Free Three the Hard Way by Sydney Croft Page B

Devlin send Ender to collect these two assholes. Or they could run off with each other and fuck themselves to death.
    He heard a crack—heard Tag shout a warning—and he turned, distracted. Caught his foot in one of Tag’s motherfucking traps. Pain screamed through his leg, blurring his vision enough that he could barely make out Ian and Tag coming toward him.
    The crack sounded again, and he bent to free himself . . . and then everything went black.

    “Justice!”
    Taggart battled the wind and deep snow as he struggled to get to Justice, his pocketknife in hand and open, and he didn’t even remember digging it from his pocket. But Ian got to Justice first, had the massive tree branch off his unconscious form before Tag got there to release the snare.
    Fear snaked through him, joining a massive dump of adrenaline that made his thighs tremble as he crouched next to Justice.
    “He’s breathing,” Ian said as he put two fingers to Justice’s pulse. “Strong and steady. Let’s get him inside once he’s loose.”
    The wire snare had cut into Justice’s calf, and he was bleeding into the snow, but once Tag sliced the rope securing the snare to the tree, the pressure released, and he was able to ease Justice’s leg from the trap.
    The dumbass. Jesus. If Justice hadn’t freaked out and run off in a childlike snit, he would have seen the notch in the tree, the signal they’d devised as children to indicate a nearby trap. If he’d listened to Tag’s warning, he wouldn’t be injured. If he’d have just . . . Fuck it. There was time to yell at him later. Right now he and Ian had to get Justice out of the cold.
    Together, they hauled Justice to the cabin and laid him on the bed. Never taking his eyes off Justice, Ian shrugged out of his coat. “I’m going to need whatever medical supplies you have—”
    Tag was halfway to his basement before Ian could finish his sentence. He grabbed two red duffels marked with medical symbols from the supplies at the rear of the basement, hauled them up, and dumped them on the bedroom floor.
    Ian had removed Justice’s boots and socks and had used his own knife to slice Justice’s pants and shirt off. “I checked him over,” Ian said. “He’s got a leg injury and probable concussion.” He put pressure on the calf wound, using one of Tag’s clean socks to stem the flow of blood.
    Tag had never been affected by the sight of blood, but this was Justice, and as bad as things had gotten between them, he didn’t want to see his ex hurt.
    He wondered, if the situation was reversed, if Justice would give a shit at all.
    Justice was definitely going to be pissed about the clothes, though. Tag hoped he had a spare set in the backpack he’d brought.
    Ian looked up at Tag. “I need you to keep pressure on the wound while I gather the supplies I need.”
    Tag obeyed, not liking how fast the sock was getting soaked. “Why isn’t he waking up?”
    “He did,” Ian said, as he dumped gauze, scissors, alcohol, a suture kit, and a bunch of other stuff on the bed. “While you were in the basement, he looked at me, said I was a dick, and passed out again. Probably a concussion.” He pulled one of the two chairs in the room to the end of the bed and gloved up before taking over from Tag.
    As Tag let Ian replace the bloody sock with a sterile pad, he glanced through the doorway into the living room, where movement on one of the monitors caught his eye. “Be right back.”
    Hoping Itor wasn’t lurking in the forest, he hurried to the bank of screens, but whatever he’d seen was gone. But wait . . . in another monitor, glowing eyes. He reached over to the remote that kept his lethal trap triggers handy, and waited. He wouldn’t activate one until he knew exactly what was out there. It was a principle his mom had drilled into him during target practice: never, ever fire a weapon until you’ve confirmed what you’re shooting at.
    Holding his breath, he waited.
    The eyes shifted, and so