I push to my feet. The darkness spins around me. Swaying, I reach out for a tree trunk to steady myself and wait for the dizziness to pass. A light shines in the near distance. For an instant, hope deadens some of my pain. I stagger toward the light. Pain radiates through my side and arm. Every step produces excruciating, blinding agony.
That fucking sheriff ruined everything. Fifteen minutes more. That’s all I’d needed. I would have killed them both and successfully exited the scene. I’m going to kill that bitch sheriff if it’s the last thing I do.
Nausea rises in my throat. I lean over and vomit into the dirt. I wipe my mouth with the sleeve of my good arm. I try to listen for the sound of footsteps, but I can barely hear over the sound of my own wheezing. But I know she’ll follow me. She isn’t the type to give up.
I emerge from the trees into another small field, bisected by a road. A two-story farmhouse faces me from the opposite side. The light shines from the front porch. I stumble across fifty feet of frozen ground. After crossing the road, I stagger up the driveway and onto the front porch. I use the butt of the pistol to break the small square of glass next to the dead bolt. Reaching through, I unlock the door and push it open. Inside, I fall to my knees in what I think is a foyer.
A scrape on the hardwood catches my attention. I lift my head. A young woman of about twenty-five stands in a doorway. She wears baggy sweats and those big sheepskin boots. A hostage would improve my situation immensely.
I lift the gun. “Don’t move or I’ll shoot.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Bree led the way through the trees. Each shadow was a potential ambush location. She rounded a tree trunk and pointed her AR-15 into the darkness. Nothing. They crept through the trees without being accosted and paused at the edge of an open space. Just beyond, she saw a road and a house. A light shone from the front porch.
Todd crouched at her side.
“Think he went in there?” she asked softly.
“Yes,” Todd whispered back.
“Do you know where we are?”
Todd squinted at the mailbox, then opened the map app on his phone. “The house number is 401. This should be Route 77.”
Bree touched her mic and updated dispatch. Rhys was wounded and cold. His recent trail indicated he was less steady and still losing blood. He wouldn’t be able to keep running for long. Bree scanned the property. A barn sat behind the farmhouse.
Dispatch spoke in her earpiece. “The homeowner at your location just called 911 to report a home invasion by a wounded man.”
“Is the homeowner in the home?” Bree asked.
“Yes,” dispatch said. “She locked herself in an upstairs bedroom with her baby.”
Hostages.
Bree quelled a quick surge of panic. She and Todd were the only things standing in the way of Rhys harming a mother and baby.
“What’s the ETA of the closest backup?” Bree asked.
“State police are eight minutes away.”
Too long.
Todd adjusted the grip on his AR-15. “Let’s get him.”
If Rhys was inside, he’d be watching for pursuit. When he saw them approach, what would he do? Make a stand and shoot at them, or slip out the back door in another escape attempt? Set the house on fire as a diversion to occupy Bree and Todd while he escaped? Bree couldn’t wait. Rhys was capable of anything. There were no lines he wouldn’t cross, and she wouldn’t sacrifice a woman and her baby.
“I’ll go in the front. You circle around back in case he tries to escape.” Bree waited until her chief deputy rounded the corner of the house. Then she lifted her AR-15 and approached the front walk, trying to stay behind the few shrubs on the exterior landscaping.
Foliage was not adequate cover. Bullets traveled through walls. A few leaves wouldn’t be much of an issue. Bree popped her head over the shrub and saw a shadow through the tiny panes of glass next to the front door.
Was that Rhys?
Where were the mother and child?
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
I’m weaker than I thought. The handgun feels like it weighs twenty pounds. Before I can point the gun at the young woman, she turns and flees. I hear her feet thunder up a flight of steps. A door slams.
She’s no doubt locked herself in a room upstairs. She should have run out the back door. Dumb bitch.
If I had acted faster, I could have made her stay with me. But quick movement doesn’t seem to be an option. I crawl on my hands and knees through the doorway into an old farm-style kitchen. The stairs lead up from the back of the kitchen. I contemplate them but decide I don’t have the strength to follow her.
I sit on the floor, my back against the butcher-block island. The drawer next to me contains dish towels. I grab one and unzip my jacket. A long furrow the width of my finger extends just below my rib cage. The bullet clearly didn’t hit any vital organs, but it made a mess as it plowed through the fleshy part of my side. I should survive if I can stop the bleeding. I grab two folded dish towels and look for something to tie them around my waist. I pull myself to my feet. Leaning on the countertop, I search drawers. Ironically, the only thing I find that will work is plastic wrap. Pressing the folded towels against the wound, I bind it tightly with the wrap. That should help. At least it’s warm inside the house. But how long can I stay? The woman probably has a cell phone. She’ll call the police. They’ll know where I am.
The idea of running out into the cold again exhausts me. My head swims from pain and blood loss. But I need to keep moving, keep running. They won’t be far behind me.
The warmth and bandage revive me. I find a glass in a cabinet and fill it at the tap. My throat and mouth are parched, and the liquid feels luxurious as I swallow. I find a bottle of pain reliever and take four tablets. As I regroup, my head clears a little. The woman must have a vehicle. I spot a key rack next to the back door and shuffle over. Two labeled key chains read SHED and TRUCK.
Truck? I look out the back window. About seventy-five feet away, a pickup sits next to a small barn. Hot tears fill my eyes. I can get away.
A heavy barn coat hangs on a peg by the door. I take off my wet jacket and slide into the dry one. The heavy canvas will block the wind. After pocketing the bottle of pain reliever, I turn off the kitchen lights. I spot a stainless-steel bottle in a drying rack. I fill it at the tap to take with me. Food. I need food. I root through the pantry and find a box of protein bars. I shove a handful into another pocket. I tuck my gun into my waistband and scan the fields behind the house.
A figure creeps toward me. The sheriff? I hope so. I want to shoot her more than almost anything. I pull out the pistol and aim through the broken glass pane. But the figure blurs. I squeeze my eyelids shut and open them again. The figure is closer, only about thirty feet away now. I can’t see the face, but the figure moves like a man. It’s not her. Disappointment rises, bitter in my mouth. The sheriff probably brought the big investigator. They likely split up, one to approach the front of the house, the other to cover the back and cut off my escape.
Divide and conquer and all that shit.
Where is the sheriff? She’s the one I want.
I hear the scuff of a shoe on the front porch and turn toward it. Through the kitchen doorway, I see a shadow through the narrow panes of glass next to the door. She looks bulky because of her body armor, but I know it’s the sheriff by her size.