“What?” she whispered. “You see something?”
He said, “Just wanted to make sure.”
“What, that I’m here? I’m not going anywhere.”
He kept moving. Led them to the far corner of the property, where there was a gate, double wide, and another rutted road. Beyond the fence, through the phalanx of cars, Mason could see an outbuilding, the road leading to it.
The gate was locked with a padlock. The road underneath was muddy from the rain, but the tire tracks looked fresh. He let Jess see the padlock. Then they pressed forward.
But there were no holes in the fence, not even a burrow dug through the dirt at the bottom, no way in or out but the gate in the back or the house at the front.
“I could hop that fence,” Mason said when they’d retreated back to the rear of the property, the locked gate. “Those cars back there would block any view from the house.”
Jess looked at him funny. “No offense,” she said, “but you were locked up in jail, weren’t you?”
He nodded. “So?”
“You ever try to escape?”
“I told you,” he said, “I served my time.”
“So you aren’t exactly a fence-hopping expert, then.”
He had to laugh. Kept it quiet, though. “You have any better ideas?”
Jess cocked her head, motioned back toward the front. “Sneak in alongside that house,” she said. “There’s got to be a way.
“Unless you want to put a pin in this,” she said. “Go buy some wire cutters and come back tomorrow.”
He thought about it. Looked up and down the fence line, didn’t see any better ideas. Was about to tell her, okay, they’d try alongside the house, when a screen door back that way slapped open and slammed shut again, and he and she both could hear boots on wood stairs, somebody whistling as he walked back through the yard.
Mason felt his blood go cold. “Shit.”
Beside him, Jess didn’t say a word.
* * *
Jess wasn’t enjoying this. She’d felt that surge of adrenaline at the start, but as soon as they’d started up the road, the rest had come flooding back. The bad stuff. Patrols gone haywire, faulty intelligence. Ambushes out of nowhere, gunfire from the shadows.
Afia screaming her name as they dragged her away.
It wasn’t even the violence that got to Jess; she could take the violence, while it was happening. She’d been trained for that stuff. It was the other parts, the before and the after, that’s what killed her. Driving out beyond the wire into a sea of hostile faces, suspicious eyes, not knowing who was coming after them, or where they were coming from, but knowing they were coming all the same.
It was the tension, constant and unceasing, a boot pressing down on your chest, paralysis. It was the flinching every time a car backfired, every time a hand in the crowd reached for a cell phone. It was the waiting, that was the shitty part, waiting and knowing the violence was coming, not being able to do a damn thing about it.
And then the after, the blood and the chaos, urgent voices and the smell of burned flesh and shit and piss and fire. Replaying the violence in your head for hours, wishing you’d just done one little thing different, so your buddy beside you, who’d played Counter-Strike and showed you pictures of his daughter, so he’d still be alive and intact and not another body bag in the back of a jet.
Right now it was the before. It was the tension. She’d crept around the outside of the Whitmer property knowing the night was going to get greasy, knowing there wasn’t a thing she could do about it, not if she wanted to get Lucy back.
And now here it came, someone out of the house, heavy footsteps across the porch and down to the backyard. Whistling, cheerful, not really a tune, but Jess could feel every note creeping up her spine.
She tensed, held the shotgun tight, ducked away from the gate and tried to stay hidden as Burke did the same beside her.
The whistling stopped, and then a man’s voice called out. “Here, boys,” and Jess could hear the dogs, both of them, panting and snapping at each other, chain collars jangling as they raced across the compound toward the man.
Jess knew the man was Bryce Whitmer.
Suddenly there was light, bright white and blinding. Whitmer must have flipped a switch somewhere, hit the juice on the junkyard, because every light in the compound stayed on, and all at once it was as bright as day beyond the fence.
Jess closed her eyes, tried to steady her breathing. Realized she was shaking, her hands, couldn’t make them stop.
Man up.
Whitmer began to whistle again, and he was getting closer. Jess wasn’t looking. She was backed against the fence, shotgun to her chest, looking out into the black forest. But then Burke nudged her, and she had to turn.
He was staring through the fence, motioning through the wall of cars to the left, somebody’s old Buick crushed and left for dead, just enough space left in the front windshield to see a clear path through the yard to another building, maybe ten feet by ten feet, and Jess didn’t know what she was seeing at first.
But then she saw the fencing out front, more chain link, saw the silver bowl on the ground. And then she saw the mass beside the bowl, black and white and oddly shaped, and she saw the glint off the collar, rhinestones she’d bought to try to make her butch dog look more feminine, and the mass shifted and those ears perked up, and she knew it was Lucy.
Before she could do anything else, though, Bryce Whitmer appeared at the front of the kennel, blocking her view, and she couldn’t see Lucy anymore, but she could see the light glint off the meat cleaver that Bryce held in his hand.
Lucy whimpered, and Jess felt it like knives.
Seventeen
This was the part Jess was good at.
She pushed herself off the fence. Spun, and leveled the shotgun at the gate. “Move,” she told Burke, and Burke caught the look in her eye and he moved, all right.
She pulled the trigger and the lock was gone, the gate nearly blown off its hinges. The explosion reverberated through the junkyard, the forest, but Jess wasn’t waiting around to bask in the afterglow. She kicked the gate open and stepped through. Hustled, fast, between the stacks of wrecked cars until she came to the clearing where Bryce Whitmer stood with the cleaver in his hand, a dumbfounded look on his face.
“Drop the weapon, Bryce,” Jess told him, aiming the shotgun at him square and closing the distance. “You drop that blade now.”
Whitmer’s expression changed when he recognized her. A slow, mean smile took the place of stunned stupid.
“Now, what the hell do you think you’re doing, Jess?” he asked. “Are you planning to shoot me tonight?”
She responded by raising the barrel and firing over his head, relishing the way he flinched at the shot.
“Drop the fucking weapon, Bryce,” she said. “I won’t tell you again.”
Behind Bryce she could see fully into the kennel now, and the sight broke her heart. Lucy cowered at the back of the enclosure, tail between her legs, trembling, terrified. She was skinny, too, that rhinestone collar fairly drooping off her neck. It looked like Whitmer had neglected her half the time and beaten her the rest. Jess lowered the barrel of the shotgun until it was pointed at Whitmer’s midsection again, wanted to pull the trigger right then and there, and to hell with the consequences.
“This ain’t going to end well for you, Jess,” Whitmer said, bending down to lay the cleaver on the dirt. “You’re better off just walking away right now, forgetting you ever came here.”
She motioned with the barrel toward Lucy’s kennel. “Open the kennel for me,” she said. “I’m taking my dog home.”
But Whitmer didn’t move. He was smiling again. “Can’t say I didn’t warn you.” He turned his head and whistled, loud, over his shoulder. “C’mon out, boys!”
The dogs came running. Careened out from behind a stack of cars near the house and raced across the empty dirt to where Whitmer and Jess were standing. They were b
ig dogs, probably eighty pounds apiece, and they were fast for their size, muscular, and they looked damn mean.
They weren’t stopping, either; slavering, barking, lips curled back and teeth bared, and when they saw Jess, they veered off from Whitmer and came galloping toward her instead.
She turned and fired again, quickly, aiming over their heads. The dogs stopped running at the shot, but they didn’t bug off.
Shit.
Whitmer was laughing. “What are you going to do, Jess?” he said. “Kill both my dogs to save yours? Something about that just doesn’t sound right.”
She didn’t want to do it. Mean as those dogs looked, her beef was with their owner, not them. But if they came at her again, she’d have no choice.
The bigger dog was creeping toward her now, spittle flecked at his jowls, a growl deep in his throat. He wasn’t going to stay scared for long.
Jess took aim, but even as she did, the second dog was moving in to flank her, and she knew as soon as she shot one, the other would be on her. And on the other side, Whitmer was reaching for that cleaver again.
Then someone whistled, up toward the house, and Jess and Whitmer and the dogs all turned and stared, turned to watch Mason Burke step out from around another row of stacked cars.
“Hey,” he called out. “Hey, dogs, over here!”
Then he turned and ran, and that’s all it took. The dogs forgot Jess, and they forgot about Whitmer. They turned and hurled themselves after Burke, kicking up dirt as they covered the yard in a blink.
Whitmer laughed again. “That your new boyfriend, Jess?”
Jess shook her head.
“Good,” Whitmer said, “’cause he’s about to be lunch.”
She leveled the shotgun on him again. “You open the door to that kennel like I told you the first time, Bryce. Are we clear?”
Whitmer didn’t move for a beat. Then, chuckling to himself, he walked over to Lucy’s kennel and unlatched the metal grate, pulled it open. Lucy shrank back as he approached, stared out at him, shaking harder.
“Lucy,” Jess whispered, as calm as possible, nonthreatening. “Lucy, c’mon out, girl. Come on out here.”
Lucy perked up at the sound of her voice, but she didn’t move. Elsewhere in the yard, Whitmer’s dogs were losing their shit.
“Back up,” Jess told Whitmer, motioning with the shotgun. She backed him away from the kennel, replaced him at the grate. Kept the barrel pointed at Whitmer, but she bent down and looked into the kennel, clucked her tongue and reached out with her free hand.
“Come on, Lucy,” she said. “Time to go home.”
Slow, maddeningly slow, and shaking like she had hypothermia, Lucy edged away from the back end of the kennel, slunk around the wall until she’d nearly reached the open grate.
“Here we go, Lucy. Almost there.”
Then Lucy stopped. She’d caught sight of Whitmer again. Damn it. Jess reached into the kennel, caught hold of Lucy’s collar, and pulled as hard as she could, dragging the dog through the open grate. Slammed the kennel door closed, and looked up again just in time to see Whitmer making his move.
She spun the shotgun around. “Don’t you fucking try it,” she told him. “I’ll blow your head off from here, and your dogs can eat your damn brains for breakfast, if they can find any.”
Whitmer stopped. He smiled again but said nothing.
“Now,” Jess said. “You back away from me and my dog, and you let us go.”
She didn’t wait for a response. Nudged Lucy back with her knee, toward the fence and the busted gate. Clucked her teeth and spoke softly, soothing the dog, moving her gently to freedom, without ever taking her eyes off of Whitmer.
* * *
Mason ran for his life through the labyrinth junkyard. He heard the mutts snapping at his heels, knew they’d take him down without prejudice, tear him to shreds. He veered right, hauled ass up the side of a stack of cars, scraping his hands and his knees something fierce on the rust and bare metal.
The big dogs were fast as heck, but they weren’t much good for climbing. He heard the dogs hit the stack behind him, fairly collide with it, the stack lurching beneath him from the impact. The dogs leapt up, their claws scraping down the car sides.
One dog got a grip on his boot and held tight, dragging Mason back as its partner tried for the other boot. Mason kicked the dog in the head, once and again, heard it squeal and drop back to the dirt, hit hard, and launch itself skyward again.
He kept climbing until he made the top of the stack. He couldn’t see Jess anywhere but hoped he’d bought her enough time. One of the dogs was still trying to follow him up; the other stood in the dirt barking its dang head off like it’d just treed a bear.
Mason jumped down off the other side of the stack. Hit the ground and rolled and knew the dogs wouldn’t stay fooled forever. He beat it across the hard-packed dirt and crossed in front of the old farmhouse toward the other side of the yard, where more junked cars lay in various stages of deterioration. From the barking behind him, he could pinpoint the moment the dogs cottoned on, and he hadn’t covered nearly enough ground to feel good about it.
He ran faster. Didn’t look back. Didn’t even glance sideways to see how Jess was doing. She had a shotgun, after all. Heck, she was a goddamn marine; she’d be fine. If he made it out of here without winding up dog food, though, it’d be a damn miracle.
He reached another stack of cars, clawed his way up. Sliced his hand open on a loose piece of trim, ignored it. Made the top of the stack just as the dogs hit the bottom. Now what?
The fence sat a couple of rows over, just a little lower than the cars, the razor wire curled at the top, the barbs gleaming sharp and vicious in the glow from the security lights. On the other side of that fence was the truck and, he hoped, Jess and Lucy. Mason had but one shot at escape.
Balancing as best he could on the top of the stack of cars, he blocked out the noise of the dogs barking behind him and below him, closed his eyes, and took a leap of faith. Landed with a crash on the next pile of junk, felt something sharp jam into his stomach and knew he’d be paying for it later. He scrambled to the top of the pile, repeated the process. The dogs hadn’t figured him out yet, and he made the last stack and climbed to the top, found himself staring out at dark forest so close he could practically touch it.
Home free.
Then the screen door on that farmhouse slapped open, and someone fired a shot, and it wasn’t Jess with the shotgun. Mason quit admiring the trees and just leapt straight toward them. Didn’t plan to catch a leg on that razor wire, but he did, heard his pants tear and felt skin tearing too as he fell. Landed awkward and rolled an ankle, pulled himself to his feet and half staggered, half crawled toward Jess’s Chevy, the brake lights lit up and the engine raring to go.
Mason supported himself on the bed of the truck, limped around the side to the passenger door, and climbed in. Slammed the door closed, and Jess was already moving, the engine howling now, the tires scrabbling for traction.
Lucy was there too, wedged in between them, and the dog licked Mason’s face, and wouldn’t stop doing it, as Jess hauled ass away from the farm.
Eighteen
Kirby Harwood’s cell phone rang loud and insistent. Beside him in the queen-sized bed, not watching the sport-fishing reality TV show, Terri-Lee put down her book and frowned.
“Who could be calling at this hour?” she said. She had that tone to her voice again: disapproval, accusation. As if they wouldn’t be getting disturbed like this if only they were living the life they should have been, if Kirby hadn’t gone and fucked up his full ride, dragged them back to this shit-hole town. She had that tone of voice a fair bit these days.
Harwood looked at the display, recognized the number. Was already standing when he accepted the call.
“Harwood.”
“They got the dog.” Bryce Whitmer’s voice, deep and steady. “Came in with a shotgun and blew the lock off the back gate. Had the drop on me before I c
ould go for my gun.”
Harwood walked into the hallway, leaned against the wall. “Bullshit.”
“I wish,” Whitmer said. “I was on my way out to piece out that dog like we planned, figured I wouldn’t need more than the cleaver.”
“Thought those dogs of yours were supposed to be guard dogs.”
“They are. But the guy led them off while that Winslow bitch held the gun on me.”
Harwood rubbed his face. Why’d this have to be so damn difficult when it should have been simple? A little extra cash for a couple of jobs a month, a little rainy-day money, fix the roof on the house and redo the kitchen, maybe pay for some more visits to that fertility doctor who charged so damn much, give Terri-Lee the family she wanted, so maybe she’d stop acting so damn aggrieved all the time.
It was supposed to be easy. Wasn’t nobody supposed to get hurt, not even a damn dog. But Kirby Harwood had seen plenty firsthand how the best-laid plans often turned to shit. He shouldn’t have been surprised that this one was no exception.
“The guy with Jess,” Harwood said. “Midthirties, tall? Look like a hard case?”
“That’s the guy.”
Burke. Who the hell are you, Mason Burke? And why the fuck have you taken such an interest in messing up my little town?
“I’m headed your way,” Harwood said. “Call Cole and Dale, have them meet us. We got to track that bitch down.”
Harwood ended the call. Walked back into the bedroom, where Terri-Lee was reading her book again, some self-help manual, visualize the things you want and they will appear in front of you. Snake-oil bullshit.
“Who was it?” she asked.
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