Little Girl Gone (An Afton Tangler Thriller #1)(106)

Stay cool, she told herself. Stay frosty. She eased forward quietly, making her way in a kind of half crawl, half slide. She was headed for the kitchen, the source of all the smoke.

As she passed Marjorie’s workroom, the door was partially open and she could see a few dolls staring out at her through wisps of smoke. No Ronnie in there, though. No fire either.

Okay. Keep moving.

Afton pushed forward, forcing herself to take shallow sips of air as she peered through the thick haze. The acrid smoke burned her eyes and sent tears streaming down her cheeks. Her heart pounded like a snare drum inside her chest. She was terrified that a single cough or sneeze might give away her position.

Visibility was reduced to almost nothing the closer she got to the kitchen. But the smoke was clearly coming from some sort of fire that Ronnie had started there.

Great gluts of smoke billowed toward her, like ugly, toxic clouds. The scent of charred garbage floated in the air. Afton prayed that this same smoke wasn’t swirling upstairs via old air ducts or vents and that Shake and the babies weren’t being forced to breathe these noxious fumes.

Afton had scuttled through the kitchen doorway and advanced a good six or seven feet when her right knee whacked hard against something.

Ouch. What was that? Table? Chair?

She couldn’t see a damn thing in the swirl of smoke and she was feeling both light-headed and short of breath. She inched forward, trying to swallow back her anxiety and panic, and hit her knee again.

Damn, what was that? Part of the stove?

She reached out tentatively, fearing she would burn her fingers. Instead, the back of her hand knocked against something.

There was an immediate, metallic thud. And just like that, the smoke seemed to lessen. What had she done?

Afton scrambled to her feet, realizing she’d managed to cut off the source of the smoke. Something awful had been burning furiously inside the oven and she had unwittingly but mercifully banged the oven door shut.

Struggling forward another step, Afton tried to remember exactly where the kitchen door was located. She desperately needed to find fresh air or she was afraid she’d lose consciousness. Air first, and then track down Ronnie.

The room was still filled with dark smoke as she ran her fingertips lightly along the edge of the stove. To her left, something soft brushed up against her—curtains maybe?—as she lurched along. She managed another ten feet, holding her breath, blinking furiously. Still gripping the Glock, she batted blindly and smacked into one of the glass panes in the door.

Lucky, lucky, lucky, she thought as she fumbled lower. Turning the doorknob, she slammed her foot against the door in her best kung fu kick.

The door flew open and Afton somersaulted outside, lurching across the front porch, landing on her hands and knees in the soft snow. Plop. She tilted her head back and sucked greedily at the clean, icy air, thankful she’d finally made it out in one piece. Even though wind and snow lashed all around her, her head was beginning to clear and her brain fog had started to lift. Eyes that felt like burning coals just moments ago were slowly beginning to see more clearly. She blinked, trying to orient herself. Gazed about, almost surprised at the tremendous mountains of snow that had built up, and saw . . . Ronnie.

He was ten feet ahead of her, dressed head to toe in a black snowmobile suit and shiny black helmet. He was hunched over, working furiously to strap his Pac boots into a pair of homemade wooden snowshoes. Afton peered through the swirl of blinding snow and was able to make out the snowshoes’ leather laces and heavy coats of varnish. A pair of metal ski poles were stuck in the snow next to him.

Ronnie was trying to escape.

Afton hefted the gun and pointed it at him. “Ronnie!” she shouted.

With the howling wind and the heavy helmet on his head, Ronnie couldn’t hear her.

Afton scooped up a handful of snow, mashed it into a hard snowball, and rocketed it at him.

Ronnie straightened up like he’d been poked with a hot wire. He spun around in a blind panic, almost losing his balance. When he saw Afton kneeling there, pointing a gun at him, his eyes hardened like twin nickels and spit flew out his mouth. He fumbled a hand toward a pocket in his nylon suit.

“Don’t!” Afton cried out.

Ronnie pulled out his gun and fired anyway. Except the only thing that happened was a dull click. He was out of bullets.

Bellowing like an enraged bull, Ronnie fumbled for one of his ski poles. He pointed the sharp end directly at Afton’s face and charged.

Afton shot him in the leg. A no-hesitation shot that drove the slug directly into his upper left thigh, shattering his femur instantly.

Ronnie screamed like a stuck pig, a sharp, high-pitched scream that rose like steel wheels skidding against metal. The ski pole flew from his hand as he leapt a foot into the air, kinked his entire body around, and then collapsed in the snow. His ungainly landing on his wounded leg made him scream again, and he struggled to roll over and right himself. He couldn’t do it. Crumpled like a squashed bug, he howled wildly as damaged nerves and tendons telegraphed excruciating pain to his brain. He threw his arms above his head and thrashed around, his arms batting the snow as if he was desperately trying to make a snow angel.

Afton was on top of Ronnie in a flash. She pressed the Glock firmly against his forehead and grabbed his gun. It was a piece of shit, an old Rossi revolver, but she wasn’t taking any chances.

“You shot me!” Ronnie frothed at the mouth and he’d bit his lip so blood streamed down his chin. “I’m gonna kill you,” he shrilled. “I’ll skin you alive. I’ll slit open your belly open and—”