by Stone, Kyla
A waste of gas just for light, but it worked in their favor.
Two men stood guard. One leaned against the rear of a black and yellow Ski-Doo painted like a hornet, his rifle crooked in his arms while he shivered and blew into his gloved hands.
The second guard had laid his rifle crosswise across the front seat of a red and white Yamaha while he slumped sidesaddle, smoking a cigarette, cupping both hands to his face to shield it from the wind.
Neither of them acted alert or aware of their surroundings. They’d been waiting for hours and were freezing, miserable, and just trying to pass the time.
His nerves stretched taut. Steadying himself, Liam shut out everything else—the dog’s heavy panting, the whistling wind, the sounds of the mob growing closer. His exhaustion, the pain pulsing through his spine.
He locked his elbow, brought his left hand up to brace his shot, and focused through the sights. He slowed his breathing, his heartrate, narrowed his focus to the target. Adjusted for the wind. Squinted against the swirling snow.
The man with the camouflaged hunting cap leaning against the yellow snowmobile had the weapon nearest at hand. Liam aimed at him, sighting center mass.
He curled his gloved finger around the trigger. His steady breathing crystalized in clouds around his face. Snow collected on his eyelashes, crystalized in his nostrils. Time stretched.
He squeezed the trigger twice.
Crack. Crack.
The man juddered and fell.
He’d hit his target. He needed to get the second one before he could reach for his rifle. The next target was already moving, reacting to the gunshots, but not fast enough.
Liam shifted slightly, aimed for the man’s chest, and fired a double tap.
Within two seconds, both targets were down.
He felt no guilt, no remorse. Not then, not in the heat of battle. He’d seen combat in warzones all over the world. He knew his enemy. The ones who stood between himself and his objective—to get Hannah to safety.
It was kill or die. And so he killed with skill and precision and efficiency. And he would continue killing for as long as he needed to do so, for as long as Hannah needed protecting.
Liam turned back for her. “Just a little further.”
She stared at the dead bodies in the snow, gaping.
Behind them, the clamor of the mob grew louder. Ghost whipped toward the oncoming threat, half-whimpering, half-snarling.
Liam seized Hannah’s arm. “Go!”
They ran for the snowmobiles.
58
Hannah
Day Eight
“Get on!” Liam ordered when they reached the nearest snowmobile—the hornet-colored Skidoo. The key was in the ignition, the engine rumbling, exhaust belching. Ready to go.
Hannah hesitated. The wind whipped her hair into her face. She couldn’t feel her ears.
Fear clawed at her. Her brain screamed at her to escape, to run. But the dog had just saved her life. She wouldn’t abandon him for anything.
She pointed back at the dog, who straggled several yards behind them. “I’m not leaving Ghost.”
She expected Liam to argue with her, to throw her on the seat and drag her off against her will. He didn’t.
“Get the dog on the sled with the trailer,” he said gruffly. “And for Pete’s sake, stay down!”
Liam drew his tactical knife and with a few efficient movements, he cut the starter power cords on the three other machines.
Behind them, someone shouted an alarm.
Snow erupted fifteen yards to the west. A rifle report followed right after. Another crack ruptured the air. And then another.
Hannah spun around and peered into the snowy darkness, her ears ringing. She could barely see their attackers but for the wavering flashlight beams, the muzzle flashes in the dark.
They couldn’t see in the dark and snow, either. Their shots were wild, but their next volley might not miss. The rat-a-tat of rifle fire exploded like a string of firecrackers.
Liam took up a defensive position behind the red Yamaha, steadied his arms across the seat, and returned fire. Boom. Boom. Boom.
Screams filtered their way. He’d hit one of them. Maybe more than one, judging by the shrieks and shouts of agony and outrage.
The thugs scrambled for cover. They threw themselves behind the bank and the Dollar General on either side of main street, both buildings a few hundred yards away.
“Now, Hannah!” Liam shouted.
She crouched as low as she could and shuffled to the rear of the snowmobile. The yellow and black Ski-Doo featured a large fiberglass trailer with slatted slides meant for pulling heavy loads. It was empty.
Her fingers were so stiff, it took her three tries to open the sled gate. She gestured to Ghost. “Inside, now! It’s for your own good.”
Ghost staggered, barely upright. He halted several feet away. He lowered his bloodied head and whined uneasily.
He loathed the idea of returning to anything resembling a cage, even one about to save his life. She didn’t blame him.
“Hannah!” Liam cried.
More gunshots shattered the crisp air. Several rounds smashed into the looted grocery store across the street.
She stumbled through the snow and seized Ghost’s collar with her good hand. “You have to do this! Do it for me.” She pulled him gently but insistently toward the trailer. “Trust me.”
Ghost whined again but didn’t balk. He allowed her to lead him onto the sled. If he’d refused to go, she couldn’t have made him. The dog weighed more than she did, even pregnant.
She shut the clasp on the trailer with trembling, half-numb fingers. He’d be freezing in the wind and snow, but it was the best they could do. She slipped off her snowshoes and tossed them in the trailer beside him.
“Done!” she shouted to Liam.
Liam already had his snowshoes off. He pocked his pistol, leaned down, and seized a rifle from one of the fallen men. He fired several more rounds of covering fire to give them a moment of breathing room. The rifle cracked again and again.
He helped her onto the front seat and squeezed in behind her, his chest against her back, his legs straddling hers. She yanked on the helmet while Liam pulled on another one sitting on the seat, not bothering to brush off the snow or buckle the strap.
Slinging the rifle over his shoulder, he reached around her for the handlebar grips.
“Hold on!” he shouted into her ear.
Liam throttled the engine. They burst forward in a cloud of blue smoke, spitting snow, and careened into a tight U-turn. The old machine was rough and loud—but still fast.
More rifle cracks. Rounds sprayed the snow a dozen yards to their right. Hannah’s heart leapt into her throat.
Liam slewed sharply left. The Ski-Doo’s backend fishtailed precariously, sending up a wide arc of snow spray. She was thrown sideways against Liam’s arm, nearly losing her seat. She had a difficult time holding on with only one good hand.
She dared a glance in the rearview mirror to check on Ghost. He was still there. She couldn’t make out much more than a flurry of white fur.
Liam corrected the skid and they straightened out, bounded at high speed over unbroken fields of snow, bouncing and slamming, each jolt sending shudders through her body.
They headed south out of town, whizzing by trees, barns and fences, a few hunched buildings set back from the road.
Three of the ATVs were in pursuit, but they weren’t close—their headlights distant stars in the Ski-Doo’s mirrors.
She didn’t hear any more gunshots, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any. The roar of the engine drowned out all other sounds.
As they fled into the night, Hannah kept her feet flat on the running boards, leaned into the turns, and held on for dear life.
59
Pike
Day Eight
Pike banged his shoulder against the unlocked rear door of Dot’s Diner and stumbled inside. The door swung shut behi
nd him. He blinked in the complete blackness and paused.
Fury boiled through his veins. He wanted nothing more than to murder the soldier boy who’d dared to come after him. He’d rip the man’s tarsals and metatarsals from the bloody stumps of his fingers. Painstakingly slowly. One by one, until the soldier begged for his own death.
Pike was out his KA-BAR tactical knife and his Sig. He’d lost them both in the library to the mutinous white beast and the cowering mouse, Hannah Sheridan.
He had planned it perfectly. The ploy to distract Soldier Boy so Pike could sneak in and finish his prey. Only that damn dog had appeared out of nowhere, had the gall to attack him! He owned that disgusting mutt—had purchased him for a steep price, too.
All Pike had to show for it was his throbbing left forearm. He felt with his right hand along the wall and fumbled deeper into the building. He rounded a corner and felt open space around him.
He pulled the flashlight from his pocket, flicked it on, and scanned the floor, keeping the beam low. He was in some kind of office or administrative room.
The only window opened to the restaurant’s kitchen, dishwashing area, and wait station. He didn’t have to worry about the flashlight betraying his location.
He sank into an office chair behind a cheap IKEA desk, propped up the flashlight, and examined himself. Several rips marred the sleeve of his coat. Blood stained the fabric and dribbled down his arm.
He pulled off his gloves with his teeth and eased out of his coat. Wincing, he rolled up his bloodied shirtsleeves. He gritted his teeth at the sight of the wound.
Teeth marks punctured his skin, deep enough to lacerate the muscle in a few places. It looked worse than it was. He was lucky the force of the dog’s jaws hadn’t shattered his forearm.
He’d managed to shoot the rabid animal before it could do serious damage. Without his thick coat and layers of clothing as protection, the dog would’ve torn his throat out in a matter of seconds.
Pike hoped he’d killed it.
Pain throbbed through his left arm from his wrist to his shoulder. He needed a damn cigarette.
With his uninjured hand, he withdrew the pack, fumbled with the Zippo one-handed, and finally managed to light up. He drew the smoke deep into his chilled lungs. Clove filled his nostrils, eased the tension thrumming through him.
He blew a cloud toward the ceiling. There was no fan, no vent, and the smoke hung in the air.
This was just a minor setback. He’d be back in the game by morning.
Hannah Sheridan was going home. Well, then. So was he.
Outrage coursed through him. At her. At all the people in Fall Creek he loathed and bitterly resented. His mother. His brother. And especially Noah Sheridan.
He’d get his revenge on all of them. Wring every ounce of it out of her broken and shattered body.
He didn’t know why he hadn’t killed her years ago. Before and after that night, he’d been careful, never choosing prey that would be missed.
He chose druggies and whores and homeless street rats that no one cared about. And he rarely hunted too close to home.
But when he’d parked behind her Camry on that deserted road that Christmas Eve, he’d felt a thrill like he’d never felt before. He knew who she was before he’d even gotten out of his truck.
Noah Sheridan’s wife. The cute little thing with those vivid green eyes, the pretty outsider with the fabulous voice that should’ve been showcased in Nashville or Hollywood, but was instead going nowhere fast, trapped in a small town with a piss-poor husband and a whiny brat,.
There was something about stealing something right under someone’s nose. Something about working and eating and laughing with people who had no idea who you were, what you’d done.
It was intoxicating.
Somehow it had made living in that crappy town with all those insufferable people—including his own family—bearable.
They all knew Hannah Sheridan. They all believed she was dead and gone.
He reserved a special hatred for Noah Sheridan. Watching the man squirm under the microscope—suspect numero uno in the case for months—had been a particularly memorable and extraordinary pleasure.
Every time he laid eyes on the man or his brat of a son, a little thrill went through him. He would wave and call Noah over, engage in small talk with that hateful smile plastered to his face, all the while his hand in his pocket, holding the phone with the live video feed of Noah’s wife.
But that part would end now. It would end when he cut his own flesh and blood out of her, and then finished her himself, the way he wanted. Not quickly or easily.
He had not lost control of this yet. He could still find her before she reached Fall Creek.
60
Pike
Day Eight
Pike smoked the cigarette down to the filter and tossed it on the floor. The ember flared and died. He didn’t care if he burned the whole building down.
Gingerly, he rolled his sleeve down and eased into his coat with a pained hiss. He put his gloves on, stood, and grabbed the heavy flashlight.
He searched the commercial kitchen until he found something he could use. His flashlight beam swept across stainless-steel counters, cabinets, and an industrial-sized stove. The place stank of spoiling vegetables and faintly of burnt plastic.
The cone of light highlighted a hefty meat tenderizer mallet lying on the stainless-steel island in the center of the prep area. It would do.
When he tried to pick it up with his left hand, an electric shock of pain shot up his arm. He dropped it with a wince.
Furious, he gave the island a savage kick and cursed as the clang reverberated in the silence. He slammed the flashlight down, picked up the mallet with his unwounded hand, and shoved it through his belt loop beneath his coat.
Holding the flashlight low at his side, he exited the back of the diner with care, scanning the snowy darkness before stepping outside.
No one was around. Angry shouts and gunshots echoed from the direction of the library. Maybe the thugs had found the girl and Soldier Boy.
He doubted it. Soldier Boy would’ve hightailed it back to save the girl and execute their exit strategy. It was the only reason he’d backed off from pursuing Pike.
No matter. Pike could ambush them at any point along the way. He had the advantage here. Not them.
Just as soon as he took care of this arm. He needed a damn doctor to patch him up and provide a truckload of pain meds.
Lucky for him, he had an idea where to go.
His head lowered against the brutal wind, he skirted the diner’s parking lot and found his way back to main street. He returned to the gas station up the street where his purple snowmobile still waited for him.
Two men remained at the gas station, both holding rifles and standing about ten yards apart. The first one faced south toward the library and the end of town.
The second man stood guard over a pile of dead bodies. Half a dozen, at least. Next to him, two old model snowmobiles towing large sleds were loaded with jerrycans full of gas.
The rifle he carried belonged to Pike.
Pike grimaced. A dark thrill raced up his spine. He’d need gas to get where he was going. He’d need his gun back, too.
He hooked the flashlight to his belt and exchanged it for the mallet. He hefted it in his hand, relished the weight of it. It would work just fine.
He crept up behind the man, his boots not as silent as he wished but the man was distracted by the shouting and gunfire past the library. The wind whistled and moaned, muffling his movements.
The poor sap never even saw Pike coming. He never saw the swing of the mallet either, but he certainly felt it slam into his head and splinter his skull.
The man dropped to the snow with a heavy thud.
Pain scoured Pike’s left arm, his muscles screaming in protest. Pike gritted his teeth and let the mallet slip out of his hands.
He bent and picked up the rifle instead. His rifle. The scoped
Winchester Model 70.
More pain flared up his forearm, but he endured it. He did a quick system check and found everything as he’d left it—the weapon in pristine condition and fully loaded.
The second guard swung around to check on his buddy with a bored expression.
Pike pointed the Winchester at his face.
“Hey man—”
“Get your hands up. Drop your weapon.”
The guard started to raise his weapon, then noticed his friend’s body behind Pike, already growing cold in the snow. Wisely, he changed his mind.
He unslung the rifle, dropped it a few feet away, and raised his hands. “Don’t shoot me, man. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
“You find a doctor when you ransacked this town?”
The man shifted nervously from foot to foot. “Hank said he got a good stash of oxy from the clinic. There was a doctor there. A few patients we sent packing. Maybe he was a pediatrician? I don’t know. I did what you asked, okay? Don’t kill me, man.”
“That’ll do.” Pike gestured with the rifle. He’d leave this idiot alive long enough to take him to this doctor. Then he’d put him down like the maggot deserved. “Take me to him. And hurry. I’m leaving at dawn.”
61
Hannah
Day Eight
Hannah was so tired, she kept falling asleep, slumping in her seat, and jerking herself back awake. Her back, shoulders, and hips hurt, her muscles cramping.
Cold needled her extremities. Her feet were blocks of ice, her nostrils raw from inhaling the frigid air. Her eyelids were nearly glued shut from squinting against the icy wind.
They’d been riding hard for what felt like days but was less than two hours.
