Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption (Road to Redemption #1)(98)

I know how to run without making a lot of noise. If they can’t hear me, they don’t know where to point their guns.

My feet carry me faster than I would have thought possible at this point. Not that I’m f*cking complaining, but I know, in the back of my mind, I’m gonna be hating life later on.

Or at the very least, my shins will be.

I hear shots. A couple hit tree trunks that are a little too f*cking close for comfort. So I start zigzagging for a good quarter mile.

I’m guesstimating here.

I know there’s gotta be a building coming up soon. If there isn't, I may never find Stix.

Finally, I see a structure up ahead, and I push myself to go faster than I already am until I’m in the protection of its shadows.

I let myself catch some breath while I listen for what’s happening. Damn, my f*cking legs hurt.

Note to self: no more Crouching Tiger, Hidden Stiles bullshit after this.

The shots are further off in the distance now. I don’t think anyone’s actually f*cking followed me yet. So they must think I’m still close to the fence.

Hopefully, Nick isn’t back there.

When I’m at what I assume is the entrance, I realize it’s a barn, or something like it. I steal along the side until I find the damn door that’s gonna let me in.

It slides open fairly easily, and I’m surprised to find there’s no one guarding this place.

Don’t be dead, kid.

I keep my mouth shut in case there is someone guarding the barn and they saw me coming.

The smell of hay and shit, literally, wafts through the entire place. I have that aroma to thank for the fact I’m paying more attention to the ground than what or who is around me.

There’s another scent in here, too, I realize, though.

Pot.

A hand grabs me by the neck of my shirt and throws me to the ground. My instincts kick in, and I make to get up but they shove me against a stack of hay bales. They cover my mouth before I can ask what the f*ck.

“Shhhhh.”

I bite his hand.

“Fuck, Jackie.”

“Jesus.” Nick pulls his hand away to inspect it for bleeding. I rub my neck where he was practically strangling my ass a few seconds ago.

How in the hell did he beat me here? I’m the one that ran the mile in twelve minutes flat on the track team.

“You could’ve just f*cking said ‘hey, Jack, it’s Nick. Be quiet, okay?’ Instead of all that bullshit,” I whisper-yell. I’m not stupid. He must know someone else is here if he’s being all stealthy and whatnot.

“And you didn’t have to f*cking bite me!” he whisper-screams back.

A gruff, deep sort of snort sounds from somewhere in the building. I shut the f*ck up to listen and try to figure out what in the hell it was. Nick pulls at me again, then points in another direction.

“You’ve gotta be f*cking kidding me.”

No wonder I didn’t see anyone guarding the barn.

They didn’t need anyone.

They’ve got a bull.

Nick winces. Barely. I look at him to give him shit, then I notice, saying, “You’re bleeding.”

“Only a little bit.” He pushes himself up into a sitting position, but he’s obviously in pain.

“What the… where?” I kneel down next to him and check the important spots. His gut, his thigh.

“Here.” He grabs my hand and places it against his shoulder.

“How bad?”

“Not sure,” he breathes. “Bad enough to make me wanna lie down and take a nap; not bad enough to make me wanna puke.”

“Okay.” That’s encouraging. He’s still got a sense of humor. “You sit tight. I’m gonna get the kid, then we’re gonna get the hell outta here, and you’re going to a hospital.”

No sweat.

I get up and pull the S&W out. “Hang in there.”

“Be careful,” he tells me. Like I f*cking need him to tell me that shit when there’s a thousand-pound bull to face off with.

I study the place and figure this bull? He’s gotta be guarding the space next to him. It’s the only place I can’t get to without getting past him. That’s where Stix has to be.

So I take a breath and go the f*ck for it.

For the time being, he pays me no mind. He’s got a trough full of who knows what, but it’s almost empty from what I can tell. And just a wild guess, but I’m pretty sure when he’s done, I’ll be his next target. Unless I can find the kid and get him, along with my injured brother, the f*ck out before that happens.

“Nice bull.” I shuffle by him slow and steady so I can properly check the other side of this place to see if Stix is here. It’s tight between him and the wood slats keeping him from getting out of the barn.

It’s cool. This shouldn’t be too hard, right? Should only take a minute. I just need to be quick about it.

My not-so-friendly looking friend stops eating to glance up at me just as I’m squeezing my way past his personal space. I freeze, wide-eyed.

“Hey there, dozer.” Bulldozer. Get it?

I talk soft, thinking if I give him a name, he’ll appreciate that.

I smile. He grunts and his front hoof stomps the floor.

“Don’t piss him off,” Nick advises from the safety of his hay bale-stuffed corner. No shit, Sherlock.