by Kyla Stone
She pressed her fingers to her lips. As if a reminder could make Logan any quieter. He rolled his eyes. A moment later, he was gone.
Her gut twisted with worry. He’d be fine. Stampeding elephant or not, Logan could take care of himself. Still, she didn’t like this situation. The sooner it was over, the better.
She made her way carefully through the underbrush, skirting trees, sliding noiselessly past saw palmettos and ferns, stepping soft and quiet to avoid giving her position away.
More gunshots cracked behind her.
This could go to hell in a matter of seconds. There were too many of them—all hunting each other in the woods, jumping at every noise, every shadow.
One of the brothers might accidentally shoot her as easily as one of the intruders. Who knew how well-trained they were, whether they were trigger-happy idiots or smart enough to realize the risks of friendly fire?
Her heart lurched into her throat, but she forced herself to remain slow and methodical, the way Ezra had taught her. She controlled her breathing as she scanned her surroundings from left to right and back again, acutely aware of every sound, every movement.
When she was about thirty feet from the rear of the Escape, she froze. Directly across the road about ten or fifteen feet in, the edge of a red shirt peeked out behind a thicket of spiky saw palmetto bushes.
She raised her gun.
The figure shifted. She glimpsed a scrap of leather vest and a hank of long dark hair in a ponytail: Jake Collier.
She exhaled softly. An ally. She still couldn’t see Archer or Boyd. Were they on the opposite side of the road, or her side?
A twig cracked ten yards behind her. She whirled, gun up, peering hard into the dappled shadows, the tangled maze of trees and underbrush, roots and branches.
A squirrel scurried up a skinny slash pine, chattering furiously at her.
Her palms were damp. She couldn’t wipe away the sweat sliding down her temples.
A volley of gunfire burst through the forest south of her. For a few moments, she couldn’t hear the typical forest noises—or anyone attempting to sneak up on her.
Instinctively, she went still, pressing herself against the trunk of the nearest tree, a pine half as thick as her torso. It wouldn’t protect her from much.
Something thudded into the trunk above her head. The entire tree vibrated against her spine.
Too late, she dropped to a crouch.
A flash of movement to her right, crashing toward her.
She spun, her pistol rising to meet the threat, sweaty finger slipping on the trigger.
Pain exploded through her hand. The gun tore from her fingers and she was knocked off balance. She tumbled, her back striking the trunk, and slid to the leaf-strewn ground.
What the hell? Had she just been shot? She raised her hand to her face, expecting gushing blood, a bullet wound. There wasn’t one.
The skinny, jittery guy—Terrance—loomed over her. He breathed hard, eyes wild and furious.
She twisted on the ground, her whole hand pulsing with pain, and searched frantically for the gun. A large, fist-sized rock lay a few feet from Terrance’s feet. The jerk had managed to disarm her with a stupid rock.
He kicked her as she tried to rise, forcing her down on her back.
He aimed the muzzle at her head. “Stay right there.”
36
Dakota
Dakota stared up into the muzzle of the pistol. If Terrance fired, she was dead. It didn’t matter if he’d never held a gun before; this close, it was hard to miss.
She needed to do something, and do it fast.
He was a skinny guy, not very tall, maybe 5’7 and 160 pounds soaking wet. Not that much bigger than she was. If she could get the gun aimed somewhere else, and reach her knife…
“Wait!” she said breathlessly, opening her eyes wide to make her appear afraid—and vulnerable. “I know what you want. I know where the stash is.”
He hesitated.
“I’ll tell you everything! Please! They’ve got a year’s worth of food. And electricity and hot water. And guns. As many guns as you want. I have the key. I can show you.”
His eyes narrowed. “And what do you want for it?”
“Just my life. Me and my sister. Okay? Just don’t kill me, please.”
“Okay, yeah,” he said, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. “Hurry up.”
She reached out her left hand, palm open. Maybe it was instinctive to help a woman, or maybe his greed overruled his better judgement. Either way, he underestimated her.
He juggled the pistol to his left hand and bent to help her up. Leaning, his knees bent, he was no longer in a position of strength.
She gripped his hand, tensed, and yanked him toward her with all her might.
He stumbled, falling forward. She went for her knife, jerked it from its sheath at her belt, and stabbed blindly. He tumbled to his knees on top of her, his right knee jabbing into her stomach as the blade sank into his right thigh.
Terrance howled and jerked backward, scrambling off her and staggering to his feet. He hobbled on one foot, clutching at the knife handle protruding from his leg, grimacing and cursing.
Instead of rolling clear, she writhed to one side and aimed a savage kick at his foot. Her heavy boot struck his ankle from the side and knocked him off his feet.
He fell hard, crashing sideways into the bushes.
She scrambled to her feet and dove at him before he could regain his footing. She shoved him flat on his back and landed elbow first, driving the point of her elbow into his gut, all of her 120 pounds behind it.
With a grunt, he stopped trying to pull the knife from his thigh and reached for her throat instead. His bloodied hands closed around her throat. A ring of fiery pain encircled her neck and cut off her breath.
He flipped her onto her back and used his superior weight and strength to choke her out. Stars danced in front of her eyes. Stupid, stupid. He’d taken her by surprise. She’d underestimated his wiry strength, much like he’d underestimated her.
It took everything in her not to struggle to pry his hands off her neck. Her chest burned. She had only a few seconds before she lost consciousness.
One, two, three. Breathe. That’s how she endured pain. Only now she couldn’t breathe.
She reached down desperately, her hand scrabbling beneath the weight of his torso to his legs, until she found the handle of the knife.
She jerked it from his thigh. It came out easily enough, but her grip was wrong, forcing her to hold it like she was slicing carrots, not flipped the other way, better for stabbing.
His body was on top of hers. He was still choking her. The pain was excruciating. Darkness filmed the edges of her vision. Her pulse was so loud in her ears, she heard nothing else. The only thought in her head screamed stay alive! over and over.
One more move before consciousness took over and she was dead.
One more move. Better make it now.
She twisted her wrist, brought her arm in close, and slid the blade into her attacker’s side, just below his ribs. His eyes bulged, his mouth opening in an anguished scream.
She yanked out the blade as she wrenched to the side. He lost his grip on her neck, collapsing onto her legs.
Gasping, she sucked in a mouthful of precious air, then another and another, her throat raw, frantically breathing in the sweet scent of pine mingled with the hot, tangy smell of fresh blood.
Her fingers dug into leaves, dirt, and twigs as she wriggled free of him, kicking with her waning strength. It felt like swimming in molasses, every movement slow and requiring incredible effort.
She forced herself to her hands and knees, made herself turn and crawl back to him.
Terrance lay flat on his back, moaning, clutching his bloodied side. He stared up at her, wide eyes filled with agony and terror.
If she spared him and he lived, he’d only prey on someone else. She needed to finish this.
She flipped the knife
around in her hand, tightened her grip on the handle, and plunged it into his chest. The metallic scent of blood filled her nostrils, mingled with the stench of bodily functions losing control.
He flailed beneath her, his slick hands smacking weakly at her arms, smearing her skin with his blood. His eyes rolled back in his head. Ragged gurgles rattled from his chest.
Finally, his movements stilled completely.
Only then did she allow herself to sag in relief. She pushed herself off the body and scooted back against the nearest tree, breathing hard. Her heart was still a wild thing galloping inside her chest. She couldn’t inhale enough oxygen.
Her stomach lurched. She stared down at her trembling hands, at the blood that wasn’t hers. A pink, swollen scrape covered her right hand from her wrist to her knuckles from the rock. She felt her neck—it was raw and painful to swallow, and she’d have an ugly bruise for a while, but she was fine.
She’d be fine.
It was never easy to kill another human being, no matter who they were. An image of Jacob bleeding out on the mercy room floor flashed through her mind. She pushed it away.
She didn’t want to kill. Hadn’t asked for it. But in a fight to survive, to protect herself and the people she loved, she’d kill if she had to.
Every single time.
Gradually, her breathing steadied. Sounds came back again slowly: the buzzing of insects, the creak of branches, the stutter of gunfire.
The fight wasn’t over yet.
Logan was still out there. He needed her help.
She blinked rapidly, clearing her vision, and searched for her Springfield. She spotted it beneath a cluster of ferns a few yards away. She flexed her stinging hand as she forced herself off her butt, forced herself to move.
Something crashed through the woods toward her. She lunged for the gun and rose to her feet in one fluid motion, whipping around to face the new threat.
Zane waved his arms wildly. “Hey, don’t shoot me!”
She lowered the gun. “What’re you doing here?”
“Came to save you.” He moved next to her and toed the body at their feet. “Clearly, you needed it.”
“He caught me by surprise. Otherwise, he’d have two rounds drilled into his forehead.”
“Either way, I’m impressed.”
“Who’s still out there?” she whispered.
“Counting this one, we got the four males. All dead.” He scratched at his beard. “There’s still two women and the girl.”
She leaned down, pulled the knife from the dead man’s chest, and wiped it on a clean section of his shirt. “At least two of them are behind the white SUV up there. You take the right; I’ll take the left. Don’t accidentally shoot me.”
Zander stared at her, wide-eyed. “Yeah, okay. Got it.”
Dakota sheathed the knife, checked her pistol, and replaced the magazine with a spare from her pocket. “What’re you waiting for? Let’s go.”
37
Logan
Logan watched a round slam into the pine tree not a foot above Dakota’s head. She ducked as shards of bark sprayed everywhere. She might not be so lucky next time.
Fury filled him. This wasn’t his home. He didn’t know Ezra or these Collier guys. He owed nothing to anyone.
Except to her. For her, he’d happily mow down anyone and everyone in his path.
He understood hunger and desperation to survive, even stealing from the dead or from empty homes. But not from the living.
They’d already given these scumbags a second chance. They were shooting at Dakota. Enough was enough.
The world sharpened. Every leaf, every twig. Sound faded away but for the rush of blood in his ears. He tensed, teeth clenched, every muscle coiled and ready.
That cold, hard calm descended. His head was clear.
He barreled through the woods, moving quickly, searching for targets, firing a few warning shots to keep them ducking for cover instead of shooting at him. Aim, exhale, squeeze. Aim, exhale, squeeze.
He went for Sal.
The fat man whirled, his hiding spot behind the bushes useless. He scrambled to a seated position, swinging his shotgun around to aim at Logan crashing toward him like an enraged rhinoceros.
Logan wasn’t as accurate on the move as he was from a still, braced position, but he didn’t need to be. He had the element of surprise, he was close, and Sal presented a large target.
He fired two quick shots, dodging to the left to avoid a couple of pine trees, then fired twice more.
The first shot missed. The second drilled into the man’s belly, the third skimmed his left shoulder. The fourth nailed him dead center in the chest.
The shotgun slid from Sal’s limp fingers. He let out a few gargled gasps as he toppled onto his side, his head slamming into the base of a pine tree. He remained that way, slumped awkwardly, his thick neck bent at an unnatural angle, his eyes open and staring.
Logan grabbed the guy’s gun, slid the strap over his shoulder, and kept moving. By his count, he only had a few rounds left. It was as good a time as any to reload his own weapon. Still hustling through the underbrush, he released the nearly spent magazine, traded it for a new one in his pocket, and jacked the fresh one into place.
He paused behind a thin screen of skinny trees just before the highway. He raised the AR-15 and scanned the area, searching for movement.
Zane and Archer emerged from the opposite tree line about forty yards south, their weapons up, tense and ready.
A shot rang out. He ducked. So did Zane and Archer.
Archer pointed ahead of Logan, to the north.
Movement snagged his gaze—someone ducking down after firing a shot. It’d come from the abandoned SUV further up the road on his side.
Dakota was supposed to take care of it. Something must’ve happened.
Adrenaline surging, he circled around the white Ford Escape.
Three figures huddled against the grille.
“Don’t shoot!” the blonde woman—Brenda—cried. Mascara tracked down her cheeks.
She raised shaking hands in the air, her desperate gaze pleading, beseeching. “We’re women! We’ve got a child!”
A handgun lay on the ground near her. She’d tried to push it behind her, under the car, but he saw it. She was the final shooter.
The dark-haired Asian woman next to Brenda—Carissa—ducked her head. She turned to the side, wrapping her arms around her daughter, attempting to shield the girl with her own body.
“We’re unarmed!” Brenda said again.
Logan didn’t think. He didn’t feel. From ten feet away, he aimed the rifle at the blonde woman and squeezed the trigger.
Brenda’s head jerked back and struck the Ford with a dull thud. Blood sprayed the two figures next to her in a fine mist.
“Logan!” Dakota shouted from behind him.
He barely heard her. He didn’t register anything but the blood, the crumpled body, his own pulse roaring in his ears.
One target down. He swiveled the muzzle to Carissa.
The woman whimpered but didn’t beg for her life. She pushed herself in front of the girl, protecting her. The girl cowered, weeping, her face buried against her mother’s chest.
He aimed, exhaled. His finger tightened on the trigger.
“Logan!”
Ears ringing, he heard her as if from far away. But he heard her.
He moved his finger off the trigger.
Dakota jerked his rifle aside and stood directly in front of him, blocking his view of the woman and the girl.
His vision blurred, then sharpened again, slowly focusing on Dakota.
“That’s enough,” she said, her voice raspy but gentle. She gazed up at him, forcing him to look at her. Bruises in the shape of fingerprints marked her throat. Scratches, bug bites, and streaks of drying blood stippled her arms. “It’s over. They’re all dead.”
She placed her hand on his chest. He registered the warmth, the pressure of her palm, her fin
gers splayed, her thumb directly over his thumping, traitorous heart.
He stood there, shaking, as he came back to himself.
Behind Dakota, the woman still curled over her daughter, not moving, waiting for the killing blow. She didn’t have a weapon. She wasn’t a threat.
They weren’t a threat to anyone.
He’d almost killed them. He’d nearly shot her in the head and then the girl. It was simple muscle memory, mechanical. He would’ve done it without a single coherent thought or flicker of hesitation.
Maybe some would say they deserved death for simply being a part of the group, whether or not they’d wielded the weapons themselves. Maybe that shouldn’t make a difference.
But it did today.
Nausea lurched in his gut. He staggered back, lowering the rifle. That familiar sick-spinning horror twisted inside him.
Despair clawed at his throat. Despair—and thirst.
Zander came out of the woods behind Dakota, gun in hand. Archer and Zane strode toward them. Jake and Boyd shuffled out from the other side of the road.
“What do we do with them?” Jake asked, tilting his chin at the cowering woman and girl.
“No more killing.” Dakota turned toward the brothers, her jaw set defiantly. “Look at them. They won’t cause trouble.”
Archer sighed. “I agree.”
“Then get them the hell out of here,” Boyd snarled, “before I do something I regret.”
Dakota gestured at Carissa with her pistol. “You heard him. Run! Now!”
Carissa didn’t speak a word. She stood, pulling the sobbing girl up by her arm, shouldered her backpack, and ran. They fled down the center of US 41, their slamming footsteps and the girl’s sobs the only sounds.
The two figures grew smaller and smaller. Neither one of them looked back.
Dizziness washed over Logan. That sour-sick feeling lurched in his gut as white stars exploded in front of his vision. He could barely hold onto the rifle.
