The Countdown (The Taking #3)(9)

Oblivious to the fact that it was me who’d set Nancy on edge, my dad half dragged the unwilling dog and shoved her in the backseat of the truck before climbing in after her. She was still growling, but it was lower now, coming out in breathy woofs. But the awareness that she didn’t want to be anywhere near me crawled over my skin like a million fireflies . . . unpleasant and unwanted.

I took shotgun as Tyler fired up the ancient pickup truck. If my dad had somehow lost whoever he’d been running from in the woods, there’d be no fooling them now—the engine was big and old, and crazy loud. It rumbled as Tyler slammed the truck into gear, the transmission grinding before it caught, and then we were bouncing over backwoods gravel roads that were riddled with potholes, hills, and ruts.

“All right, we need to sort out what just happened back there,” I managed, finally able to breathe normally as my dad gave up his stakeout and swung around to face us.

For the first hour or so after we’d slammed out of the campsite, my dad refused to say a word, keeping a silent vigil through the grimy back window, which was fine because somewhere along the way, during that hour, Tyler had reached over and taken hold of my hand. It hadn’t stopped him from focusing on driving though, as he alternated his attention between the road we were flying down and the rearview mirror.

I thought for sure he’d have to let go of my hand eventually whenever we’d hit a particularly treacherous pothole or when he had to make a perilously sharp turn, especially since my dad’s ancient truck clearly didn’t have power steering. But he never once did.

And every now and then, his thumb would stroke my palm, or his fingers would tighten, just enough to let me know he still knew I was there, and even though we were running for our lives, I’d momentarily forget to be terrified.

“I think we lost them.” My dad shot one last look over his shoulder, a just-to-be-sure look, before settling forward in his seat. If he noticed that Tyler didn’t have both hands on the wheel, he didn’t mention it.

“Who?” I asked, my own gaze dropping to Nancy beside him. She hadn’t stopped making those warning sounds from the back of her throat . . . not growls exactly, but low mistrustful whines. “And why is she doing that?”

My dad rubbed Nancy’s head and she quieted down a bit. “Your eyes. Pretty sure it’s your eyes. Spooked her.” He leaned over my shoulder and pointed to the glove box. “In there. Sunglasses. See if those don’t help some.”

My eyes? I mean, weird since she’d seen them before, over the past few nights, but I supposed it was possible; we were all a little spooked right now.

My hand felt cold when I let go of Tyler’s to dig through the cluttered contents of my dad’s glove box. I moved aside stacks of worn receipts and crumpled paperwork—an old tire warranty, several outdated registrations, fast-food receipts, and some maps. Beneath them my fingers brushed something more substantial and at first I thought it must be the sunglasses. But when I lifted the mound of mostly garbage out of the way, a hard jolt shook me from the inside out.

A gun.

My dad had never been that guy: a gun guy. He’d always been opposed to guns. Opposed to violence of any kind, and now he was what? Packing heat?

My gaze slid sideways to Tyler, to see if he’d noticed what I had. He raised his eyebrows, letting me know he hadn’t missed it.

I flinched again as my dad’s hand closed over my shoulder. Yet his touch was familiar, comforting, and my tension eased somewhat. “You okay, kiddo?”

“Dad, what’s the gun for?”

“Things have changed, Kyr.”

If I’d have been standing at that moment my knees would’ve buckled because of the way he said my name. It was the way he used to say it, like I was still the old me. But that wasn’t what this was about, and I couldn’t let my emotions sway the fact that my dad had let this . . . this whole situation change him. “Yeah . . . but a gun? Is that really necessary?” I was sure I was being unreasonable. Weren’t Agent Truman and his guys armed? Didn’t it make sense for us to have weapons too?

But wasn’t that just it? What was it my dad always taught me? Two wrongs don’t make a right.

Did that even apply when we were talking life and death?

He squeezed my shoulder again, so much like before, the way he used to do just before a big game or whenever I needed cheering up. “I gotta make sure I can protect you. Keep you kids safe.”

I crossed my arms, not feeling cheered at all by his response. I didn’t feel safer knowing my dad had altered his entire belief system . . . all because of me.

“So what do we do now? We lost pretty much everything back there.” My gaze slid to the glove box, and the gun inside. “Where do we go from here?”

My dad tapped Tyler enthusiastically on the shoulder. “Pull off up ahead there,” he directed. “First thing we need to do is regroup.”

We’d crossed into Wyoming now, which wasn’t so strange. For days we’d been zigzagging across state lines as my dad tried to steer clear of the Daylighters, and considering my current obsession, it shouldn’t have surprised me that the next exit was exit 17. We were on a highway that could barely be called a highway and there was a roadside diner with a flashing neon sign that had a pig wearing a cowboy hat. The pig promised the World’s Best Pie.

I had no idea what one had to do with the other.