Another man stepped forward then—older, controlled, exuding the kind of presence that gave the impression he was in charge.
“My name’s Cannon.”
“You’re military?” she managed to ask even though her chest was beginning to tighten in panic.
He gave her a simple nod.
“Where am I?” she asked again. “What is this place?”
Cannon drew her attention. “You’re on our base and you’re safe.”
“When can I leave?”
“Getting you out isn’t that easy, but trust me, we will.”
Her body wouldn’t accept that as truth yet—her veins buzzed with gallons of adrenaline.
“Where did you come from?”
“Chicago.”
Cannon registered her response. “Where are you staying?”
“A motel in Alder Ridge.”
Cannon turned to her rescuer. “Archer, take care of her.”
The man who rescued her unzipped his coat to reveal a chest as solid as she guessed it was when her arms were wrapped around him.
She studied his face for some indication that this was some big joke and they were all messing with her. Maybe someone would even jump out with a camera and announce this was just a stunt for a TV show.
But looking around at these huge men…she didn’t think so.
“What’s your name?” Archer asked, draping his coat over his arm.
“Jolie. Jolie Simms.”
“Well, Jolie, there’s a whiteout and we can’t get you out until it passes.”
She sputtered, trying to make sense of a situation that had none. She didn’t know where she was, and just because they claimed they were military didn’t mean they were. She needed answers—like why she had to be hooded to come to their frat house or base or whatever this place was.
Sure, she was warm and alive.
But she was completely cut off.
If she was going to be stuck here, she needed to figure out exactly whereherewas.
And who, exactly, she’d trusted enough to follow into it.
TWO
The only time of day Archer trusted was the hours before dawn, when the world was still and he knew no one was coming for him.
He sat on the floor with his back to the wall—the safest place to be—forearms resting on his thighs. He slowed his breathing, controlling it and his heart rate as SEALs were trained to do.
He hadn’t called this meditation when he was in captivity. It was just the one thing his captor couldn’t take from him—control.
He tracked every sound in the base while he steadied his breathing. Slow inhale. Hold. Slow exhale. Again.
