by Stone, Kyla
Liam had made a base of pavers scavenged from someone’s shed. Then it was a matter of laying a horizontal block and standing another vertically on the pavers, then using a mix of pavers and cinderblock to form an “H” from above.
“We used a rocket stove for camping,” Quinn said. “Not like this one, though.”
Liam gestured at the different parts. “The design relies on the L-shaped tunnel created in the hollow cinderblocks. The rushing air fans the flames and combusts the fuel, generating an incredibly hot burn.”
Liam bent and pointed. “Stuff the horizontal tube with anything that burns—sticks, grass, even dried dog crap. It creates clean, almost pure heat with little smoke.”
Quinn topped the H with a final cinderblock and placed a grill grate across the top. “And we’re done.”
It was a rare sunny day, though everything was still a dirty mix of mud and snow. The air was brisk, but after hours of manual labor, they’d both shed their jackets and gloves.
Liam winced and stretched, one hand on his lower back.
“You sure you’re okay?”
Liam grimaced. “Not you, too.”
Quinn shrugged. “Hey, not my fault you’re getting old.”
Liam snorted.
In the six days since his return, she hadn’t seen Liam off his feet a single time. He still moved gingerly, but he was up and around, back to his patrols with Ghost and sessions training the townspeople in firearm and defense skills.
Yesterday, he’d directed the collection of fifty-five-gallon barrels confiscated from nearby farms. Today, Jonas and Whitney along with several others were filling the barrels with dirt to fortify the roadblocks and barricades encircling the town’s perimeter.
In the event of another attack, the dirt-filled barrels would provide cover for the town’s defenders.
Ghost’s booming bark shattered the air. He was a few houses away, staying close to Milo.
Evelyn Brooks had stitched his hind leg and two larger bites. The antiseptic properties in the vinegar had worked, the skin around the wounds healing nicely.
The Great Pyrenees was supposed to rest and relax, just like Liam.
Like Liam, he did neither.
The dog returned to his role as guardian and protector of Hannah, Milo, and Charlotte, never leaving their sides unless he was patrolling their house and neighborhood each night.
At least he’d left his stitches alone, so they didn’t have to put him in the cone of shame. No one wanted to see Ghost endure such an indignity.
After the dog attack, Quinn had felt dazed, like she was in a trance. She hadn’t said a thing to anyone about the bizarre strangers they’d encountered. Or who she’d seen with them. She’d told Milo not to tell anyone, either.
Sutter changed everything.
She was still figuring out how—and what she was going to do about it.
Liam wiped sweat from his face with the back of his arm and looked at her. “I have something for you.”
She blinked, surprised. “What is it?”
“You want it or not?”
“I definitely want it.”
He went to the go-bag he’d leaned against a nearby tree and withdrew an object, unwrapped the cloth, then held it out in his palms.
The curved blade of Desoto’s karambit knife glistened in the cold spring sunlight. It looked like the talon of a velociraptor, a weapon created to eviscerate and disembowel enemies.
Quinn sucked in an unsteady breath. She hadn’t seen the karambit since that night in the shed when Desoto had attacked her, when she’d felt it pressed against her soft vulnerable belly.
“Should’ve given this to you a while ago. It’s more yours than mine.”
Quinn took it almost reverently. The weight of it felt right in her hands. She took a swing, watched it scythe through the air, slicing molecules of oxygen, dividing beams of sunlight. So sharp, it could split a human hair.
“You must keep it sharpened.”
“I will.”
“Be careful with it. That’s no toy.”
She glared at him beneath her overgrown bangs. “Don’t plan to use it like a toy.”
The faintest grin tugged at his lips. “Take care of your weapons and they’ll take care of you.”
She nodded, admiring the beauty of it, one hand straying to her throat without conscious thought. The bruises from her fight with Desoto had faded weeks ago. The memories, the nightmares—they lasted much longer.
Still, there was a certain satisfaction, a poetry in owning the knife of the man who’d tried and failed to kill her.
Liam reached into his pocket and withdrew a small hard sunglasses case. He snapped it open, grabbed a couple of aspirin, and swallowed them without water.
She pointed the karambit at the case. “What is that?”
“It’s my everyday carry. It comes with me everywhere, hence the name.” He patted his hip. “And my weapons. I never go anywhere without my Gerber.”
He held out the case so she could look inside. Instead of a pair of sunglasses, it contained a multi-tool, stainless steel tactical pen, a small LED flashlight, two lighters, a folding knife, a handkerchief wound with paracord, and a lock picking set.
Quinn raised her brows. “Lock picks? Were you a thief in your other life?”
“You never know when you’ll need to get into—or out of—a building. Best be prepared for anything.”
She soaked up Liam’s words, memorizing everything in the case. She could gather most of the items herself except for the lock picking set, but she had hair pins and paperclips. Quinn gestured at the multi-tool. “Gramps had one of those in his workshop, in one of his drawers.”
Her heart twinged at a memory of herself at five or six, sitting in the garage workshop on a stool while Gramps showed her each of his tools and how to use them. Light glowed from the single lightbulb above them, the air thick with oil, grease, and dust.
Gramps had spent most of his free time there, working on odds and ends, jimmy-rigging the air conditioner, building a chicken coop, or fixing an oil leak in the truck.
Once she’d hit middle school, she’d lost interest and rarely joined him. She should’ve spent every spare second with him.
Quinn pushed away the memory. As soon as she got back to her house, she was going to make her own everyday carry case. She and Gran already had go-bags—Gramps had always kept one in the Orange Julius—but he’d designed them for a day or two stranded in a snowstorm rather than long-term survival or self-defense.
Liam snapped the case shut and stuck it in his pocket. He turned to face her, an unreadable expression on his face. “So. You ready or not?”
She thought he meant building another rocket stove. Or splitting endless firewood. Or maybe more back-breaking hours digging latrines for the people in town who didn’t have septic systems. “For what?”
He stared at her. “What do you think you’re here for?”
She folded her arms over her chest, on the defensive. “Did you bring me out here to have another talk?”
Like words could fix her. Everyone kept asking her if she was okay—Hannah, Gran, Bishop. Even the principal. They asked her about Noah, about Rosamond.
They looked at her with pity, concern, and more than a little wariness, like something was broken inside her.
The problem was, they were right.
The more they asked, the more Quinn shut down. She felt the tug and pull of their concern, their kindness, their love, but she couldn’t let them in, drawing even further inside herself.
She didn’t want to talk about how it felt to kill Rosamond or how Noah had betrayed her, what it felt like to watch a friend turn against you one moment and then die the next.
Or how she no longer recognized the face she saw in the mirror.
Liam watched her. “I brought you out here to fight. You in or not?”
37
Quinn
Day Ninety-Five
It took Quinn a second to comprehe
nd Liam’s words. Excitement surged in her chest. “Hell yes, I’m interested!”
“Okay, then.”
“You’re going to teach me? You’ll train me? For real?”
“Didn’t I just say that?”
“Yep, absolutely. That’s what I heard.” Inwardly, she cursed herself for sounding like a complete idiot.
He looked at her with those steady, disconcerting eyes that made her feel like he could see every part of her she was desperate to hide—the doubt, the anger, the fear.
She squared her shoulders. “What changed your mind? About me?”
“Figure you earned it. You and Hannah confronted the superintendent. You’re the one who serviced the target.”
Any compliment from Liam Coleman was hard-won, but instead of puffing with pride, sour sickness churned in her belly. Serviced the target. He said it like it was nothing more than taking out the trash.
If only it were that easy.
Liam looked off into the trees for a minute, lips pursed.
Quinn waited.
“Now you have to bear that burden. You need to know how.”
“I will. I can.”
“Figure you’re gonna throw yourself into the next fight whether or not you’ve got permission. Might as well have an inkling of what you’re doing.”
She ignored the implication that she had no clue. Compared to Liam’s lethal skill set, practically everyone on the planet was an amateur. It didn’t dampen her excitement in the least.
“I’m willing to teach you, but you’re the one who needs to put in the time, energy, focus—”
“I am. I will.”
He nodded. “Meet here every day at six. Rain or shine. No excuses.”
“Six p.m.?” That was dinner time, when she had a hundred chores helping Gran—
“A.m. At dawn.”
“No problem.” She’d get up at three a.m. if that’s what it took. She’d give up on sleeping altogether.
“You’ll lose your beauty sleep,” he said as if reading her thoughts.
She flashed him a wicked smile. “Beauty is overrated.”
He frowned at her, as if he disapproved even as he spoke the words. “You’ll be joining the town security team. I train them daily from four to six p.m. at Wolf Prairie Park by the river. Don’t miss a session.
“Also, get on the roster for shift assignments for perimeter patrol and guard duty. That means staying up all night and working the next day. It means long hours and exhaustion. You’ll be part of a team, and everyone on that team will depend on you. The entire town will depend on you.”
He needed to know if she was prepared for the mental and physical demands. She was. She knew she was.
Gramps had taken her hunting since she was a little girl. She could split logs with the best of them—plus, she’d been hauling five-gallon buckets of water from the well every morning for the last three months.
Whatever she still needed to learn, she was more than up to the challenge. Her enthusiasm grew in leaps and bounds. And so did her determination. “I can handle it.”
He studied her for a minute, as if examining her for weaknesses, for cracks in her armor.
Quinn raised her chin and glared right back. She wouldn’t show him any. She was fine. Absolutely 100% fine, fine, fine.
“You certain? There’s no shame in taking more time.”
She yanked her tangled blue-black hair into a ponytail and grinned. “I’m sure.”
He nodded to himself, as if deciding something. “We’ll start with the knife. You already have a satisfactory grasp of firearms and will gain skills in the group training sessions. You need to know how to defend yourself when you’re out of ammo or find yourself in a close combat situation. Given your size and strength disadvantage against your opponents—”
“Hey!”
“Now is not the time to stroke egos. You’re what? Five-foot-two and a buck ten dripping wet? Your likely attackers in any scenario are grown men who outweigh you by a hundred pounds. Their arm-span will be greater than yours, which means you’re in their strike zone before they’re in yours. Bravado will get you shot, gutted, and worse.”
Quinn swallowed. “Yeah, okay.”
“Hand-to-hand combat is a last-ditch defense. If you’re out of ammo or no longer have access to a gun, violence must then become your last resort. Do you understand? I cannot stress this enough. If you can avoid a physical altercation or flee, do so.”
“Got it.”
“I mean it.”
“I got it!”
“The karambit is a longer knife, which will help you. It creates space, though with that curved blade, it’s tough to conceal.” His eyes narrowed as he studied her stance. “Knees bent, shoulder-width apart. Left foot forward, right foot back and angled to the three o’clock position. Keep your weight centered over your hips so you’re balanced, able to strike without being pushed over.”
After an eternity practicing proper form, fighting stance, and how to hold the knife a hundred times each, Liam picked up a stick about a foot long and the width of his wrist. “Raise your left arm, elbow bent, your palm like an edge aimed toward your assailant.” He demonstrated. “Step into your strike, driving off your rear right foot, staying centered and balanced.”
She imitated him, taking it all in, studying his movements, committing his every word to memory. “Got it.”
He wielded the stick like a knife and beckoned her. “Come at me.”
“Really?”
He nodded.
“What if I hurt you?”
The corners of his mouth twitched—the Liam version of a smile. “You’re welcome to try.”
Quinn tightened her grip on her new knife. “Oh, I will.”
38
Quinn
Day Ninety-Five
They fought for hours. Liam said little other than to give grunts of disappointment or affirmation—mostly disappointment.
When he spoke, it was to correct her. “Widen your stance. Stay balanced. Your footwork is half the battle. Hide the blade as long as you can, and when it’s time to strike, don’t hesitate. Speed and surprise are vital.”
Every time she rushed him, he sidestepped or batted her knife harmlessly to the side. He kicked her feet out from under her or knocked her flat on her back with a simple push or sleight of hand she hadn’t seen coming. “Your grip is off. Grip it but not too tight so your hand has flex to slash. Flex!”
Again and again, he struck her lightly in the stomach, the chest, the thighs with the stick, highlighting the vulnerable spots she’d left open to attack.
Each time, he said, “You’re dead.”
She responded with “Again” and clambered to her feet.
As the afternoon wore on, the sunlight faded, slanting across the yard, throwing longer and longer shadows.
“You’re overreaching every time,” Liam said. “When you slash, keep control and don’t overreach. It puts you off balance. You’ll be disarmed as easy as taking candy from a baby.”
Liam might knock her down a hundred times today, but she was bound and determined to get back up a hundred and one times. And eventually, someday, she’d knock him down herself.
“Your elbows are flaring. Remember, when you slash, move your upper body, turning into the movement, keeping your elbows close to your side. Your entire body will generate power through that torque. ‘Swish’ through the first slicing cut, then slash on the return, like an inverted-8 motion.”
She summoned every ounce of her anger, her hurt, her fury, and launched it at Liam. Growling in frustration, she ran at him, slicing and slashing as he’d taught her with every ounce of ferocity she could muster.
“A middling effort.” He shrugged. “Do it again.”
She did. Liam deflected the attack and shoved her to the side, swatting her right bicep with his stick. “You fight like a wildcat, all teeth and claws. No control, no thinking.”
She wheeled around to face him. “Isn’t that a good
thing?”
“You rush in. You’re reckless. You fight with your heart, not your head.”
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder.”
She didn’t have the energy to nod.
“Pay attention. See what vital target the assailant leaves open. He’ll always leave something open. He’ll underestimate you; it’s the only advantage you’re gonna get, so you better be cunning enough to use it. Go for the major arteries. Anything less won’t do the damage you need it to.”
He pointed to various points on his own body. “The carotid artery. Due to the tough cartilage in the throat, you must cut deep with a sharp blade. It’s better to stab straight through the neck and yank sideways. The brachial artery is in the upper arm. Shove the knife underneath your assailant’s armpit and angle toward the heart.”
He studied her for a moment, mouth a thin line. “Given your size, your best bet against a larger opponent is the femoral. Aim to slash the top inside of the thigh, here and here. Also, the popliteal artery is an extension of the femoral. Stab into the back of the knees, like this. The popliteal is close to the surface and will cause rapid blood loss.”
And then they were fighting again, her attacking, him defending, and then vice versa.
Training took every ounce of her focus and concentration, and then some. It pushed back the darkness, at least for a little while. For the last few hours, she’d almost felt like herself again. Almost.
After Liam had knocked her on her butt for the two-hundredth time, she didn’t get up as fast. In fact, she didn’t get up at all.
She gasped for air, chest heaving, her lungs on fire, every muscle aching. Bruises already bloomed across her belly, torso, arms, and shoulders.
Liam loomed over her. “Break time.”
She stared up at the rectangle of sky above her, the clouds now white instead of gray and tinged with shades of pink, purple, and apricot as the sun sank below the tree line to the west. The air was growing colder, but she didn’t feel it; she’d stripped to her T-shirt an hour ago.
