It became harder to fight back. With Candace straddling his hips, he couldn’t shake free. His frantic hands tried shoving her off, but her weight held firm as his arms grew weaker. He tried launching forward and whipping his body sideways, but she met his every move with greater strength. He couldn’t escape the waters along the creek’s edge.
Which left him with one choice.
Instead of pushing his face toward the surface, he flung his head backward. It caught her off guard, and she flinched as her arms sank deeper into icy water. The grip around his throat loosened, and he jerked his neck free of her grip. Rather than savoring the relief, he punched his forehead through the surface.
Cold air burned his drenched scalp. Before Candace could reclaim his throat, he reached for the slushy mud and yanked himself forward onto solid ground. As he gasped for air, she jammed something between his lips.
The water bottle.
Grimy liquid splattered his tongue, tickling the back of his throat. He twisted his head, desperate to spit, but she gripped his cheek, her thumb burrowing into his eye socket with unsavory pressure.
More liquid flushed into his mouth. He spat, and water dribbled from the corners of his lips. Before he could force more out, Candace dropped a knee onto his gut. Air whooshed from his lungs, and then he gasped, sucking down the cold, awful slime. It poured into his stomach, coiling like a swallowed serpent.
“We’re done here.” She slammed her forearm across his neck. Her weight shifted, and he was pinned again. He noticed the pistol grip jutting from her coat pocket, just out of reach. “Shame it had to be like this, Karl. We had quite an arrangement, you and I.”
Her words struck deep inside him.
For thirty-two years he’d played lapdog to this rotten woman. Cover-ups, burials, bad decisions—he always went along. He’d been afraid not to. Whether she was his leader or his lover, he obeyed. It was survival instinct. He’d been running for his life ever since he’d lost his knees. She could protect him—and she had—but only when he played his part. If that meant lying to the group, good enough. If that meant endangering those he needed to protect, good enough. If that meant leaving John MacReady to die, good enough.
All those sacrifices. All those years. And now his loyalty was being rewarded with a stomach full of death.
Enough is enough.
He clenched his right fist and flung it at her scowling face above him. His knuckle struck curved bone, the edge of her eye socket. The hit felt solid.
He threw another punch. Pressure vanished from his neck, then his chest as she rolled off him.
He sat up, but her fist smashed his nose. Pain cracked across his cheeks. He raised his arms to guard his face, but she knocked them away and drilled her knuckles into his forehead.
His vision vibrated.
Deep inside him the creek water swirled. He didn’t have much time. This is it.
“Stop this!” he said. “You’re hurting Mick!”
“Hurting him?” she said, cocking her fist for another blow. “How?”
“He feels pain when his parts are hurt.”
“I’m well aware.”
“You knew?”
“Snare told me.”
“Then why you hitting me? You think Mick likes getting his skin pounded on?”
Candace hesitated, giving Karl an opening. He lunged for her jacket pocket and caught the pistol by the grip. The moment he yanked it free, she clutched his forearm.
“Karl, no!”
He bent his wrist and pressed the barrel to her abdomen.
Years ago, when she’d drained her liquor cabinet over a long weekend, she’d spilled a bunch of secrets. Chief among them was her own trade. In the late Eighties she had been diagnosed with a rare form of intestinal cancer. The doctors said it should have killed her.
Now Karl decided he would finish the job.
“This is for the Traders.”
He shot her three times in the gut.
83
Ash kept running. Ever since she’d entered this woodsy section, she’d struggled to keep pace. With Jake weighing her down, she could barely keep Mick in sight. Her flashlight found him and lost him again and again. Even running her hardest, she could barely see the snowy spray his feet kicked up.
Before long, a cold despair sank through her, sapping her remaining strength. A cramp swelled beneath her ribs. Her stride broke. The chase had never looked more futile, yet she had to keep pumping her legs. Had to keep fighting the terrain. Had to—
Gunfire barked in the distance.
Mick stumbled as if he’d been struck. He doubled over, hugging his stomach as he collapsed into the snow.
No bullet could have hit him, not through the surrounding pines. Ash assumed someone’s traded parts were damaged. Whatever had happened, it wasn’t enough to keep Mick down. He writhed in place for mere seconds before climbing to his knees.
Snow nipped Ash’s sweaty face. Wind pierced her jacket and jeans. The cold devoured her. Even though Mick’s fall presented a golden opportunity to gain ground, she found herself wishing she could pass out instead.
She recognized this feeling. It overcame her countless times when she was hunched over her guitar. It reminded her of all the mercilessly late nights she crafted riffs and solos. Of all the doubt she’d endured. Of all the band breakups, low-paying gigs, stolen gear, and every setback in between. If she could overcome that shit, she could overcome bodily exhaustion and the weight of a shivering boy.
“Hang on, Jake!”
Jake moaned and hugged her neck tightly.
Ash sprinted ahead. A powerful urgency surged through her thighs—warmth, strength, need. She would catch Mick. She had to. Once she got within range, she’d pump every last bullet into his head.
His footprints led her out of the woodsy area. Ahead a narrow muddy lane stretched between the creek and the pines. She followed it and saw him stumbling ahead of her, clutching his gut. Ash realized he was rushing toward the thickest fog. Toward the bend. She knew better—he meant to drink the bend water. It was the safest way to return his traded parts to Snare. If he succeeded, Ash wouldn’t get the chance to wreck Snare’s brain.
Clutching Jake tighter, she pumped her knees. The cold stopped bothering her. Even the kid’s weight stopped mattering. He felt as light as a guitar strapped across her shoulder.
That’s all this is, she thought. Another show on the road. Big stage, huge stakes. Time to rock.
The bend was close now. She’d have to shoot soon.
“Hold tight, Jake,” she said. “Wrap your legs around my back. Pretend you’re a monkey.”
“I can’t feel my legs.”
“Do it!”
His shoes brushed her thighs. They scraped past her hips and curled loosely behind her back. Not the surest hold, but better than dangling like a sixty-pound necklace. With one arm secure beneath his butt, she lifted the other from his back and stuck her flashlight between her teeth. Jake’s weight dragged her forward, but she leaned her shoulders back to compensate.
Once she was balanced, she withdrew the handgun from her pocket.
Mick glanced over his shoulder. When he noticed her outstretched gun, he turned, ran a few more steps, and dove into the creek. Water leaped in a massive splash. He swam frantically, arms windmilling.
Ash fought to maintain her balance against Jake’s dead weight. Danger pressed in on both sides of the narrow pathway. To her right, branches hooked and clawed. To her left, the creek rushed, eager to douse her like a fading fire. Before long she could only drop one boot directly in front of the other. With each step, the balancing act grew more demanding, like a guitar solo just beyond her skill level.