“I recognized the trap,” Ronon admitted softly. “The ‘ship in distress’ gambit. I’ve seen it before.” He shook his head, his long braids whipping about. “It took me too long, though. I should have noticed it at once.”
“You saved our lives,” Rodney pointed out.
“But not our ship,” Ronon snapped. “And we’re still stuck here. Still being hunted. I was sloppy.”
“Okay, so you were sloppy. You still saved us. Again.” Rodney glanced around, not sure what he expected to see — the sun had set completely now, and it was dark enough that he could barely make out his companion’s glare in the deepening night. “But that’s not all of it, is it?”
Even without being able to see it fully he knew Ronon was glaring at him — he’d come to recognize the feel of that particular response. “No,” the Satedan ground out after a long pause. “I know who’s after us.”
“You do?” That didn’t exactly make Rodney feel better. “By reputation, or personally?”
Again the hesitation before Ronon answered. “Personally. And we have to watch our every step from here on out.”
“Who is it?” Rodney wanted to know. Well, no, deep down he didn’t want to know at all. But he needed to know.
The answer was one he hadn’t expected. “Runners.”
“Other runners?” Rodney stared at him. “Like you?”
He felt the air move as Ronon shook his head. “No. Not like me. Not any more.”
“Then like what? Who are they? How do you know them? What do they want?” Rodney was both horrified and fascinated. Before they’d met Ronon they’d never even heard of a Runner, but apparently the concept was legendary among all the worlds touched by the Wraith — a lone individual, caught by the Wraith but released and then hunted down. For sport. Most Runners didn’t last very long, a week or two at most — they were said to be chosen for their cunning and their skills but the Wraith had been hunting and killing for centuries.
Ronon had been a Runner for seven years.
If these others were even half as good at hunting and fighting as he was, they had a serious problem on their hands.
“Not now,” Ronon answered shortly. “Not here. We’re not safe.”
Rodney took that in. “Okay, yes. Safe. Safe would be good,” he agreed. He was babbling, he realized, and forced himself not to say another word. Instead he followed as Ronon continued into the mountains, taking a winding path Rodney knew was meant to throw off anyone trying to track them. At last they paused, and Ronon knelt, brushing dirt and small rocks and dead brush back from the stone wall beside them. Behind the debris was a small dark opening.
“Get in,” he told Rodney. His tone made it clear this wasn’t a request.
Rodney’s first impulse was to argue. He didn’t like small dark spaces, and he didn’t like being ordered around, and he didn’t like not being told everything at once. But he also didn’t like being shot at or taken captive, and he was fairly sure he would like being killed even less, so he held his tongue, dropped to his knees, and crawled through the opening.
It widened slightly about twenty paces in, and the ceiling rose enough that he could sit up without bashing his head on the rocks above. Beyond that it narrowed again. Far enough, Rodney decided, and leaned back against the cool stone. He heard rustling from the opening.
A moment later Ronon joined him. “I covered the opening again,” he explained quietly, his voice little more than a gruff whisper. “They won’t find us here.”
“Good.” Rodney closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then he opened them again and fixed Ronon with the sternest glare he could muster, especially considering he could barely see the big lug. “Now talk. Who are these Runners, how do you know them, and why are they doing this to us?”
For a second he thought Ronon was going to refuse. But then the big Satedan seemed to reach a decision. He nodded slightly, and grimaced as if in pain. Then he began to speak.
“It was seven years ago,” he started, his voice soft and his eyes somewhere far away. “I had just been captured by the Wraith. ”
Chapter Four
“I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you all!”
Ronon lashed out blindly, tears still stinging his cheeks and blurring his vision. But his fists did not connect and he spun around from the force of his empty blows, toppling himself to the ground. He lay there for several seconds, groaning, just letting the pain and rage and grief overwhelm him.
“Melena,” he sobbed. He could still picture her face, still see her when he closed his eyes — and still gape in horror as she died inches from him, torn apart by one of the many explosions that had wracked their planet. Melena was gone. So was Sateda. He was all that remained.
Why hadn’t the Wraith killed him as well? That was the question that tore at him. It was one of the few things that had kept him going, burning inside him throughout the torture and the taunts and the waiting. Why was he still alive?
The Wraith were hardly known for their mercy. Nor could it even be called mercy, taking a man and sparing his life after slaughtering his entire world and killing the woman he loved. That was the worst kind of torture. But that didn’t explain why they had let him go.
Because they had let him go. Ronon was under no illusions about that — they hadn’t allowed it. He hadn’t escaped, hadn’t outsmarted or outmaneuvered or outfought them. He had been caught, he had been toyed with, and he had been released.
But not unscathed.
He rolled over, gritting his teeth at the pain as the rocks and dirt rubbed against the raw skin of his lower back. The Wraith who had tormented him had done something there, something that had pierced Ronon with a sharp agony beyond any he’d previously experienced. It was a purely physical pain, however, and so he had tightened his jaw and endured. That was what Satedans did. That was what Ronon Dex did.
Not that the Wraith had been fooled. “It hurts, does it not?” it had inquired, leaning in close and leering, showing all its sharp teeth. Ronon had struggled against the bonds that clamped him to the table, but of course they had been fastened tight. No one could say the Wraith were stupid.
“The pain must be extreme,” it had continued. “Good.” Its grin widened even as its eyes narrowed. “Shall I tell you what I have done?” And then it did.
The incision point was still raw now, a day or so later, but most of the pain had fallen to a dull throb. It was a pain Ronon could live with. Not that he expected to live much longer.
After all, he was now the object of a Wraith hunt. The tracking device imbedded in his spine would reveal his precise location to any Wraith equipped with the appropriate frequency. They would be coming for him even now.
So be it. Ronon bit back a scream as he pushed himself onto his stomach, got his hands under his chest, and heaved himself back to his feet. He swayed there a second, almost falling again, before straightening into a half-crouch. He would die on his feet, like a man. Like a warrior. Like a Satedan. And then he would be with Melena again.
But that didn’t mean he was planning to go without a fight. No, the Wraith that came for him would know they had fought Ronon Dex. And the ones who survived would remember his name.
He glanced around. They had stripped away his Specialist armor when he had been captured, and his weapons, his sword and his pistol, were likewise gone. All he had were his fists, and they would not be enough. Not against the Wraith.
They had dropped him on some planet, he had no idea which one, but there was dirt beneath his feet and trees and bushes nearby. No rocks big enough to function as weapons, nor any flint or slate he could chip into a spearhead — not that he would necessarily have time for such a venture anyway. No doubt the Wraith were already on their way. He would need to find a weapon quickly.