Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set

by Rebecca Belliston

  “David, please!” she cried. “No!”

  Smile twisting into something awful, he spoke into the phone again. “I can bring in three. Yes, great. I just have one stop to make along the way, and we’ll be right there.”

  As he pocketed his phone, his smile grew. “They only have adults in the lineup so far, but the guy said they’d make an exception for me. Isn’t that nice? I can’t wait to see Simmons’ reaction when he sees all of you march in. I hope President Rigsby at least lets you stand together.”

  “Leave Zach and Amber out of this!” she begged, a sob tearing through her. “They’ve done nothing!”

  “They lived,” he said, blood still oozing down his cheek. “That’s fault enough.”

  Her heart pounded so loudly her vision was going in and out of focus. Maybe if he killed her, he would leave Amber and Zach alone.

  Live free or die.

  “It’s a shame things had to be this way, Carrie,” he said. “I think I could have really enjoyed you. Or maybe…” His eyes grazed over her, head to toe. “I still will.”

  He slid his gun back in its holster.

  Frantic, she rolled, clearing the couch, but he was faster. He grabbed her arms and pushed her deep into the cushions. Then he brought his mouth down on hers. Hard. So hard she tasted blood.

  She kneed him in the gut.

  He fell back with a grunt.

  “What are you doing?” she yelled, wiping her mouth with her bound hands. Her lip pulsed.

  “Getting my payback,” he said. “You owe me big time for…”

  He trailed off, head cocked, listening to something. Carrie heard it, too. Barking at the back door. Zach and the dogs had returned. She couldn’t see, but Zach started pounding on the glass.

  “Good,” Jamansky said. “Now I won’t have to track him down. But he’s going to have to wait a bit longer. I’m not finished with you yet.”

  He came at her again.

  She rammed her feet against his chest, blocking him while her handcuffed hands reached over her head. She scrambled around and found a picture frame. Weapon enough.

  “No, you don’t!” He grabbed her arms and pinned them up against the couch arms where they did her no good. He was over her. Dark. Heavy.

  More pounding, and then shattering glass. The kitchen door. Zach had broken through.

  On instinct, Jamansky looked up.

  Carrie brought the frame crashing down on his head.

  “Zach, run!” she shouted.

  Only it wasn’t Zach.

  fifty-four

  GREG DROPPED THE ROCK AND reached through the hole in the glass going too fast, being too careless. Zach held the dogs’ leashes with all his might, feet digging into the grass. The dogs knew something was happening inside. They wanted back inside as much as Greg did. Almost as much.

  Shards of glass cut Greg’s arm, pain slicing, but he found the lock and twisted.

  “I’m in!” he yelled at Zach. “Go hide!”

  Zach nodded and took off.

  Greg burst inside Jamansky’s house. He slammed the door shut behind him, trapping the dogs outside where Jamansky couldn’t use them as weapons. Then everything behind was forgotten.

  “Greg!” Carrie cried.

  Jamansky was on his knees next to the couch, holding his head. Blood streamed down his cheek and forehead.

  “Pierce?” the guy said, looking dazed and confused, especially seeing Greg in his house. But his thoughts seemed to clear by the second. “You’re a dead man!”

  “You first,” Greg said.

  Then he charged.

  Glass crunching, Greg shoved aside a chair, leaped over a couch, and rammed into Jamansky. The two spiraled backward, landing on the lamp table. The table crashed to the floor, breaking to pieces.

  Jamansky rolled and reached for his gun, but Greg was ready. Ready for payback. Ready for Jamansky. With his shoulder, he barreled Jamansky back until he was up against the wall, face first, smearing blood onto the paint.

  “Carrie, go!” Greg yelled. “Get outta here!”

  “No!” she cried.

  Jamansky laughed, cheek to wall. “She’s too attached to me. In fact, you interrupted our little moment. So, if you don’t mind, I was just about to—”

  Greg punched his kidney.

  Jamansky grunted.

  “What did you do to her?” Greg shoved him harder into the wall. “What?”

  Jamansky didn’t answer.

  Or couldn’t.

  Greg checked on her again. Deathly white, she looked rooted to the couch with shock. Then he saw her bound hands holding a broken picture frame. That explained the blood on Jamansky’s face. Revulsion swelled in him afresh.

  He punched Jamansky again. The guy slumped against the wall.

  “Carrie,” Greg said, “get Zach and—”

  Pain shot down Greg’s leg as Jamansky elbowed his bad thigh.

  Greg’s leg buckled. He dropped, taking Jamansky down with him. The two hit the floor hard. With a roar, Jamansky leaped up and swung. Greg caught his arm and twisted. He kneed him in the stomach and punched Jamansky’s jaw. Jamansky’s head snapped back. Another punch, and Jamansky was on the floor again.

  A blur of a leg came. Greg jumped out of the way, but a second kick caught him squarely in the chest. Greg fell back. He barely righted himself when Jamansky plowed into him, shoving him straight into the giant television.

  Jamansky grabbed him by the neck and slammed Greg’s head into the TV.

  “How did you get free?” Jamansky yelled.

  Greg grunted against the white, hot pain in his skull. “The guards are as stupid as you are. By the way, my buddies in the Special Patrols Unit are on their way. Carrie showed me every illegal thing you’ve been up to. They can’t wait to—”

  Jamansky rammed his head again.

  Greg could hardly see through his dancing vision, but he finished. “—get their hands on you. Your blackmailing days are over.”

  It was a lie. Greg had barely escaped JSP, claiming his ‘dead’ status was part of President Rigsby’s demonstration, and if they didn’t release him at once, the president would visit them personally to find out why.

  Nobody was coming.

  “You’ll be dead before anyone gets here,” Jamansky said, squeezing the air from Greg’s throat. “And the rest of us will be gone. By the time I’m done with Carrie, she’ll only wish she was dead. And let me tell you, I’m going to love every second of her.”

  A loud thud echoed. Suddenly Jamansky’s weight was gone. He shouted in pain, and then all went silent. Greg shook his head to clear it.

  The only sound in the room was the dogs barking at the back door.

  His blurred eyes lifted.

  Carrie stood four feet away, clutching a broken table leg in her bound hands. She stood, paralyzed. Terrified. Because Jamansky had straightened, gun perched inches from her nose.

  But the guy wasn’t looking at her. Blood smeared down the side of his face as he glared at Greg, nostrils flaring.

  The ground dropped away from Greg. Jamansky was going to kill Carrie. Just like he’d killed Greg’s mom. Greg was close enough to grab him, but not without the gun going off.

  His hands flew up in surrender even though the gun wasn’t aimed at him.

  “Stop!” Greg yelled. “Don’t shoot!”

  “Oh, I’m not going to shoot her now,” Jamansky said, heaving deep breaths. “Not until the demonstration tonight. I’m going to put her right next to Oliver. But don’t worry. I’ll aim straight.”

  “Tonight?” Greg said.

  “Yeah, didn’t you hear? They moved up Rigsby’s show. Turns out I didn’t need your signature after all. They were more than happy to have three extra targets. Oh, and thanks for bringing Zach back. Now I don’t have to go looking for him.” Jamansky’s expression turned murderous. “I guess that means I no longer need you.”

  The gun swung away from Carrie, but Greg had already ducked. A shot fired off, sin
king in the wall over Greg’s head.

  Carrie screamed.

  Greg straightened, hands high, feeling delirious with relief. Pointed-guns-at-his-head had become his specialty. And Jamansky stood just close enough.

  “I should have known you would follow me home,” Jamansky said.

  “You mean, followed you back home?” Greg taunted. “Thanks for the lift to JSP. By the way, your Suzuki needs a little tune-up.”

  It took Jamansky a moment to understand. Then his eyes went wild. They flickered back to Carrie for a split second.

  Just long enough.

  In one fluid move, Greg dodged left, grabbed the back of the gun, and punched the wrist holding it. The gun twisted clean from Jamansky’s hand. Jamansky screamed as it was yanked out of his fingers. His scream was cut off as Greg kicked his chest, sending him backward into the couch.

  By the time Jamansky scrambled around, the gun was up again, only in Greg’s hands, pointed at Jamansky’s blond head.

  “Down on the ground,” Greg ordered. “Down!”

  Jamansky stared at his empty hands, confused. Little did he know that, at McCormick’s order, Greg had practiced that move with Burke five thousand times. Disarming an attacker.

  “I said down!” Greg roared.

  Slowly, Jamansky knelt on the floor in front of the couch. His face was red. His cheek smeared. His murderous glare went back to Carrie.

  “How long has he been here?” he asked. “How long?”

  “Forever,” Greg said. “By the way, love your bed. Where did you get it, my neighbor’s house?”

  Then he kicked him again, slamming Jamansky the rest of the way down, flat on the floor.

  “Grab his car keys,” Greg said to Carrie. “And one of his uniforms. Turns out he’s gonna help us get Amber back after all.”

  Carrie stood, eyes wide. “Greg, you’re bleeding.”

  He didn’t know where. He couldn’t feel any spot that hurt more than any other. “Just get Zach and meet me outside.” His glare went back to Jamansky. “I’ll be out after I finish things.”

  “No need for her to leave,” Jamansky said. Then he motioned to the kitchen. “Zach just walked in the back door.”

  Carrie whirled around. So did Greg, seeing nobody.

  The distraction had only been a second, but that’s all Jamansky needed.

  Jamansky leaped up and caught Carrie by the waist. Before Greg could think, Jamansky had yanked her violently in front of him, using her as a shield.

  “Go ahead and shoot,” Jamansky said.

  Carrie kicked, writhed, and tried to break free. Jamansky just twisted her arm behind her until she let out a yelp of pain.

  Frantic, Greg dropped the nose of the gun, unable to point it anywhere near her. Jamansky dodged behind her, careful to keep himself protected as he started backing them toward the front door.

  Gun pointed at the floor, Greg kept his finger on the trigger. Ready.

  “What do you want?” Greg said.

  “I have everything I want,” Jamansky replied. “Or I’m about to get it.”

  If he got her out that door, Greg would never see her again.

  His eyes swept every inch of both of them, looking for a spot. His aim was good, but it would have to be impeccable to get a shot off without hitting her. Knowing this, Jamansky’s head stayed behind hers, his hands holding her arms back where Greg couldn’t get them.

  “If you want,” Jamansky said, “flip on my television and watch the broadcast tonight. Carrie and the others will be executed in front of the entire world. Every person will see her head roll. In fact, for the rest of history, I bet the video of her death will be replayed over and over as the moment Rigsby turned the war in his favor. You don’t want to miss it.”

  Jamansky was right. The first public execution in America since cameras had been invented. The footage would live forever.

  They were nearly to the front door. Greg stayed five feet behind, gun still down, eyes still searching for a spot. He studied their feet, but they were moving too much. He watched Carrie’s hands, but Jamansky’s were hidden.

  Then he noticed Carrie.

  She locked eyes with Greg. Her brows lowered, but her eyes tightened in a clear, strong message. So strong that it stopped him in his tracks. Her jaw tightened, making sure he understood. Only he didn’t understand what she meant, what she was planning to do.

  His heart raced, frantic.

  Don’t, Carrie! he wanted to shout.

  But she was already moving.

  Her arms lifted. Up over her head her hands went. Still cuffed together, they lifted until they were not only over her head, but behind Jamansky’s as well.

  Then she yanked down, hard. The metal chain fell behind Jamansky’s neck. She yanked at the same time she dropped to the floor, pulling her full weight down against it.

  Caught off guard, Jamansky stumbled with her. The two dropped with a sickening thud. Jamansky let out a scream of rage. Greg watched, trying to dissect who was who. A web of flailing limbs. And then…

  Bam!

  The sound thundered through the house, but Greg found the spot and fired again.

  Bam, bam!

  Two more shots.

  Jamansky dropped, body going still.

  Terror seized Greg.

  “Carrie?” he called, rushing over. “Carrie!”

  She was pinned, trapped. And not answering. Had he shot her, too? But then he saw her move. Stumbling over broken tables, Greg helped drag her out from beneath Jamansky.

  For several minutes, he had just held her, burying her face against his chest as he surveyed the damage. Glass everywhere. Lamps and tables down.

  And David Jamansky.

  Dead.

  fifty-five

  GREG SAID NOTHING AS HE sped down the highway toward Shelton, pushing Jamansky’s patrol car to its limit. He just clutched Carrie’s ice-cold hand.

  Her lip was swollen and bloody, but the rest of her seemed unharmed. At least physically. She stared, unblinking, down at the towel she pressed against the wound on Greg’s arm. She hadn’t looked at much else, not the road, not even Zach in the back seat.

  Greg understood.

  Every part of him that wasn’t throbbing with pain felt shaky and unsteady. He’d never killed anybody before. They had trained him to, but actually ending somebody’s life?

  He gripped the steering wheel, trying to block the picture of Carrie, trapped underneath Jamansky’s bloody body. A shudder ripped through him. He glanced in the rearview mirror. Through the wire mesh, he saw Zach in the back seat, watching the world fly by out the window. Zach also stayed silent.

  It was too much, too overwhelming. And yet, they couldn’t stop, or slow, or wait for their bodies to recover. They had to get to Naperville. They had to get to Oliver.

  Somehow.

  On top of being in shock, Zach didn’t want to go home—or rather, he didn’t want to go to Ferris, a new place with a new house without any of his siblings to comfort him. Zach wanted to go with Carrie and Greg to Naperville, but Greg needed one less person to worry about.

  With “Chief of Patrols” plastered on the side of the car, Greg hoped they could get into the training facility—a place he never wanted to revisit. After everything, after Jamansky and Carrie and Isabel and McCormick, he couldn’t believe he was going back there. He thought about challenging Carrie on the issue again, but she had been adamant.

  “We have to help Oliver,” she had said. “Amber can wait.”

  Oliver first.

  Oliver.

  Greg just had no clue how.

  McCormick might have trained him to kill. The Special Patrols Unit might have perfected Greg’s aim and taught him moves that had saved his life—and Carrie’s—today, but Isabel was wrong about Greg. He wasn’t a revolutionary. He was just a regular guy who wanted to live a nice, quiet life with a pretty girl. No guns. No running. No fear. He had tried to block out those six weeks of Naperville training from his mind. Bu
t now, instead of heading home to start a picturesque life with Carrie, he was heading back into the thick of it—not just him, but Carrie, who insisted on going with him.

  He had to talk her out of it. She had no idea what she was getting herself into—or maybe she did. Maybe she knew a thousand times more than he did what Oliver was going through. She had almost lived Oliver’s fate.

  Greg took another shuddering breath.

  Carrie squeezed his hand. “I know it hurts,” she said, checking under the towel. “I’m sorry, but I have to keep pressure on it. It won’t stop bleeding. I think you need stitches.”

  “It’s fine,” he said. He could hardly feel it. He liked the pressure of her hand on his arm anyway. He needed to feel her warm and alive. “I’ll wrap it when we get home—I mean, to Ferris.”

  “Can I just stay in the car in Naperville?” Zach asked. “I promise to stay hidden.”

  Greg glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “Sorry, buddy. You’ll be with my grandparents in Ferris. They’ll keep you safe until we’re back.”

  If they came back.

  Zach leaned against the window. “We should have brought the dogs.”

  “Bretton and Felix are outside where neighbors will notice them,” Greg said. “They’ll be fine.”

  Zach turned back to the window.

  Carrie went back to staring at the towel on Greg’s arm.

  He reached up and stroked her cheek, needing to catch a glimpse of those baby blues, the window to her soul. She glanced up and flashed him the tiniest of smiles. Though it didn’t last long, and though it was filled with the same heartache and weariness he felt, the smile told him what he already knew: she was going to be fine, too.

  Just get Zach home, he told himself. Then he’d convince Carrie to stay, too. If he could do that, he might be able to think straight enough to figure out how to save Oliver.

  Greg had told Oliver to be ready. That gave him five hours to break the guy out. Somehow.

  Think!

  If he had until morning, like originally planned, he might have been able to pull it off. Isabel, McCormick, and Kearney’s whole group would be gathering by morning. But President Rigsby’s little scheduling change ruined everything. A twelve-hour shift in the plan—one that Isabel and McCormick wouldn’t even know about—and everything had fallen apart.