Into the Fire

by Kyla Stone

  Julio raised his brows.

  “I told you he was prepared.”

  “Or paranoid,” Park muttered.

  “Doesn’t seem so paranoid now though, does it?” Her nerves were strung taut. It was hard to breathe properly. “If I can sneak in and surprise them, I can take them out before they know what hit ‘em.”

  “Maybe,” Logan said. “Especially if we start firing once you get inside. It’ll distract them, and you can shoot them all in the back like they deserve.”

  Dakota gave him a tight smile. “I like that plan.”

  “Can you provide covering fire?” Logan asked Julio.

  Julio squared his shoulders. “I’m no marksman, but I’ve shot a gun before. I’ll do my best.”

  “Good. I’ll cover Dakota until she gets to the shed. Then I’ll follow her. Once I’m at the shed, too, then I can cover her while she heads for the trapdoor. If anyone starts shooting at us from the cabin, aim and fire. Just make sure you don’t shoot us in the back.”

  Park handed the Sig to Julio. “You’ll be better at this than me.”

  She wished they had more than the two AR-15s. She wished they had grenades and night vision goggles. Hell, she wished they had a tank.

  “Eden, you and Park stay back here.”

  Eden shook her head, starting to sign some furious rebuttal.

  “I need to know you’re safe, understand?” She pulled Eden into a quick, fierce hug and murmured into her hair: “Remember, I’ll never leave you. Never, ever.”

  Eden’s shoulders slumped, but she hugged Dakota back.

  “We’ve got this,” Julio said, gripping the Sig firmly. “Don’t worry about us.”

  Logan turned to Dakota, his eyes white in the shadows. He scratched at his scruffy jawline, frowning. “Our clothes are dark, but you’re too pale. We need camouflage.”

  Eden tugged on her arm.

  “What?” Dakota asked.

  But Eden was already reaching for Dakota’s pack. She pulled out the water bottle, squatted, and pushed aside a thick sludge of decaying leaves, twigs, and damp soil. Using the water, she made a muddy paste to smear on their faces and hands.

  Peat and calcitic mud—or marl—would’ve been better, but they needed to be closer to the marshes for that. Like Ezra always said, Look around you. Use what you have.

  “Good idea, Eden,” Julio said.

  Eden grinned at him.

  “At least we’ve got the darkness on our side,” Julio said. “There’s a light on inside the cabin. Our eyes are adjusted to the moonlight—theirs aren’t.”

  Dakota swore softly. “Oh, hell.”

  “What?” Park asked.

  “The security lights. They’ll switch on with any movement within twenty yards. They’re attached to the cabin and the shed.”

  Logan grunted. “We can shoot them out, but that would defeat the purpose of stealth.”

  “They’re 360 degrees…” she bit her lip, grasping at dim memories she hadn’t considered in years. “But there’s a blind spot on the southwest corner.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes. The southwest corner. But once you step out of that blind spot, you’ll be lit up like a Christmas tree.”

  “So we can reach the shed in the darkness, at least,” Logan said “Once the lights come on, I’ll just have to keep them busy and distracted. Or maybe we’ll get lucky and kill them all right then and there.”

  A noise came from the cabin—someone screaming in pain. Ezra.

  Dakota stopped breathing. They had to move now.

  3

  Logan

  Logan moved out from the treeline but south of the shed, shuffling half-bent and crouching, rifle banging against his shoulder. The only sounds were the trilling of crickets and his own panting breaths.

  He was covering Dakota, a dark shape running ahead of him amidst a sea of dark shapes. There was just enough moonlight peeking through the clouds to see by.

  Almost there.

  Come on, come on.

  She’d nearly made it to the shed when the night burst into bright white light.

  Logan’s heart plummeted. Ezra had fixed the blind spot. Damn him.

  That fast, their entire plan went to hell.

  Men poured out of the cabin, shouting in alarm. The cabin’s motion sensor lights clicked on, bathing the yard around the cabin in more bright light. Three hostiles plunged off the porch, semiautomatic rifles swinging toward the light—and the shed.

  Dakota was caught in the spotlight, still fifteen feet from cover.

  Logan’s adrenaline surged, his heart a wild thing in his chest. If he didn’t do something immediately, she was dead.

  Still in shadows, he dropped to one knee, aimed the rifle, and opened fire. They fired at Dakota, but their shots were wildly off-target. They’d been caught by surprise, still blinking against the harsh white lights and heavy black shadows as they scrambled back behind the safety of the cabin wall.

  Dakota sprinted for the shed, bullets slamming into the ground a few feet behind her. She made it, pressing herself back against the western wall of the shed with a muffled curse.

  She peeked out and exchanged fire with the three Shepherds crouched behind the front wall of the cabin. Dakota was trying to be careful not to fire a stray shot that might penetrate the cabin’s western windows, but the Shepherds had no such qualms.

  One of them nudged his entire head and shoulder out behind the wall, the Shepherd so intent on nailing Dakota he didn’t take his own exposure into account. Or heck—maybe he saw his attacker was a girl, and got smug.

  Either way, Logan was taking him out.

  Just as he got the scumbag in his sights, the guy’s head jerked back in a spray of red. He flopped to the porch, his neck bent at an unnatural angle.

  Dakota got him.

  The two remaining hostiles disappeared around the front corner of the cabin, out of sight. They peeked back around much more warily this time, only the muzzles of their guns showing. They’d learned their lesson.

  Smiling grimly to himself, Logan took the opportunity to slink back deeper into the shadows. They still didn’t know he was there. He needed to take advantage of that. Crouching, he scanned the yard.

  The moon slipped behind a cloud. The motion sensor lights blared from the shed and cabin, but outside their bright halos, it was pitch black—to them, not to Logan.

  Beyond the reach of the lights, he just glimpsed the hunched dark shapes of the Shepherd’s two trucks parked in the drive.

  The shed was set fifty yards southwest of the cabin. The two trucks angled along the dirt drive were just to the left of the front of the cabin, giving Logan line of sight to both Dakota and the Shepherds.

  He could circle around the front of the cabin, stay low, reach the trucks. From there, he could more easily pick the guys off. It’d give him a clear shot, especially if their focus remained on Dakota.

  It was a risk—they could have someone circling out there or lying in wait, but somehow, he doubted it. They seemed sloppy, reacting instead of proactively attacking or working as a coordinated unit.

  It was a calculated risk, but one he was willing to take.

  Dakota had warned him where the booby traps were located, but it hardly made him feel any better. One wrong move and he’d get taken out by the very guy he was trying to save. Best not to overthink it and just move.

  He ducked into a crouch and scurried across the open yard, feeling exposed and vulnerable, his pulse a roar in his ears.

  He skirted the cabin, giving the lights a wide berth.

  The exchange of gunfire between Dakota and the two Shepherds made plenty of noise. No one heard him. No one saw him.

  He didn’t bother to try shooting while he ran. His aim would be poor at best. And every time he fired, he risked exposing his location with his own muzzle flare.

  He wouldn’t risk it unless it counted.

  He reached the first truck—parked sideways with the passenger door fl
ung open—and sank to his knees behind the protection of the engine block. His heart was pounding, his mouth dry, but his head was clear.

  The rat-a-tat of gunfire stilled for a moment. Logan eased forward, staying low and protected, gravel digging into his knees, and peeked around the grille.

  He had a good view of both men’s backs. They were focused on Dakota; they had no idea he was there.

  Slowly, carefully, he rose a bit higher, adjusted the rifle against his shoulder and braced it against the hood.

  Abruptly, the hairs stood on the back of his neck. It was hard to hear anything with bullets flying, but he felt it. Someone out there, watching him.

  He whirled around, peering into the night. He could barely make out a silhouette running across the grass toward him from forty yards away—large and thick. Not Dakota.

  A muzzle flash sparked. The bullet struck the rear passenger side window of the truck, spidering the safety glass. Another round zipped overhead. Errant shots clunked and pinged against the truck.

  He aimed and squeezed the trigger. It was too dark to tell whether he’d hit his mark.

  He adjusted ever so slightly to the right and squeezed the trigger again.

  There was a grunt in the darkness. The sound of something large falling into the underbrush.

  He fired again, just a little lower.

  A scream and a howl. No more muzzle flares.

  He’d hit his target.

  Two down. Likely, only two left.

  He turned back to the cabin. Stilled himself, steadied his breathing. Mosquitoes buzzed in his ears. The drying mud smeared across his face itched.

  He aimed, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger in two rapid-fire double taps. Moved slightly, did it again.

  The first Shepherd crumpled. The second started to turn, reacting to his partner’s sudden fall, but it was too late. Logan’s rounds punctured his chest. The man dropped his weapon and slid down the wall, grasping wildly at his chest, mouth opened in a startled O.

  A third shot drilled through his skull ended his suffering, not that Logan really cared about that. He just wanted the scumbag dead. Now he was.

  Everything went quiet.

  The ringing in his ears gradually faded as the night sounds returned—an owl hooted from somewhere, the occasional splash out in the water, the buzz and trill of crickets, frogs, and cicadas.

  “Logan?” Dakota’s voice came out of the darkness, low and strained. “You good?”

  He stood slowly, rifle still ready to fire, and eased his finger off the trigger. “We’re good.”

  4

  Dakota

  “The bodies,” Dakota said.

  Logan nodded stiffly. He remained on high alert, scanning the woods and the clearing for another threat to come leaping out at them. But there was nothing.

  Swiftly, Dakota checked each body to make sure they were actually dead. She examined their faces with a penlight, her anxiety growing with each one that wasn’t him. She recognized a couple of them, but none of them were Maddox Cage.

  He wasn’t there.

  Was he dead after all? Had he made it back to the compound, managed to tell his father about Ezra, only to die from the radiation?

  No. She didn’t believe it. Not Maddox. He was too tenacious to die so easily, as indestructible as a cockroach.

  If he were dead, she would know it, would feel it somewhere deep in her bones, like a release, exhaling a breath held for years.

  Something had prevented him from coming. She knew with absolute certainty that if he had the choice, he’d be here doing the dirty work himself. He was many things—but a coward wasn’t one of them.

  Maybe Logan was right. Maybe Maddox was sicker with radiation than she’d realized. Or maybe Solomon Cage had prevented him from coming for a reason she didn’t yet understand.

  She counted seven dead Shepherds: the three Ezra had managed to kill in the driveway and the four they’d just dispatched. They were definitely the Prophet’s ‘Chosen ones’, but they were so damn young, their faces still pocked with pimples.

  She bent next to the last Shepherd—a skinny black kid with a slack, blood-stained face and wide-open eyes staring at the sky. He couldn’t have been a day over seventeen. The Prophet had sent his young, untested soldiers, figuring they could cut their teeth on an easy mission—capture and torture a harmless old man for information, then kill him.

  The Prophet had underestimated them. The man’s arrogance set her teeth on edge. Each of these kids believed their duty was of a divine calling—but to the Prophet, they were simply expendable.

  Now, though, he would be angry. Maddox would come, and there would be hell to pay.

  A groan came from inside the cabin.

  Ezra.

  5

  Dakota

  The cabin was exactly the same as she remembered it: drywall over concrete block walls, a scarred wood floor, small white-cabinet kitchen, the round homemade table, the brown leather couch and colorful knit rug, the black-and-white nature photographs lining the walls. The furnishings simple but clean, everything in its place; neat, precise, and dusted to within an inch of its life.

  The only difference sat tied to a chair in the middle of the living room, bloodied and groaning.

  “Is it clear?” she asked him, her rifle up and ready, her muscles taut, her gaze scanning for movement, for anything out of place. “Anyone else in here?”

  Ezra struggled against the zip ties around his wrists and ankles, pinning his arms and legs to the chair. “There’s no one else.”

  Though everything in her screamed to go straight to Ezra and release him, she needed to be sure. No surprises. Ezra himself had taught her that.

  She stood to the side of the hall, rifle slung over her shoulder, pistol up and ready, and moved swiftly, sidestepping so the hallway came into view nice and slow.

  She shuffled down one side of the hallway, kicking open the bathroom door—clear—moved to the first bedroom, the “ham shack” she and Eden used to sleep in, and pushed the door in.

  She swept it, checking the closet, behind the stuffed chair, and under the desk—clear. She moved to the door at the end of the hallway—the master bedroom. Clear.

  Satisfied that the cabin was empty, she holstered her pistol, wiped at her still-muddy face with the back of her arm, and hurried to Ezra.

  His grizzled face was bloodied from several deep cuts on his cheeks and forehead. Ugly purple bruises swelled his right jaw and left eye, so puffy it was nearly sealed shut. His top lip was split open. His gray T-shirt, worn jeans, and boots were spattered with red stains.

  Dakota’s heart ached to see him like that—hurting and vulnerable and weak. Her whole body thrummed with rage. She wanted to revive the Shepherds and kill them all over again, this time much more slowly—and painfully.

  She pulled out her knife and sawed frantically at the zip ties. The Shepherds had cinched them so tightly that Ezra’s wrists were raw and bleeding. His left hand was swollen, the fingernails of three of his fingers had been ripped off. One of his fingers was already turning black and bent at a horrible, unnatural angle. So was his left pinkie.

  A hammer lay on the floor a yard from her feet.

  They’d smashed his fingers.

  He stared up at her with his one good eye. “Dakota,” he said hoarsely.

  “I’m here, I’m right here,” she said, aghast, swallowing back the acid rising up her throat. “You’re safe.”

  They’d tortured him. They’d tortured an innocent old man because of her, because he’d sheltered her, because she was still alive and they wanted to unleash their outrage on someone, anyone.

  But then, they hated anything they couldn’t control or understand. She knew that all too well.

  Her own burn scars itched and prickled. They’d tortured her, too.

  She cut the last zip tie and held out her hand to help him to his feet. He brushed her hand away and rose unsteadily to his feet. He spat a glob of blood on the floor. �
�What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I’m so sorry. They came because of me. This is my fault. We tried to get here in time, but—”

  “We?” His sharp blue eye narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  The door opened, and Logan stepped inside. Julio and Park crowded behind him, weapons lowered but drawn. They’d wiped the mud off their hands and faces, but there were still smears and smudges. They all looked fierce and dangerous, especially Logan.

  Ezra’s swollen, distorted face contorted in disbelief—and anger. “You brought outsiders here? To this place?”

  The how could you? was unspoken, but she still felt it like a slap across the face.

  “I can explain—”

  “Don’t bother.” He hobbled to the kitchen, his broken hand cradled against his chest, and grabbed a clean towel with his unhurt left hand.

  He wiped the blood from his face and split lip, tossed the stained towel in the sink, and turned on the faucet, his back to Dakota. “Seems to me you made your choice not to be here two years ago. Don’t see how that’s changed.”

  “I’m sorry, Ezra,” she choked out, “but we needed somewhere safe to go. And then when I heard the Shepherds were coming here—”

  “You don’t belong here.”

  “She saved your life,” Logan cut in.

  With a grunt, Ezra placed his injured hand beneath the running water. His broad shoulders stiffened. Dakota could only imagine the pain he must be feeling.

  “I didn’t need saving,” he muttered, “nor do I recall askin’ for it.”

  Logan snorted. “It sure looked like you did from here.”

  Ezra spun, water droplets flying, and glared at him. “I didn’t give you permission to speak in my house. Get out.”

  Logan glanced from Ezra to Dakota, confusion on his face. She understood why. She’d promised him a joyful reception, not an old man spewing bitterness and resentment.