Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(93)

“Was it the parents?” Best I remember, the parents are rich. And desperate. I’m really hoping these slick sons of bitches are hired guns working on the right side of this, however sketchy their tactics.

The man next to me, who hasn’t spoken yet, just puts the gun against my knee in a silent promise. I shut up.

Beyond the tinted windows, Wolfhunter glides by. The cop cars are grid-searching, but they’re ignoring us; that’s too bad, because I’d love to hear these assholes explain having me in handcuffs in the back. Except the cops would probably just kill us all anyway. Jesus, this town. I can’t be sure of anything anymore. Everything is wrong here.

At least Gwen and the kids are somewhere that is—hopefully—safe. I can’t do anything about it now, but I know Gwen; at the first sign of danger, she’ll be a grizzly bear for our kids. She’ll fight anyone to the end.

Just keep it together, I tell myself. I’m sweating, and focusing too much on things I can’t control. My world has to be here, in this car. With these two armed men.

I pay attention to where they’re taking me. The cordon of police cars is moving out; we’re heading in the opposite direction, toward the center of town and then beyond it, to the outskirts on the other side. Not a long distance, but long enough. This section of town is sparse, lots of thickly weeded lots, boarded-up decaying houses. I don’t see anywhere I could even hope to find help. I don’t see a single person outside.

The SUV pulls to a stop in a bare dirt alley lined with weathered wood fencing on both sides. The driver gets out and opens my door with his gun drawn. My backseat companion speaks for the first time. “Out.”

Always an opportunity.

Getting out of an SUV in handcuffs is a naturally clumsy business. I put my booted foot down on the running board, and as the driver reaches for me, I let myself lean too far, and my foot slips off. I crash into him, and he isn’t quite prepared for it; he staggers back and nearly goes down. Nearly. I’d hoped he’d drop the gun, but he doesn’t; he’s lithe, and as I roll to my feet and dodge behind the SUV, I know I haven’t bought as much time as I’d hoped. My backseat companion is already scrambling to get out; I can feel the shift of the vehicle against my back. I have a split second to look around and decide. Are they going to shoot me in the back?

Probably not. Mike’s succeeded in making me seem valuable. They want me. Doesn’t mean they won’t try to hit me in the leg, the shoulder—something nonfatal.

I run anyway.

“Hey!” I don’t know which of them yells that, but it doesn’t matter; I don’t hear a shot, but I do hear heavy footsteps behind me. Running in handcuffs slows me down. I dodge behind a fence and press myself flat against the rough, leaning wood; as the first man—the hipster—blasts past, I catch him with an outstretched foot on his shin and he goes sprawling. This time he does lose the gun. I dive, roll, and manage to get one hand around the grip. It hurts like holy hell, but I brace on my left and aim the gun right-handed at an angle from behind my back. Feels like I’m about to dislocate my shoulder, and thick bolts of agony come off the joint, but I meet the eyes of the second man through the fence break, and I see him calculate the odds. He can kill me, sure, but wounding takes a slower, more meticulous calculation at this distance, and his buddy’s in the way as he tries to get up. I have a clear shot. He does, too, if he wants to kill. But I’m betting he doesn’t.

“Drop it,” I tell him. “Fucking now.”

He shrugs and bends down to place the gun on the ground. “How do you think you’re going to get up, man? There’s two of us, one of you. You’re handcuffed. All we have to do is kick your ass.”

“Harder to do if you’re dead,” I tell him. “I’m a good shot.”

“From behind your back?” Hipster says. “Doubt it, my man.” He’s up now, mildly pissed off but uninjured, and he slips another gun out of an ankle holster. He aims it at me and sights on my shoulder. “I’m a good shot too.”

He’s got me, and he knows it. So do I. They still need me alive and talking, or he’d just go for it and shoot—and he will, if I make him.

I let the gun fall and roll over on my back; the release of tension on my shoulder feels like a shock all its own. I don’t fight when the two men haul me up to my feet and march me back out into the alley. The shorter one is putting some cruel pressure on my elbow, as if he means to tear something. The taller one seems more willing to forgive and forget.

We don’t talk. They take me around the SUV and into an open back gate in an equally dilapidated wooden fence, through waist-high weeds to a cracked back porch of a shotgun shack that looks like it saw better days in the 1950s. There’s a significant lean to it. The back door, though, swings open, and they shove me in.

It’s a kitchen. I immediately lunge forward, pretend to stumble, and fetch myself up against a dirty counter. This place has been empty a long time. There’s a raw hole where the stove would have been, and the fridge is gone too. They’re only a step or two behind me, and I can’t find anything useful in grabbing range. They spin me, and walk me down a filthy, peeling hallway with holes in the ceiling where light fixtures once lived. The place stinks of mold and unflushed toilets.

And it isn’t empty. In the cramped living room—at least, I guess that’s what it was once, because there’s a sagging sofa against one wall, and the gap-toothed remains of a brick fireplace—there’s another man waiting.