by Stone, Kyla
Sour acid burned the back of Quinn’s throat. Nausea swirled in her gut as dismay filled her. She knew what happened next. She’d seen it before.
She barely had time to seize Milo by the back of his coat, spin him around, and shove his face against her stomach.
So he couldn’t see. So he wouldn’t have to watch.
Desoto squeezed the trigger. He fired a double tap into the man’s chest.
The gunshots shattered the air. The sound exploded against Quinn’s eardrums.
Milo clapped his hands over his ears. A flock of birds resting on a telephone wire took to the sky in a startled flurry of wings and frantic squawking.
The force of the blast knocked Overalls’ body backward over the porch railing. From Quinn’s angle, she couldn’t see how he’d landed. He could’ve landed on a cloud and it wouldn’t have mattered. Two massive bullets punched through his ticker meant he was dead on arrival.
She stared, stunned. It all happened so fast that her brain barely had time to process it.
Desoto took hold of Blair and yanked him up. Blair flung out his arms defensively. His mouth gaped open.
He was yelling something, but Quinn couldn’t translate the words. Her ears were still ringing.
Three quick blasts followed the first two. Blair fell back and sagged against the banister. He clutched feebly at his chest, staring down in shock at the three new holes in his flawless wool coat.
A few feet away, Mrs. Blair cowered on the porch, her hands over her head, weeping.
The man and woman with the sleds were already fleeing down the center of the road. They’d left their sleds—and Mrs. Blair—behind.
Outrage burned through Quinn’s fear. Whatever crimes these people were guilty of, it didn’t warrant death. Not like this, with these maniacs acting as judge, jury, and executioner.
This wasn’t justice. She knew that much.
She longed to stop it, to freaking do something, but it was too late. She was no match for their guns.
For once, she held herself back. Gran was right. They needed to wait until the right moment to act. And it sure as hell wasn’t now. She and Milo needed to get the hell out of here.
“Milo,” she whispered. “We need to go. We need to go before they see us—”
Mrs. Blair fell over her husband’s lifeless body.
Desoto aimed his rifle at her. “Do you need to die, too?”
Mrs. Blair screamed.
Milo pushed away from Quinn. She was too stunned to hold on.
He ran toward the white house, toward the murderers masquerading as militia.
“Milo! No!” She grabbed at him, but he was already out of reach.
“Leave them alone!” Milo screamed. “Stop hurting people!”
On the porch, Desoto turned in their direction. The muzzle of his weapon swung with him.
Without thinking a coherent thought, Quinn sprinted after Milo. Legs pumping, lungs burning, panic sparking bright.
Her hand found its way into her pocket, nudging aside the iPod and coiled earbuds and closing around her slingshot.
Luther grasped Mrs. Blair beneath her arms and lugged her down the porch steps. He pushed her into the snow. She landed on her hands and knees.
“Run!” he shouted. “Go!”
Mrs. Blair scrambled to her feet. She ran down the driveway erratically, arms flailing, tripping in the snow, falling, and then pulling herself up again.
Quinn didn’t take her gaze off Desoto. He strode down the porch steps, carrying the rifle low, not exactly pointed at Milo but not pointed away from him, either.
“Milo!” Quinn shouted.
Brave, fearless Milo acted like he didn’t even see the gun. He ran straight at the fake soldier and pummeled his stomach with his tiny fists. “Go away! Leave us alone and go away!”
With his free hand, Desoto shoved Milo away from him. Hard. “Get the hell out of here!”
Milo almost lost his balance. He stumbled, then regained his footing and launched himself at Desoto again.
Quinn skidded to a stop ten feet away. “Don’t you dare lay a hand on him!”
Desoto ignored her. He dropped his rifle. He seized Milo around his thin neck with both hands and lifted him clear off the ground.
Rage streaked through her veins. She pulled the slingshot and a few rounds of ammo from her pocket with shaking hands. She planted her feet.
Milo’s face turned red. He beat weakly at Desoto’s muscled arms.
Desoto grimaced. “I warned you, you little—”
Quinn fitted her wrist guard, loaded the steel ball into the pouch, and drew the tapered bands taut, to her cheek, just below her right eye.
She canted the frame horizontally, lined up her sights with Desoto’s ugly flat face.
She did not weigh the consequences. She did not think about anything but nailing her target. Her angle wasn’t right to strike an eye with a direct shot. She lowered her sights slightly, zeroed in on a new target.
Someone was shouting. She didn’t hear them, didn’t comprehend their words. Sound drained away. Everything drained away.
Everything but her rage, her hate, and her absolute focus.
Quinn exhaled—and released.
The quarter-inch steel ball launched with tremendous velocity, whizzing through the air at a couple hundred feet per second.
At twenty feet away, Quinn did not miss. She never missed.
She shot Sebastian Desoto in the throat.
The steel ball struck him below and just to the right of his Adam’s apple. It was not a bullet. It was not powerful enough to break the skin, but it could still do damage. And it would certainly hurt like a mother.
Desoto flinched. His eyes bulged. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
He released Milo. The boy dropped to the snow in a crumpled heap.
Desoto’s hands went to his neck. The nasty purple bulge was already the size of a marble.
“What did you do to me?” he snarled hoarsely. His words came out raspy, like his throat was sandpaper.
Quinn already had another round loaded and the band strung to her cheek. It thrummed with tension, but her hands were steady.
“Your voice box is badly bruised,” she said with a calmness she didn’t feel. Her heart jackhammered against her ribs. “Nothing is broken, unfortunately.”
Milo scrambled to his feet. He stood between Desoto and Quinn, nervous and indecisive. He looked scared now. Good. A little fear never hurt anyone.
“Milo,” Quinn said, “get behind me right now.”
He obeyed. He scampered to her side without a backward glance.
“I’ll kill you!” Desoto croaked. He lunged for the AK-47, grabbed it, and started toward her.
She tightened her grip on the slingshot and kept her aim true. “Take another step, and the next one I unleash will pierce straight through your eye socket.”
Desoto halted. Eight feet away now. He raised the rifle and pointed it at her chest.
Quinn’s legs went weak and shaky. She could barely hold herself upright.
She did not back down. She couldn’t afford to.
“If you’re lucky,” she said, “it’ll just turn that eye to jelly and stop there. If you’re not, it punches into your brain. It’s just a little steel ball, but inside your soft, squishy brain? Who knows what important functions it’ll scramble? I assume you enjoy speaking and thinking? Remembering your own name? Taking a piss by yourself?”
Desoto aimed at her head. “Not if I shoot you dead first, you little whore—”
“Enough!” Luther appeared out of nowhere. He stepped between Desoto and Quinn. He held up his free hand, palm out, in a placating gesture. In his right hand, he held his rifle pointed at the ground. “Slow this rodeo down, okay? That’s Chief Sheridan’s son right there.”
Desoto’s expression didn’t change. “What’s the police chief got to do with us?”
“Come on, now,” Luther said. “Sinclair wouldn’t like it.
You and I both know that. And what the superintendent doesn’t like, Sutter doesn’t like.”
Desoto sneered. “For now.”
“For now,” Luther acknowledged. “You really don’t want to hurt these kids. We’ve done enough. It’s enough.”
Desoto blew out a frustrated breath. He lowered the AK-47. His gaze never left Quinn’s face. His eyes narrowed with barely restrained rage. The welt on his throat bulged with his every swallow. “This isn’t over.”
Quinn didn’t look away. She didn’t lower the slingshot.
Milo peeked around her side. “Go to hell!”
“Language, Small Fry,” she said.
“He deserves it!”
“Can’t argue with you there.”
With exaggerated movements, Desoto clicked on the safety and affixed the rifle to its sling. With a last parting glare, he turned his back on them and stomped across the yard to the waiting snowmobiles, stepping over the bodies like they were no more than trash.
“You just killed two people!” Wiggins cried.
Quinn had almost forgotten he was there.
Desoto sneered at him. “And?”
Wiggins visibly swallowed. He reached up and prodded the purple shiner swelling his right eye nearly shut. His face was swollen and bloodied. His clothes were torn and stained with blood splatters. He cradled one arm to his chest. Maybe it was sprained or broken.
“You should be thanking us,” Desoto said hoarsely. “We just saved your life. And your house.” He said “your” like it was in air quotes, with an edge of mockery.
Wiggins heard it loud and clear. “Thank you,” he stammered.
“You’re welcome,” Luther said quietly. He was staring at Mr. Blair’s body, at the red soaked into the man’s wool coat like paint.
Wiggins grasped the porch railing to steady himself. “What am I supposed to do with the bodies? How am I supposed to get this blood off the porch?”
“Leave ‘em there to scare of the next wannabe thieves. What do we care?” Desoto took a seat on the first snowmobile. He shook his head in disgust. “Are we supposed to do everything for you? You want us to wipe your lazy butt next?”
“No.”
“No what?”
“No…sir?”
Desoto’s expression didn’t change, his face like a slab of granite. He massaged his throat. “That’s more like it.”
Luther took the second snowmobile. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and picked up his helmet. “Desoto, shut your trap already. Talking can’t be good for your throat. Let’s go see that nurse at the shelter, get you fixed up.”
“This town isn’t worth it,” Desoto rasped. “I don’t even know why we’re doing this.”
Luther didn’t answer. He glanced back at Quinn. There was something in his face—remorse, regret maybe. The same as that day at Gran’s house. It just made her more furious.
“What are you waiting for?” she said. “You heard Milo. Get out of here! And while you’re at it, get the hell out of our town, too!”
“Make no mistake,” Desoto said, his lip curling in contempt, hatred flashing in his eyes. “This town isn’t yours. Fall Creek belongs to us.”
Pike
Day Twenty
Gavin Pike stopped in his tracks. After seven long days, he’d finally found what he was searching for.
The cold brittle air seared his cheeks and nose. Each inhalation burned his throat and lungs. The sky was a dreary slate gray, heavy with clouds. The bright sun reflecting off the massive snowbanks hurt his eyes.
At least it wasn’t snowing. At least he was out of that stuffy, suffocating house and away from that insufferable family.
They had taken him into their home; that didn’t mean he had to like them for it.
Hourly, he fantasized about breaking their fingers, one by one. Snap, snap, snap.
In an incredible display of self-control, he’d restrained himself. He prided himself on his discipline.
After all, the hungrier you are, the more satisfying the meal.
The single clove cigarette he allowed himself per day was the only thing that kept him sane. That and the goal he always kept fixed in his mind: find Hannah, end the soldier and the dog, take the baby.
Three days ago, the blizzard had finally ceased. Snow drifts piled higher than windows and buried stalled cars. From sunup to sundown, Pike had spent each day searching the town.
He visited every house with smoke swirling from a chimney. Ten houses. Twenty.
His camouflage was excellent. It was beyond excellent. He was polite. He flashed his reserve officer badge. The townspeople opened their doors to him. They were happy to help.
He knew his quarry was close by. Even though no more than twenty miles separated Watervliet from the outskirts of Fall Creek, they wouldn’t have gone far.
In this cold, Hannah and her soldier wouldn’t have survived without a fireplace. In this snow, no vehicle would make it out of here.
They were still here. He felt it. He knew it.
Hannah was meant for him. Her child was meant for him.
He’d finally come to a decision on the matter of his progeny. After he killed the girl, he would return to Fall Creek with the child. He would bestow it upon his mother. When the time was right, he would teach it the ways of the world. How to hunt. Who to kill.
It was ironic, fitting. He liked the poetry of it.
Door after door, he was met with helpful but confused glances, regretful head shakes.
He did not give up. He did not move on to greener pastures. He returned to the stodgy family each evening and allowed them to serve him food and provide him with shelter.
They wanted him to leave, he felt it, but they were too polite to ask.
He didn’t care what they wanted. He would rely on their generosity until it ran out, and then he would take what they had left via gunpoint.
Break a few bones in that little boy’s hand, and their attitudes would transform with fantastic swiftness.
He acted sicker than he was. The injury from the damned dog bite he’d sustained in the Branch library had nearly healed. The aches and bruises from the accident and the fall to the ice were fading fast, and the hypothermia had lost its grip on him.
He woke up each morning healthier than the day before. Angrier. More determined.
He kept looking. Thirty houses. Fifty.
He did not give up. He would never give up.
Yesterday evening, as night fell and the shadows stretched across the snow like claws, his perseverance had finally been rewarded. A neighbor several blocks west had caught sight of a big white dog frolicking in the snow across the street.
That night, it had been too dark to follow the tracks.
Today was a fresh day. A beautiful, brilliant day.
Now, Pike had again found what he’d been looking for. He smiled.
There in the snow was a perfect set of paw prints. Too large to be any other dog but the one he sought.
The one who would lead him straight to Hannah Sheridan.
Hannah
Day Twenty
Hannah Sheridan felt like a different person.
She had changed so much in the last three weeks that she barely recognized herself. Her skin felt tight and ill-fitting. Like her bones were the wrong shape.
Or maybe they were the correct shape, and she just had to grow into her new self, to adjust like she was learning to adjust to everything else.
She stood in front of the mirror in the upstairs bathroom of the house she’d given birth in nine days ago. A flashlight provided enough light to see by. The house was on a septic system, so a bucket filled with water next to the tub allowed them to flush the toilet.
Her infant daughter slept downstairs. Liam was there, too—the gruff, reticent soldier who’d saved her life more than once. He had also become someone she cared for. Someone important.
She touched her soft belly. It had mostly deflated but still felt squishy. Her body was finally
becoming her own again.
It was her mind that was different. The nightmares were lessening. The terrible flashbacks of her captivity were fading before a slew of brighter, happier memories.
She was braver, less fearful. She no longer cowered.
She was shedding the old Hannah to make way for something new.
She tugged her braid over her shoulder and pulled off the hair tie. She unwove the strands and let her long hair tumble to the small of her back. It was thick, wavy, and chocolate-brown, though ratty with split ends.
Last night, she’d washed it. They still had water stored in the hot water heater. Liam had used the washing machine’s supply hose to connect to the water heater valve and drain the water into several cooking pots, a couple of empty water jugs, and their water bottles.
He’d also collected the water from the back of the toilet tanks in the three bathrooms. Since it was clean and hadn’t been chemically treated, it was drinkable. It had frozen in the empty house, and Liam had chiseled out the ice in chunks.
He’d warmed the water and filled the sink for her.
It felt so good to be clean. Her itchy, oily scalp was now freshly washed and tingling.
The previous occupants had left their shampoo and conditioner. Hair spray and hair gel, too. She picked up the hair spray, shook the can, and set it down.
She imagined some people were desperately missing their usual toiletries right now—make up, hair dye, and their favorite hair products.
She’d gone without for five years. She had no use for those things now.
Maybe later. Maybe when she was finally home.
Hannah picked up the hair shears she’d found in the cabinet beneath the sink. It had been five years since she’d cut her hair. Pike hadn’t allowed her something so dangerous as a pair of scissors.
Slowly, methodically, she cut the first strands. It was more than just hair she cut. It was years of nightmares, years of abuse, years of degradation, pain, and horror.
All the times he’d seized her hair and dragged her to the floor—gone. All the times he’d savagely jerked her head back—gone.
