room.
I dropped to the floor, coughing and gagging on the thick smoke as the world around me started to swim.
I heard his heavy footsteps approach as the world faded to black.
Prisoner Number Two
Hell. Again. It’s like I’ve got an all access, return anytime, pass.
I paced the small windowless room, shoving my hand through my recently sheared hair. Reaching the far wall, I turned, pacing the six steps back across. This wasn’t the first time I had found myself in this particular cell. I had just really hoped my last trip to this particular level of hell had been… Well, quite frankly, just that.
My.
Last.
Time.
I closed my eyes. Taking a deep breath, I pushed those thoughts out of my head. If I went there, I would never survive this round. Opening my eyes, I let the breath out slowly, turning around in enough time to avoid my face meeting the wall.
I flinched slightly when I heard footsteps outside the door.
Here we go again.
When the door opened, I didn’t break my stride, nor did I look over my shoulder to see who invaded my already small space.
Showing absolutely no fear and letting them think I didn’t care about what they were doing to me were my main survival tactics at the moment.
Translation, I checked out of reality as often as possible.
When the person at the door issued a short, clipped command in Arabic, I stopped. I placed my hands above my head, interlocking my fingers.
I fought the urge to break the hold and fight back. I was getting tired of playing this game, but what choice did I honestly have? My life wasn’t the only one hanging in the balance. Playing nice kept me alive for now. It definitely kept the others alive.
So, as much as it killed me, I took everything they gave.
That meant, instead of breaking the hold when the guard grabbed my wrists—he made sure to utilize those pesky pressure points—and punching him in the face like I so badly wanted to do, I just gritted my teeth.
Once the handcuffs were securely fastened and digging into the skin of my wrists, I turned to face the drone dressed in all black.
He grinned at me, holding up a small key chain as he pushed the red button on it.
I bit my tongue as the pain of the concentrated EMP (electromagnetic pulse)—since it was such a lower, more concentrated dose we usually just referred to it as an MP—wave coursed through my body. I kept my face calm, like it was made of stone, and stared at him as if I was bored instead of essentially being shocked by an electric current every few seconds.
I think I honestly liked life better when very few people knew about my secret.
Smiling, despite the fact I was killing him a hundred different ways in my mind, I led the way out of the dungeon like room.
And right into a suffocating furnace.
Blinking against the sudden onslaught of sunlight, I found myself suddenly wishing for the cool darkness of
the room. I silently thanked whomever was listening that they had me in a sleeveless dress.
Okay, granted, it was made of uncomfortable material rivalling a burlap sack and it fell about five inches shy of my knees. Normally, that would annoy the hell out of me, but it was lightweight and offered some airflow in the desert heat.
The humidity hit me like a fist in the stomach, my first breath of fresh air choking me. The air inside the room had been stale and muggy, and despite the intense heat, I was thankful for the fresh air.
Blowing a sweat dampened strand of hair off of my face, I wondered how long it had been since they had mercifully chopped my hair to just below my earlobes.
In this hellish place, time sort of blended together.
I stumbled over a rock in the sand, quickly catching myself before I crashed into the guard that suddenly appeared in front of me.
I was tired, hungry, beyond thirsty, and so not in the mood to get my ass beat because I hadn’t been paying attention.
The goon in front of me filled a green canteen from the well we’d stopped in front of. When he was done, we continued our trek across the open courtyard. When we reached the stucco two room building they
kept me in when I decided to behave, they shoved me roughly through the door.
The handcuffs clicked open, the canteen was tossed at me, and the door slammed shut, the key turning in the lock outside loud in the still room.
Well, then.
One would think they were afraid of little ol’ me.
Dropping onto the single person cot that served as my bed, I relished in the cool air circulating from the wooden ceiling fan. Unscrewing the lid to the military style canteen, I tipped it up and took a long swallow.
Replacing the lid, I set it on the floor beside the cot as I kicked off my flip flops.
I stood up, grabbed the clean dress from the end of the cot, and headed towards the bathroom. Turning on the shower, I quickly stripped, stepping into the small square stall.
I sighed contentedly as I let the hot water pound my skin, working its magic on sore and tense muscles. The water felt so good after my trip to the “room”, I barely noticed the pain that came with the water hitting the round, dark bruise on my ribcage or the slowly healing gashes on my back.
Sometime later, I tossed the identical dress over my head and padded into the small room. Someone had brought food while I was in the shower. It was sitting on
the small wooden table calling my name loudly.
I sensed the man lurking in the shadows beside the door before I saw him.
Only one person on the planet could cause my blood pressure to rise to catastrophic levels, my heart to try and beat its way out of my chest, and turn my vision red just by breathing the same air as me.
And he just so happened to be standing right inside the wooden door, lounging against the wall like he didn’t have a care in the world.
Purposely not looking in his direction, I turned off the urge to rip his still beating heart out of his chest and walked over to the small table. I dropped into the straight backed chair.
With a groan, I remembered the canteen. I pushed back from the table, grabbed the bottle, and returned to my seat.
“Have I told you how fun it is to watch you pretend you hate me?”
“Have I told you how many ways you can go fuck yourself yet today?” I shoveled a plastic spoonful of unidentifiable food into my mouth. I skipped the chewing aspect of eating, swallowed, and added, “Let me count the ways if I haven’t.”
He chuckled from the doorway. “It’s always a pleasure talking to you.” The door opened, shut, and was locked again.
I heard him talking to the guards outside as I continued to mechanically shovel food into my mouth.
Once done with the meal, I drained the rest of the water in the canteen. I then managed to climb into the cot before dropping off to sleep, dreaming of easier, if not always happier, times.
CHAPTER 1
August 2015
Hampton, VA
Murder is a sin. Murder is illegal. Murder is not the answer.
Shanna Corelsand silently repeated the mantra as she stared at her front door. She had locked the front door when she’d left to run errands earlier that morning. She swore she did.
Her front door was now not shut all the way, which meant someone had invaded her personal space uninvited. She wasn’t scared. Ten to one she knew the person or persons who had invaded her inner sanctum.
It was the principle of the matter that had her seeing red.
If they were going to break into her house, the least they could do was shut the door all the way.
Really, it wasn’t that hard.
She shook her head as she went inside. She dropped her purse onto the arm of the chocolate colored sofa just inside the door, shutting the door firmly behind her. See, easy as pie.
Noticing the lack of a body or bodies in her living room, she headed down the short hallway. Stopping at her bedroom door, she groaned, gripping the handle so tightly the skin around her knuckles turned white.
Crap.
Why couldn’t it have been a masked murderer? Hell, she’d take Ted Bundy at the moment. Anyone but him.
She blew out a breath, visualizing a peaceful stream steadily flowing through a quiet mountain valley. She could handle this. She could handle him. This didn’t change anything. If anything, it complicated matters.
She ground her back teeth together as she stared at the figure lying on her bed. He looked peaceful and innocent, but she knew from personal experience that was just a well-practiced façade.
He had the potential to tear through her perfectly crafted world like an F5 tornado.
The top of his head touched her iron headboard and his steel toed boots rested comfortably at the edge of her queen size mattress. His skin was dark brown from spending an unknown amount of time in the sun. His brown hair, which was wavy, was unusually long and rested in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He was also—surprise, surprise—dressed in all black.
He looked good.
And, damn, it really hurt her to admit that. She should be angrier with him than she actually was. She really wanted to be pissed at him, but the truth of the matter was that she had missed him. A lot.
She would never admit that to his sorry ass, though.
Instead, she focused on the problem at hand, which was a much safer topic.
See, the problem with the men in her life was that nothing was sacred to them. Like, for instance, her house, which she owned all by herself. She wasn’t a person who was particularly attached to her privacy—it was hard to be attached to something she’d never really had—but this whole coming home to someone in her house thing was getting old fast. Her brothers and their friends had a habit of showing up with no warning whatsoever. They let themselves in whenever they wanted with keys copied from hers—without her permission—or they just simply picked the lock.
It honestly depended on the day, mood, or man.
Once again, it wasn’t so much the invasion of privacy that had her seeing red. It was more of a respect and principle thing for her.
The man in her bed wasn’t one of her many brothers. She also wasn’t sleeping with him.
So, really, he had no reason to be in her bed.
Okay. Fine. She wasn’t sleeping with him as of late. That ship had sailed somewhere around six months ago.
She looked wistfully at the small walk in closet behind the door. All she had to do was open the closet door, reach up onto the top shelf, and pull out the Glock she kept for safety. It wouldn’t take long to load the bullets.
Really, it wouldn’t.
As tempting as it was to do just that, Shanna let go of the door handle and propped a small shoulder against the jamb, folding her arms over her chest. She waited for him to say something.
Even though his eyes were still closed, she knew he’d ceased being asleep the second she had pushed her front door open. Like her, he was one of the lightest sleepers on the planet. She just wasn’t as paranoid as he was—even at her most paranoid.
He had spent way too much time in special operations and in the darkest recesses of the world to function like a regular human being would.
His name was Quinton Marquell. He was, at this particular point in time, the bane of her very existence.
“If you’re thinking about going for your gun,” he drawled, opening his eyes, “I think that it is fair to put out there that I’ve already found it, the bullets, and the hunting knife you keep in your nightstand drawer.”
Ah, so the man was alive. Excellent. He’d sure taken his sweet time acknowledging her existence in her own bedroom.
A smile played with the corner of his mouth. “Among other things.” The knowing grin widened at her muttered curse. He sighed, rubbing the heels of his hands over his eyes. “While I don’t blame you for being pissed, I’m still going to play it safe. Self-preservation and all that.”
She rolled her eyes. She knew everything that she kept in that drawer and she was more than willing to tell him where a few of those particular items were welcomed to go.
Damn. She needed to come up with a better hiding spot for her
gun.
Apparently, she needed to hide her knife better too. Then again, he hadn’t mentioned the set of throwing knives…
Bad girl.
She sighed audibly. Her conscience was really beginning to annoy her. She needed to find a way to shut the surprisingly logical voice up.
He had all but admitted to her having the right to be pissed and all but handed her a signed confession that he’d been in the wrong. So, what was her brilliant response?
“I hate you.”
Yep. In all her wisdom, that was what popped out of her mouth.
She winced, looking everywhere but the bed.
He chuckled. “What are we, ten?”
She shook her head, studying the ceiling. “Nope. Three on a good day.”
She sounded petty and somewhat like a petulant child, but come on. This was her house. They should be playing by her rules.
He had given up any and all rights six months ago. She resisted the urge to stomp her foot, but just barely.
She deserved points for that.
Marquell pushed himself up into a sitting position and shrugged, his face hard to read. “Seriously? You really want to play the immature school girl act this early in the game?” He sighed again. “I know I messed up, Shan.”
Good for him. Give the man a medal. Maybe the keys to the city.
Nah, she wasn’t upset. Honest.
That was a drastic understatement and she wasn’t going to touch it with a ten foot pole.
He patted the bed beside him, shooting her an amused look. “Sit. Relax. I don’t bite.” His grin widened and he wiggled his eyebrows. “At least until asked.”
There was a snowball’s chance in hell of that happening, so the appropriate response was…
“I’m not a dog, first of all. I don’t sit, stay, or beg. If that’s what you want, a Labrador is your best bet. And isn’t that what the scorpion said to the turtle?”
Shanna pushed away from the door frame and walked slowly towards the bed.
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