I chased him as he wove in and out between trees. My breath was coming in harsh gasps. He was way ahead of me, but he was easy to follow because the red glow stick shone like a radio-tower beacon. A paint pellet fired by the guy on my tail exploded against a tree trunk, spraying me with blue paint. Not a direct hit, though—I was still in the game. I dodged from tree to tree, trying to elude my stalker, who was so out of shape I could hear him wheezing even through his helmet. Soon he fell far behind.
The tall Cobra and I burst out of the trees into a snow-covered clearing about forty feet from the Cobra base. A thorny bush beneath the snow snagged the Cobra’s pants. In the few seconds it took him to pull free, I managed to stagger up to within a few yards of him. Clear shot! His shoulders were so broad even I couldn’t miss! I raised my weapon, squeezed the trigger.
And nothing happened. My hands shook as I vainly jabbed at buttons and gadgets. What was that saying? Safety on, you got a shot, safety off, you’re gonna get caught? No, that didn’t sound right. I was so tired I couldn’t think straight. I staggered toward the Cobra, knowing I’d never catch him in time. He was twenty feet from his goal. Fifteen … ten … five … the dumb gorilla was dancing toward the goal, whipping around to taunt me, waving the red stick high above his head, doing a mocking waggle-hipped victory dance.
Anger boiled up in me. Taunt me, will you? I hurled myself toward him in a clench-jawed, do-or-die leap so incredibly pointless that he reeled backward in disbelief and stumbled over a hidden rock. Then I was on him, locking my arms around his knees, tackling him to the ground. We rolled down a slope in a bumping, thumping ball of flailing limbs, and he landed hard on his belly, the breath knocked out of him, his helmet jarred loose, the red glow stick spinning away.
Groaning, he rolled over.
I stared at the exposed face.
It was Ben Labeck. And he was way beyond mad.
“Foul!” he croaked.
But he didn’t seem to have any broken bones and the game was still on. While he fumbled for his helmet, I snatched the red stick from the ground and, operating under the principle of “in for a penny, in for a pound,” grabbed the Cobra’s blue stick, too.
Then I ran, tailed by two furious Cobras. I stuck the glow sticks in my pockets so they wouldn’t shine. I crawled on my belly like a reptile and slunk like a skunk. Exhausted, with a shrieking pain in my side and my lungs feeling like they were being skewered with barbecue forks, I nonetheless felt a wild exhilaration. This was like the games of commando I’d played with my brothers back on the farm. Being small worked to my advantage, making me harder to hit. I was smoke, I was wind, I was air!
I was lead. I could scarcely make my legs move as I staggered out of the woods into open ground, with the Cobras breathing down my neck, pellets zipping everywhere, dye spattering the snow. The spectators were howling. Dropping my gun, clutching the blue stick like an offering to the gods, I dived for the net and jabbed the blue glow stick through it. A hail of Cobra pellets peppered my backside, but I was home, baby, home!
Bedlam. The Mojos spilled onto the field, hauled me to my feet, and set about killing me. They yanked off my helmet, whacked me on the back until I staggered, showered me with snow, whirled me around in their arms, whooped, yipped, and screeched until my eardrums nearly blew in. Meanwhile, the Cobras were equally insane. A furious posse was dancing around the judges, screaming that the goal didn’t count because I’d committed a body-contact foul.
In the end, our team was penalized thirty points for my body foul, but since we gained a hundred points for capturing the flag, it didn’t matter. The judges were in no mood to listen to arguments; at this point, they were as cold and wet as everybody else and just wanted to go home. I kept trying to break away from the Mojos so I could go find Labeck, but it was ages before I finally managed to peel myself away. The jumbotron had been taken down, the bleachers were deserted, and the parking lot was rapidly emptying.
Eddie and Rico left in Eddie’s car, making me swear I’d attend the victory party, which they planned to hold in Spawn’s hospital room.
“I’ll be there,” I promised, crossing my fingers behind my back.
I finally spotted Labeck. His back rigid, he was steaming down a trail that led toward the lake. Even a hundred feet away, I could make out the waves of anger emanating from him, waves so sizzling they were melting the falling snow.
“Ben,” I called.
He didn’t turn around.
Chapter Thirty
There’s no cheaper high than having someone take a shot at you and miss.
—Maguire’s Maxims
“Ben?”
When I finally caught up to him I was so out of breath I could hardly talk.
He spun around to face me. He’d shaved off his beard, probably because it was driving him crazy. For a moment I thought he was bleeding, but then realized he was covered with Mojo paint spatters. He was still clutching his paint gun. “Come to gloat, Mazie? Congratulations on making me look like the sissy of the century.”
I stared at him. “That tackle, you mean? I didn’t know it was you.”
“That illegal tackle.”
He turned and stomped off down the path.
I followed. He crashed through scrubby trees whose branches whipped back and slapped me, and now I was mad because he was being so rude.
“What about the taunting? Taunting is illegal, too!”
“Only in football.”
“You shouldn’t have done that dumb victory dance. That’s like counting your chickens before they’re hatched.”
“That’s what I need now, farmyard clichés.”
“You know what your problem is?”
“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“Your problem is you’re a sore loser! And your victory dance was lame! I mean what was that supposed to be, the hoochie coochie?”
We’d reached the old bungalows, set back among a grove of tall cedar trees that shielded them from the parking lot. Most of the cabins had collapsed roofs or stoved-in walls, but there were a couple that were still inhabitable. Labeck marched up to the fourth cabin in the row, kicked the door open, and stomped inside. Not waiting for an invite, I followed, closing the door after me. Not that it made much difference. The indoor temperature was only about a degree warmer than outside. The entire cabin was no larger than a ranch-house bedroom. Its walls were the logs of the cabin itself, darkened by age and rimed with frost, its floor was worn linoleum over a cement slab, and its windows were boarded up with plywood. Shelves along one wall held canned food, liquor, and a couple of battered saucepans. No toilet, no plumbing, and no electricity, although there was a miniature camp stove that ran on a canister of butane gas. The place smelled of mold, mouse droppings, and kerosene from a hanging lamp. Labeck’s sleeping bag was tossed atop a filthy-looking bed that stood against the far wall.
“You shouldn’t have been in that tournament in the first place,” I said, picking up the squabble right where we’d left off. “It was a needless risk! What if someone had seen you?”
“My helmet hid my face!” he roared. “I was using the men’s john when this guy I know from my hockey team spotted me, said they were desperate for a sub, and asked me to come in. It sounded like fun, so I said sure.”
“Your helmet came off!”
“Whose fault was that?”
“Yours, for being there in the first place. A million people must have seen you. The game was being shown on local cable. The cops could be on their way right now.”
“Let ’em come.” Labeck flung his paint gun down on the bed so hard it bounced and lodged against the wall. A squirrel’s nest fell out of the rafters. “I’m done hiding. I’m turning myself in. Jail’s got to be better than this.” He snatched the sleeping bag off the cot and started rolling it up.
“So this is some brainless macho-male-jockstrap thing?”
Ignoring me, he picked up his gym bag and glanced around the room, checking to make
sure he hadn’t left anything. The light from the flickering kerosene lamp lit his angry, set face. He turned toward the door.
I lunged in front of it, spreading out my arms. “I won’t let you give yourself up.”
He snorted. “Mazie, will you please move out of the way?”
Okay, it was stupid. Trying to block a guy Labeck’s size was like a housefly trying to block a descending flyswatter by using mental telepathy. Hastily, I scanned the room for something to disable the big dope long enough for him to come to his senses. Nothing. Well, then, I’d just have to rely on brute force.
He tried to step around me. “Ben,” I growled, raising myself on tiptoe so I could look him straight in the eye. “Don’t make me take you down.”
That’s when the door crashed open, slamming me back against the wall. Two men charged into the room. I recognized Gozzy from the parking lot, a hulk with a craggy forehead, cheeks purpled from inflamed sores, and a fleshy, wet mouth like a carp. He was wearing a snowmobile suit and a fleece-lined leather cap with dangling flaps like sheep ears. A coil of nylon rope was looped around one shoulder, and he held a shotgun that looked capable of halting a charging grizzly.
The other man was Alex Petrov. He was holding a semiautomatic handgun, and he looked jumpy enough to shoot. He wore a heavy knee-length overcoat and a ragg wool cap worked with a reindeer design. The lamplight gleamed in his pale eyes, and his skimpy lips were clamped in a hard line.
Gozzy giggled, his voice surprisingly high-pitched for a man his size. “Too bad for you, Labeck—but when these here dudes come lookin’ for you, they paid me a lot more’n you did.”
He had a twitchy rapid blink, the hallmark of the meth freak. His gaze focused on me. He licked his red lips with a slobbery tongue. “I’m gonna do stuff to Little Miss Whup-Ass here that’ll make her eyes roll.”
“No,” Petrov said sharply. “You’ll do what you’re told.” He pointed his gun at Labeck. “Get on the bed.”
When Labeck didn’t move, Petrov yanked me back against his chest, clamping his gun arm around my waist. With his other hand he fished something out of his pocket and laid it against my cheek. It was icy cold and sharp-edged. A surgical tool, I thought—maybe a scalpel. “Lie down.”
Labeck sat down on the bed.
“All the way.” Petrov carved a thin line down the side of my neck. I gasped in pain. It felt like the world’s worst paper cut. “Or her eye will be next.”
Labeck quickly obeyed, arranging himself on the bed.
“Gozchika, get the cylinders,” Petrov snapped.
Gozzy looked puzzled. “Them gas things, you mean?”
Petrov’s tone took on a gritted-teeth quality. “Yes, the gas things. Hurry up.”
Gozzy slammed out. Petrov moved the gun down to his side but he kept the scalpel against my cheekbone, never taking his eyes off Labeck, who stared back coolly, his hand flopping as if by accident toward the wall.
Gozzy came back inside. His hands were so big he could haul two butane gas cylinders—each about the size of a fire extinguisher—in one hand, while holding his shotgun in the other. He bent and set the cylinders on the floor with a grunt.
My stomach went into spasms. I guessed what they planned to do. Truss Labeck and me to the bed, then fire at the butane cylinders from the doorway. The highly flammable butane would erupt in a giant fireball, burn down the cabin, and fry Labeck and me to a mass of blackened carbon.
“Tie him,” Petrov told Gozzy, jerking his head toward Labeck.
Once they’d tied Labeck down, we were both lost. We needed a diversion, fast.
Hey, wanna see my tits? Nah. Having to fumble through three layers of clothing would destroy the element of surprise. Did I have something in my pockets to use as a weapon? A butcher knife, a cattle prod, a magic wand that had somehow fallen out of the sky? My scrabbling fingers touched crumpled Kleenex … crumpled Kleenex … half a candy bar … a glow stick from the tourney … paper clips … and a packet of red paint pellets the size of penny gumballs in a flimsy cellophane wrapper. Clawing open the wrapper with one hand, I flung the pellets to the floor, where they bounced and bipped like popping corn. Gozzy’s eyes spun as though he were watching Sonic Pinball, and Petrov took the razor off my face for a single unlucky second.
In that instant, Labeck pulled the paint gun out from behind the bed, brought up the barrel, and shot Petrov in the eye.
Never, ever, aim for someone’s face. This rule is drilled into paintballers from their toddler days. A pellet to the eye can blind, maim, or kill.
Fortunately, Labeck’s sport was hockey. He was used to a higher level of violence.
Petrov staggered backward, hands clamped to face, squealing in pain. Gozzy, slow to comprehend what was happening, was a count behind the astoundingly swift Labeck, who flung himself off the bed, seized a gas cylinder, and swung it at Gozzy’s shotgun.
The shotgun boomed. Labeck and I dived out the door just as the first butane tank exploded. Hand in hand, we fled along the path toward the parking lot. I risked a look behind. The cabin was engulfed in flames. Two figures were silhouetted in the doorway, shouldering each other aside in their rush to escape the fire. We were safe; we had a big lead on them; we were nearly to the parking lot.
A man stepped out of the shadows of a tree just ahead, blocking the path.
I squinted, trying to see through the falling snow. It was Jared Kennison.
“Jared!” I called. “Petrov’s here. He’s—”
Kennison brought something up to his shoulder. I stared stupidly at him.
Labeck yanked me aside a second before the bullet would have hit me.
“Rifle,” he hissed in my ear, as the gun’s report echoed.
We veered off through the snow-shrouded undergrowth, keeping low to the ground, halting at last in the cover of a stand of snow-blanketed cedars. “He’s not going to waste time shooting in the dark,” Labeck said, pitching his voice low. “He’ll wait until we break cover. Where’s your car?”
“In the parking lot, near the exit.” My head was still reeling as I tried to take in the fact that Jared Kennison was shooting at us. He must have been in the silver car with Petrov. They’d locked on to me outside the coffee shop, and tagged me all the way to the lake. Now my stupidity might cost Labeck and me our lives.
“We’re going to make a run for your car,” Labeck said. “Have your keys ready.”
It took me a panic-stricken second to find the keys, buried deep in my jeans pocket.
We crept through the woods, and it was like paintball all over again, except this time the hit would be a spine-shattering bullet, not a blotch of food coloring and gelatin.
The scrub pines ended and we emerged in the parking lot. It was empty except for a pickup truck, the silver car, and in the far corner, an Escort-sized lump of snow I assumed was Pig.
We ran for the car. Suddenly Labeck went down. The rifle clap rang out a millisecond later. It took my befuddled brain another second to register the fact that Labeck had been shot.
Chapter Thirty-one
Objects in mirror may be creepier than they appear.
—Maguire’s Maxims
Labeck was up instantly, dragging me along. More thunderous claps, and now bullets were spraying into the parking lot gravel, creating small, snowy geysers. Luckily, I hadn’t locked the car. We tumbled in and I was jabbing the ignition, punching it into drive, and goosing the gas before our doors even swung shut. Labeck reached across and switched on the wipers. A bullet drilled through the rear window, buzzed past my ear with a fft like a cricket fart, and cracked the front windshield. Another shot spiderwebbed the driver’s side mirror. I still couldn’t believe that the guy who’d made me peanut butter and jelly sandwiches last night was now trying to kill us.
Pig galumphed over a row of concrete parking abutments, bucketed in and out of a ditch, and skidded as we hit the highway pavement.
“Left, left, left!” Labeck yelled frantically, adding his own
strength to the wheel as we slewed into a hard ninety-degree turn, the rear tires shimmying before finally clawing in. It was as though Pig sensed the danger, because for the first time in its life, Pig flew! Tree branches raked its sides and ruts shook its frame, but Pig rocketed along as though its tires were fiery wings. Something must have jarred loose when the bullets hit, because the car’s heater suddenly thumped into action, pouring out delicious, hot, dusty air that made me sneeze.
“Where are we?” I asked, desperately scanning the landscape for a house, a farm, a place where we could pull in and get help. But there were no signs of civilization—only trees, trees, and more trees, crowding right up to the edge of the road. We must be in the state forest.
“Just keep driving,” Labeck said, leaning over and clicking my seat belt into place. “This road’s got to go someplace.”
“He shot you,” I said, trying to keep my voice from trembling. Astonishingly, my hands were steady on the wheel, although my insides were a mass of quivering, icy worms. “We need to get you to a hospital.” The dashboard shed enough light to reveal the blood blossoming on Ben’s thigh. In my mind’s eye I could see a hospital emergency room, all bright lights and efficient doctors, one of those lovely modern cubicles where they’d pump Labeck full of painkillers and stuff tubes up his nose. “Use your phone—call 911!”
Ben patted frantically through his pockets. “Must have lost it in the woods.”
“Mine’s in my purse.”
He hooked my purse out of the backseat and rooted around. “Can’t find it.”
My heart sank. If my phone was also missing we were in big trouble. “How bad is your leg?” I asked
“I don’t know.” His voice was tight. “The bullet went right through. I don’t think any bones are broken.”
“We’ve got to stop the bleeding. Use that scarf in the backseat—it’s in the shopping bag.” It was the gray scarf I’d bought for him, the one he’d refused to wear.
Crazy for You: Life and Love on the Lam (A Loveswept Contemporary Romance) Page 21
