Edge of Collapse Series (Book 4): Edge of Anarchy

by Stone, Kyla

  She cut off her hair, lock by lock. Strands swirled into the sink. Her hair filled the bowl until it looked like the nest of a small animal.

  She kept cutting until it looked fairly even. Her new, shorter tresses swept her shoulders. Her head felt lighter. Everything felt lighter.

  Soon, she would be home. Home to her family. To Milo.

  She wasn’t sure what she would be returning to. What Noah would be like. How they might resurrect their failing marriage.

  Whatever the future held, she would be ready for it.

  The new Hannah Sheridan looked in the mirror and smiled.

  Liam

  Day Twenty-One

  The house that Liam and Hannah had taken refuge in was located on the outskirts of town.

  It was at the end of a cul-de-sac, surrounded by trees to the west, with the river directly behind it. They hadn’t seen or heard any people or vehicles since they’d arrived.

  That was a good thing, but Liam Coleman wasn’t going to let his guard down. He never let his guard down.

  While Hannah recovered physically from the ordeal of childbirth, Liam had spent the days strengthening their defenses.

  He barricaded the plywood he’d nailed to the sliding glass doors with a sofa. He used the wedges from his go-bag to block the doors and whittled shims to jam the windows shut. Even if the glass was broken, they wouldn’t open.

  He cleaned his weapons and sharpened his knife. He always kept his Gerber tactical knife and holstered Glock on his body, a round ready in the chamber.

  He studied the map and plotted the remainder of their journey to Fall Creek, which they should make in less than a day if he could scavenge them a working snowmobile or truck with a snowplow. He’d searched the nearby houses—many of them already scavenged—but he didn’t want to stray too far from Hannah.

  He found deadfall among the trees behind the house and chopped more firewood. He cooked breakfast, lunch, and dinner for Hannah, Ghost, and himself, assembling creative meals based on the cans of soups and beans and boxes of pasta in the pantry.

  Ghost happily gulped up anything. He was basically a garbage can on legs.

  Liam’s back twinged as he bent over the counter to finish up the dishes. He missed the convenience of dishwashers. Washing everything by hand was a pain—literally.

  Liam had spent his life preparing for any threat, any disaster, any eventuality. He’d trained for decades, becoming a soldier, a warrior, strengthening and hardening his body until it was a smooth, well-oiled killing machine.

  But the crushed disc injury he’d sustained as an operator with Delta Forces continued to haunt him. In the last three weeks, he’d pushed his body further and harder than he had in years. His spine had protested, but he ignored it. The pain wouldn’t be ignored forever.

  He winced and rubbed his aching lower back with wet, sudsy fingers.

  “Is your back bothering you?” Hannah asked.

  She stood in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen, her head cocked, her lip caught between her small white teeth.

  She wore gray sweatpants and a soft pink sweater that she’d found in one of the closets upstairs. They fit her nicely. The pink brightened her cheeks.

  She was looking healthier. It was more than that, though.

  Her green eyes were shining. Her chocolate-brown hair was brushed, clean, and swished around her shoulders.

  She’d cut it. It looked…good. She looked good. Beautiful, even.

  As if she could read his thoughts, she blushed and gave him a shy smile.

  He cleared his throat awkwardly. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

  Liam found it difficult to look at her for too long. It was a bit like looking into the sun. Warm and inviting, but painful.

  Her presence did something to him, unnerved him in a way he wasn’t prepared for. She threatened to awaken a longing inside him that he didn’t deserve and could never have.

  He dropped his gaze and concentrated on the dishes. He scrubbed the last plate with a bit of melted snow and soap and let it soak in a second pot of warmed water. “We should go soon.”

  After she’d nearly died in childbirth, he’d been hesitant to push travel, even though he was antsy and hated being cooped up day after day. She was already exhausted from her ordeal, not to mention everything that had come before.

  But she was recovering well. Last night, she’d helped him prepare cornbread slathered in honey, Kraft macaroni and cheese with water instead of milk and butter, and canned peaches for dessert.

  Her company had been enjoyable. More than enjoyable. And the food wasn’t terrible, either.

  If he was completely honest with himself, maybe he’d been putting it off. Three weeks ago, he’d been eager to deliver her home and be rid of the burden of responsibility.

  Now, the thought of delivering her to her husband and heading north alone to his own isolated homestead left him feeling strangely bereft.

  Hannah bit her lower lip. She nodded. “It’s time.”

  “I’ve been looking for a snowmobile, something that can get through this deep snow. I’ll go out again today. If we leave first thing tomorrow, we could be in Fall Creek by lunchtime.”

  A complicated mix of emotions flashed across her face—anticipation and joy mingled with a hint of anxiety. She was probably anxious about the reunion, worried about the well-being of her family after such a long separation.

  Guilt pricked him. She needed to get home to them. She deserved to see her son again.

  She cleared her throat. “You should have a good meal before you go out. Do you feel like fettuccine alfredo for breakfast? I think there’s a jar of alfredo sauce left in the pantry.”

  “Not sure that’s part of a complete breakfast.”

  “I’m certain that it is. If donuts make the cut, I don’t see how pasta wouldn’t.”

  Hannah hesitated. She rubbed her damaged hand, then took the long way around the kitchen island, avoiding the basement door located at the far end of the kitchen.

  The door to the basement was in a small hallway alcove that shared the door to the garage and the back door, leading to a small patio with outdoor furniture covered in snow.

  Liam’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing.

  All week, she’d studiously avoided approaching the basement. Maybe she would shun basements for the rest of her life. He understood her reluctance. He didn’t blame her.

  He had his own demons that he’d rather evade than face. Some memories were too awful to relive—ever.

  They hadn’t spoken Pike’s name since Hannah had told him what the monster had done to her and her second child. Just the thought of Pike filled him with outrage, loathing, and disgust.

  Liam was sorry he hadn’t gotten the chance to finish Pike himself, with his own bare hands.

  The smallest sliver of unease wormed its way into his gut. He hated the fact that he hadn’t seen Pike’s body. That he hadn’t drilled the kill shot into his skull himself.

  Liam didn’t like leaving anything to chance. The hole in the ice haunted his thoughts, invaded his nightmares. Swallowed his certainty.

  After they’d driven Pike’s snowmobile off the bridge, Liam had wanted to scale the embankment and hunt for that maniac until he’d found his body and made 100% sure.

  Hannah’s preeclampsia had made the decision for him. Though it defied his training and soldier’s instinct, he couldn’t risk her life.

  His instinct to protect—to save—had been stronger.

  The dishes finished, Liam wiped his hands on a hand towel next to the sink and moved to the rear door. He tugged aside the blackout curtains that he’d duct-taped to the window to do a security check and watch for Ghost.

  He wouldn’t leave Hannah alone without the Great Pyrenees there to guard her. In addition, he’d found a whistle in the garage which she wore around her neck beneath her sweater.

  If she was in trouble, she would blow on the whistle, and Liam would come running. He made s
ure never to stray out of range, though he might have to in order to find a snowmobile.

  He peered through the narrow sliver of window, instinctively checking the woods and scanning the back yard for threats. He didn’t see Ghost.

  The dog had gone out exploring a few hours each of the last several days. He always came back covered in snow, dirt, and burs, tired but happy.

  A dog like a Great Pyrenees was meant to be outside. Ghost hated being cooped up as much as Liam did, but the time to recover was good for him. His fur was already growing back over the bald spot that Dr. Laudé had shaved when she’d alleviated his brain swelling.

  As much as Liam didn’t want to admit it, these last nine days had been a godsend for both Hannah and Ghost. And maybe for Liam, too. A vital break from the constant chaos and threat of death always nipping at their heels. A chance to regroup, to heal.

  The baby awoke with a startled cry. Charlotte Rose was sleeping in the fire-warmed living room, tucked inside a makeshift bassinet—a dresser drawer stuffed with the softest sheets they could find.

  Liam had cut up another pair of sheets to make diapers. They only sort of worked. Real diapers were high on the list of needs, along with wipes, bottles, pacifiers, butt powder, and everything else that came with a baby.

  Hannah hurried into the living room and returned a moment later with a small bundle in her arms. He watched her, serene and radiant and full of a deep, abandoned joy.

  Joy wasn’t an emotion he had much experience with. Love, either.

  Unless you counted unrequited love, which came with an equal share of pain and heartache.

  Suddenly uncomfortable, he fished around for something to say. “She sleeps so well.”

  She looked down at the infant with a soft smile. “So did Milo.”

  She held the bundle out to Liam. “Can you hold her? My mom used to make alfredo with rosemary and garlic. I bet they have some rosemary in a drawer somewhere.”

  Liam took the baby easily, cradling the small human being in the crook of his arm. It hadn’t always been that way. The first time Hannah had asked him to hold her, he’d blanched.

  “I don’t do babies,” he’d mumbled.

  “I call B.S.” Hannah had rolled her eyes. “How many people other than OBs can say they’ve helped birth a human? Not many.”

  He didn’t say he’d done it twice. He didn’t tell her how the thought of his nephew skewered his heart. How Jessa’s death played out in the theater of his mind every night, a terrible film that never ceased.

  He wanted to, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. The words stuck in his mouth like nails.

  “I’d say your expertise already outdoes most males on the planet,” Hannah said. “Here, take her. You’ll do fine.”

  He swallowed, about to protest again, but somehow the bundle was in his arms and Hannah was already moving away, a sly grin on her face.

  “See?” Hannah said. “She likes you.”

  He’d held the baby stiffly at first. She was so small, so fragile. So tiny—just a breath, a bird in the hand, almost nothing at all and everything at once.

  Now, he held her with more ease, but just as much care.

  She scrunched her delicate little face and stared up at him with wide slate-blue eyes, so different than her mother’s jade-green, but just as beautiful. She wore the tiny gray and green knit hat that he’d given her the day she was born.

  He remembered the squishy cord wrapped around her neck, the fear twisting his gut as he’d frantically unwound it, begging her to breathe.

  He remembered the first child he’d delivered. How his nephew’s entire head had fit into his hand, a warm little body snuggled against his chest, pressed against his neck.

  There was nothing that could prepare you for bringing another life into the world. No amount of training or discipline that could gird a man against the rush of emotion—and sense of responsibility—that he felt every time he laid eyes upon little Charlotte Rose.

  She was Hannah’s through and through, but she was more than that to him. Liam would be damned if he allowed anyone to lay a hand on her.

  Something long frozen had begun to melt inside him. He didn’t fight it. He didn’t want to fight it anymore.

  He cradled Hannah’s child in his arms and felt that fierce protectiveness again. And not just protectiveness. Tenderness. Maybe even something deeper, stronger.

  He glanced at Hannah, at her shining face, warm and open and full of affection. It did something to him that he didn’t want to admit, was still afraid to acknowledge but knew was there, all the same.

  Maybe it was because of this place, this house that felt somehow disconnected from the rest of the world of consequences and repercussions. In this moment, it felt like the three of them were the only people left alive in the whole damn world.

  “Hannah,” he started, feeling incredibly foolish but bumbling ahead all the same. “I need to tell you—”

  Outside the back door, Ghost barked.

  Pike

  Day Twenty-One

  Pike crept closer. Hiding behind the trunk of a large pine tree, he raised the binoculars that he’d scavenged from one of the nearby homes and watched the house.

  In his coat pocket, he carried a handgun. Most vacant houses had already been ransacked, but he’d discovered the Smith and Wesson M&P Shield handgun tucked beneath a mattress.

  It held seven .40 S&W rounds in the extended magazine. No backups or spares. It wasn’t much, but it would be enough.

  A plan hatched in Pike’s mind. He liked it more and more the longer he thought about it. If he could lure Soldier Boy out, Hannah would be alone in the house.

  Pike had learned from his previous errors. Going after Hannah before Soldier Boy was eliminated would be a mistake.

  Besides, he wanted to take his time with her. He needed to know that no one was coming to her rescue.

  Not this time. Not ever again.

  Just the thought set his blood buzzing. He tugged out his lighter and listened to the soothing click, click, click.

  This was one of his favorite games. Let the prey get close. Lay a trap and wait for the jaws to snap shut.

  It wasn’t without risk. Pike normally didn’t care for this level of risk. He liked to have more time to prepare, to make sure that everything went according to plan.

  There were many ways for things to go wrong, but the reward was utterly tantalizing.

  Click, click, click. He closed his eyes, relishing the delicious sound.

  He fantasized that it was the crack and snap of Hannah’s bones instead: phalanges, the radius, the ulna, the carpals and metacarpals, maybe even a rib or two.

  Pike opened his eyes and went to work.

  Liam

  Day Twenty-One

  The kitchen filled with the delicious scent of alfredo sauce. Cold air blew through the window over the sink they’d opened temporarily to diffuse the fumes.

  Hannah kept watch over the small pans of sauce and noodles cooking on the small propane camping stove that Liam had found stored in the garage.

  Ghost had flopped himself in the center of the kitchen. They nearly tripped over him constantly, but he didn’t seem to mind. Liam had dried off his paws and fur with a wet towel. He’d found dog food in one of the nearby houses, so Ghost had already eaten his fill and was ready for a pleasant nap.

  “We’re almost out of propane,” Hannah said.

  “Another reason to leave as soon as possible,” Liam said gruffly.

  Maybe it was for the best that Ghost had interrupted what he’d started to say. It would’ve come out all wrong, anyway.

  He moved to the front of the house and checked the windows, Ghost padding along behind him. Nothing out of place. Still no movement in the streets. The gray sky was filling with dark clouds—another storm was headed their way.

  He adjusted Charlotte in his arm and returned to the kitchen, pausing by the back door to study the yard again. He felt something. A prickle against the back of hi
s neck. A sense he couldn’t name or quantify but trusted implicitly—the feeling of being watched.

  He looked harder. Something snagged the corner of his eye. A glint in the trees twenty-five yards to the left of the house. The flash of binocular lenses reflecting off the snow.

  With a low warning growl, Ghost leapt to his feet and bounded to the door.

  Every muscle in Liam’s body went tense. “Hannah.”

  Hannah immediately went to him and held her arms out for the baby. Liam handed Charlotte to her and seized the Bushmaster AR-15 leaning against the wall next to the back door.

  He was already wearing his boots and two pairs of wool socks, plastic Ziploc bags wrapped between the layers to keep his feet dry. His coat was draped over a kitchen chair, but he didn’t waste time putting it on. He wore a long-sleeved undershirt and two sweatshirts.

  “Get down. Stay away from the windows.”

  She nodded and turned off the propane stove with one hand. Liam quickly closed the window and replaced the shim.

  He went to the back door, peered through the glass, then threw the door open. He moved into the narrow space that he’d shoveled for Ghost’s potty breaks during the blizzard, Ghost at his heels.

  He clambered up the steep drift on the right side, lifting his muzzle over the edge cautiously, then peered over the rim himself, rapidly scanning his surroundings for the threat.

  Ghost ran back and forth in a tight circle, barking fiercely at the tree line.

  His senses alert, pulse thudding, he climbed up and stood looking over the lawn, stock against his shoulder, muzzle up, straining his ears and searching for the tell-tale glint.

  The freezing air bit at his exposed skin, tunneling straight through his sweater and long-sleeved shirt. The clouds were thick and low. Snow spiraled down from the gunmetal gray sky, faster and faster.

  He studied the houses that lined the empty street, searching the windows and roofs for movement, for the glint of a rifle barrel. He scanned the trees behind the house.