Hands like claws reaching, reaching . . . Then the man bellowed in rage, and she spun to see her pursuer engaged in a vicious fight with another man. Her rescuer. No, there were two men battling the enemy, and she knew them both. Knew them because they were etched into her soul. A glint of metal flashed in the killer’s hand. A long, wicked knife. Then he lunged and drove the blade hilt-deep into one of the men, and the man fell. “Nooo!” she screamed, running toward them. Which one? Who was hurt? But she couldn’t see their faces, no matter how hard she tried. Didn’t know who was on the ground with his blood pouring onto the dirty concrete. “Gray? Joaquin?” She sucked in a breath. “Somebody help us!” A rumbling noise and bouncing motion rattled Anna Claire’s brain, pulling her from a deep well of unconsciousness and the hellish nightmare that had returned to torment her.
