Free The Defectors (Defectors Trilogy) by Tarah Benner

though all the bones in my hand had shattered, but he groaned and clutched the side of his face. I struggled to push him off me.  
    My victory was cut short when he caught my wrist and pinned my other arm down with a knee. Pain shot through my arm as he shifted his weight onto it, and my eyes filled with tears. I blinked furiously, trying to get a clear view of my attacker — to force him to look me in the eye as he murdered me.
    This was it. I was going to die. He was going to slit my throat and watch me die — or worse. My stomach churned thinking about what other horrors he might have in store. I couldn’t think — couldn’t formulate a plan.  
    There was no way out. After everything, making it so far on my own and even escaping a whole gang of carriers, I would die at the hands of this, this . . .
    Glaring up at my attacker, I realized he was not a carrier at all. I examined his features carefully, looking for any sign that might betray early symptoms of infection.  
    He did not have the sunken face and bloodshot, watery eyes of a carrier. His features were chiseled but full of life, and his eyes were a bright, startling gray. They were the healthy, suspicious eyes of a human, and they were staring down at me. I stopped struggling momentarily, but he looked wary that I might make a sudden move to try to push him off again.
    He seemed a bit young to be a PMC officer, but it was possible that he was some kind of freelancing vigilante. He looked about my age — twenty, maybe a bit older — with short, clean-cut dark hair. His mouth and eyes looked . . . surprised? No. He recovered so quickly, I knew I must have imagined it. He was surveying me with suspicion, his face tight, and his eyebrows knitted together.
    “Who the hell are you?” he asked, glowering down at me.
    “Who are you? ” I snarled.
    He leaned more of his weight on the knee pressing into my arm, and tears welled up and spilled over my eyes as the pain surged through my left side. So he was going to make me suffer.
    “You’re . . . crushing me,” I said between labored breaths. He had a slender build, but he was still a lot bigger than me. Through his thin black T-shirt, I could tell he was well muscled and definitely much stronger.
    He shifted a bit of his weight to his other knee, tightening his grasp on my arms. He looked utterly unremorseful.  
    “Tell me what you’re doing here.” He twisted my wrist along the cuts from the carriers’ zip ties, and I let out a sharp cry.
    “Stop it!” I yelled. “You’re hurting me!” My eyes were watering profusely, which made me feel ridiculous. I was starving, tired, and extremely uncomfortable, but I refused to let this stranger see my tears.
    Noticing the bloody marks protruding from the makeshift bandages on my wrists, he relaxed his grip and moved his knee, looking slightly apologetic but no less lethal. He stared intently at the inside of my forearm and caught sight of the telltale square scar.  
    “You’re documented,” he said, his voice full of loathing.
    I grimaced, willing the mark to disappear. I felt exposed.  
    If he was PMC, he would know I was headed in the wrong direction and clearly not complying with mandatory migration, but he sure was taking his time arresting me. I glanced at his waist, searching for a gun or handcuffs at his belt, but he was wearing ordinary cargo pants — not the stark-white, immaculately pressed PMC officers’ uniform.  
    He rocked back on his knees but didn’t release my arms. “What are you doing here?” His question was sharp but not unkind.
    I tried to sit up a little, but I could only manage to half prop myself up on my elbows since he still had a hold on me.
    “If you want to arrest me, go ahead,” I said in a low, angry voice. “If not, let me go.”
    “Arrest you?”
    “You’re not PMC?”
    He looked puzzled. “No.”
    Who was he? It didn’t seem as if he planned on killing me, but I couldn’t figure out what he wanted. He saw