Article 5 (Article 5 #1)(39)

“Chase!” I screamed, clambering to my feet.

Stan swore, reminding me of his presence. On impulse, I sprinted around him toward the gun, but as quickly as I reached it, he was upon me. His body, heavy and rank with old sweat, arched over my back. I clenched my jaw, and wrapped my fingers around the wooden handle of the rifle. The tender skin of my knuckles scraped against the asphalt.

Stan knotted his fist through my hair and jerked back hard. I cried out as the burn seared across my scalp and ripped away.

When I turned around, I saw that Chase had thrown Stan into the front of the truck. When he fell, Chase kicked him hard in the gut, and Stan collapsed to his knees and forearms, sputtering. I didn’t watch. I picked up the rifle and ran to the truck, stuffing it behind the seat without thinking twice.

I spun back just as Rick—face smeared with the blood that ran like a faucet from his nostrils—hurtled himself onto Chase’s back. Panic raced through me. I could not see the knife.

In a frenzy, I searched the ground, hoping that the weapon wasn’t embedded into Chase’s body, and instead found the nightstick near the front tires, where Stan was still laid out, gasping for breath. I picked it up, prepared to run back to aid Chase, but I was intercepted by Rick, wild-eyed and bloodstained and rabid. He grabbed the collar of my shirt, and heaved me around so fast that I lost my balance. I knew he meant to use me as a shield against Chase.

I swung the baton like a baseball bat in all directions. It connected twice, maybe three times with something solid, but I didn’t know who or what. My cropped hair was streaming around my face, blinding me. Then suddenly, I was flung to the pavement.

A sound halfway between a gasp and a gurgle overrode the pulse in my eardrums. I lifted my head and saw, in horror, that Chase had pinned Rick against the side of the store and was using the cement wall as leverage to choke him.

To kill him.

Rick’s yellow eyes bulged. He swiped drunkenly at Chase’s tightening grip.

“Chase!” I panted, the oxygen having been sucked from the air around me as I realized his intent. “CHASE!”

He registered the sound of my voice as though waking from a dream. Startled, he dropped Rick, who crumpled to the ground, motionless.

I stared at the body in absolute dread. He was still breathing. He was still alive.

Barely.

An instant later I felt a hard pull on my forearm as Chase lifted me almost completely off the ground. Blood was smeared across one cheek, but his face looked otherwise unharmed.

“Truck. Now.” His eyes were so black I could not see the deep brown irises around them.

I obeyed. I ran on numb legs to the open driver’s side door and slid across the seat. My eyes remained on the two men lying on the pavement. Chase moved fast, grabbing our supplies and shoving them inside. Within moments, the truck roared to life. The tires squealed as we flew from the parking lot.





CHAPTER


7



THE truck tore down the empty highway, tires pumping so viciously I thought they would ricochet off.

I was breathing hard, my eyes glued to the back window of the cab for any sign of pursuit, the baton still lifted defensively in my hands like a sword.

“Are you okay?” Chase asked, tearing his eyes away from the curving highway as often as he could spare a glance. His black hair looked gray, the colors of his clothing subdued, all covered by the same thin gray dust that had blanketed the asphalt. But his eyes, dark with concern, were suddenly familiar. They scanned over my body, intent to see if I’d been harmed.

I didn’t get it. He’d been a soldier, automatic and emotionless, just moments ago. He’d tried to kill that man. He would have, had I not distracted him.

I tried to speak, but my throat was too constricted.

“Your arm? What about your head?” he said.

My shoulders jerked in a shrug. He made a quick reach for the nightstick, and I shied away without thinking, leaving a cloud of gray ash in my wake.

He exhaled sharply. “Okay … I won’t touch you.” One hand raised in surrender before returning to the wheel. The lines of his throat twitched.

No, I did not want him to touch me. Not after those hands had curled around another’s throat.

“Were you going to kill him?” I asked, scarcely louder than a breath. I knew the answer, but I would have given anything for him to tell me the opposite. That I’d misread the situation. That I was blowing it out of proportion. I wanted desperately to believe he wasn’t just as cold-blooded as Morris and Randolph and the other soldiers.

He kept his eyes on the roadway, swerving around the larger pieces of trash that had gathered in slopes against the concrete barriers.

“Chase?” It took great effort to swallow. It didn’t seem possible, but somehow my heart was beating even faster than before.

He didn’t respond.

I began to tremble in abrupt recognition of the chill that swept through me. The baton felt suddenly hot in my freezing grip and I dropped it on the floor. My knees curled into my chest. The bench seat seemed too short; we were crowded too close together.

“C-can you slow down?” Everything was moving too fast. And yet it needed to go fast, otherwise all the terrible and dangerous things were going to catch up. Still, I felt like I was barely hanging on.

He shook his head.

The silence that settled over us did grant me one comforting illusion. It provided distance. As the miles passed, Chase slipped farther and farther away.