Heat burst through her as she veered toward the highway. The rumble strips tossed the van like landmines.
Cheeto cried out. Rosita screamed. Horns blared behind them.
The yield sign grew larger.
Her headlights gleamed off it.
Then it was behind them.
Rosita screamed again. Higher now. Inhuman. It sounded like the shattering of a thousand windows. Nothing so horrible had ever pounded against Ash’s eardrums.
Then the screams cut out. It was over.
51
Trent grabbed the armrest and hoisted himself up. His leg throbbed murderously as he straightened it, electric darts shooting from ankle to knee. When he planted his good foot, the van was still charging forward. As the wipers swiped, the exit was nowhere in sight. Neither was the yield sign.
We did it! he thought, We—
Ash abruptly pulled into the breakdown lane and stomped the brake, flinging Trent hard against the dash. He must’ve bumped the volume knob, because the music abruptly stopped. Silence hung between the four of them, broken only by the screech of wipers.
Beside him, Ash clutched the steering wheel so tightly her arm shook. Her bold black eyes looked wounded, filled with a what-have-I-done expression.
Balancing on his good leg, Trent leaned toward her. He slid an arm behind her back and hugged her from the side. Emotion brimmed from his eyes and tightened his throat. He kissed her forehead, tasting sweat.
“Rosita,” Ash whispered. “How is she?”
Trent twisted around to check. Grabbing the seats, he lowered his good knee to the floor. Trembling, he crawled toward Rosita. She lay on her stomach, out cold. Rather than checking her pulse, he turned her head. Both eyelids were shut. With a trembling thumb, he touched one, meaning to peel it back. But when he applied pressure, the eyelid dented inward with a faint click.
He shuddered.
Trent pinched the lashes above the other eye and lifted.
Empty darkness stared back at him.
He flinched, sat back, and frantically wiped his fingers on his pants, as if he’d touched something contagious. When he turned around, he saw Ash and Cheeto staring, both waiting for an answer.
Trent swallowed hard. “It worked.”
52
Karl had dialed the last of the soon-to-be Traders just before Ashlee’s van rolled into the townhouse lot. Her timing couldn’t have been better. He zipped his jacket and shuffled down the porch steps. The storm threw snow in his face, forcing him to shield his eyes. Through his fingers, he saw Ashlee and Cheeto screaming into each other’s faces inside the van.
She flung the door open, still roaring.
“—and don’t even think about driving off with my van. It’s in my name and it better stay here, or else the first thing I’m gonna do with my new hand is rip your goddamned hair out.” She slammed the door. When she turned and saw Karl, her scowling face brightened. “Dad!”
She ran to him.
In his mind he saw her, twenty-five years younger, sprinting off the bus after her first day of kindergarten. He spread his arms wide and she crashed into his chest, hugging him tight. He returned the squeeze.
“Ashlee. Thank you.”
“I was so fucking worried.” That foul mouth of hers shattered the memory of five-year-old Ashlee. Still, he wasn’t complaining. “Dad, your neck…”
“Little scratch,” he said, touching the bandage. “I’ll be okay.”
“You better.”
Karl held her at arm’s length. “Let’s roll. Gotta meet the new Traders in the church lot. Trent coming with us?”
She looked over her shoulder as Trent climbed outside and waved. “Once he drives Rosita home, he’s gonna grab Jake and meet us up there.”
“Grab Jake?” Karl released her. His stomach spiraled like a downed plane. “Oh, no. Ashlee, you didn’t…”
“It’s done,” she said. “Let’s hurry.”
The plan was to gather in the church parking lot. When Karl and Ashlee arrived, Father McKagan offered to drive them in the parish van. That worked for Karl. He parked his truck outside the rectory and climbed aboard. The backseat was sunken, and the air smelled dusty, stale. Once he and Ashlee were buckled in, he yelled up to the old priest.
“Step on it!”
“Aren’t we waiting on three others?” Father McKagan asked.
“They’ll catch up,” Karl said. “No time to wait. Candace said she’s got people guarding the creek. We gotta reason with them.”
“Will they be a problem?” Father asked.
“They’ll back down,” Ashlee said, reaching into her pocket and flashing the envelope of Candace’s marked bills. “We’ll convince them.”
Someone ran into the parking lot, waving her arms. A younger girl. Karl recognized the hostess from Narducci’s. “What’s Berke Toyama doing here?” he demanded.
“I texted her,” Ashlee said.
“She trading?”
“No.” Ashlee slid open the side door. “But if we’re gonna convince those guards, we gotta show it’s not just us Hudsons who want out.”
After Berke climbed in, they motored across town to the banquet hall’s half-filled lot. They zipped past parked cars and stopped at the foot of the hill leading into the woods. Snow had obscured the trail.
“Ready? Let’s move.”
Karl led the way until Berke and Ashlee overtook him. Father McKagan, who hefted a gym bag full of towels, lagged behind. Before long, Karl was trudging through the snow, winded. Not only was his neck wound bothering him, but he hadn’t eaten anything since last night.
“Dad, you okay?”
“I’m good,” he said, panting. “Worry about Father McKagan. He’s the slow one.”
When they reached the upper level of the woods, Karl’s ears caught the laughing flow of the creek. Snare was cheering them on, it seemed.
To his surprise, nobody stood watch outside the thicket. Karl wondered if Candace had been bluffing about the guards, but upon checking the trail, he noticed footprints. Recent ones. Three different sets, no less.
Berke stopped at the pine wall and lifted her earmuffs. She listened, then hopped in place. Turning back, she said, “Something splashed.”
The group debated, whispering among themselves. Ashlee wanted to charge in. Berke didn’t. Father kept asking if the guards were armed.
“I’ll go check,” Karl said. He had to. If the guards had orders to shoot, he couldn’t risk Ashlee or the others getting hurt. Wouldn’t be able to live with himself. “If it’s safe, I’ll holler. If not, take cover.”
“Like hell I will.” Ashlee produced, of all things, a hunting knife. “If they fuck with you, they’re done.”
“Don’t hurt nobody.” Karl held up a finger. “Anyone dies, we’ll have to trade even more parts.”
With a deep breath, he pushed through the trees. Needles scratched his face. One caught the edge of his eye. He flinched, and the branches rustled. With his left hand Karl shielded his face. With his right, he palmed his pistol grip.
Butterflies soared up his throat. He recognized this feeling from thirty-two years ago at the warehouse, when he’d walked on his own God-given knees for the last time. This time, however, would be different. It had to be. Nobody got that unlucky twice.