Code(51)

I didn’t press. We all knew his mistake had been cataclysmic, but no one was anxious to discuss it then. Not with their heads pounding. Not with Ben scowling like an angry grizzly.

“We dodged a bullet,” I said. “Let’s just avoid any repeat performances.”

“Not a problem,” Shelton said. “My beer pong career was short.”

“But epic.” Hi raised a fist, which Shelton bumped weakly.

Miracle of miracles, no one had been caught. I still couldn’t believe our luck.

After docking, it had taken some time to roust the boys into semi-presentable form. Then, slurring and stumbling, they’d headed for their doors. I’d held zero hope they’d pass muster.

But Shelton’s parents had been out, and Tom Blue was asleep. Hi had snuck past his mother by faking a gastrointestinal illness. Gross.

Kit hadn’t blinked when I’d beelined for my room. I don’t think “coming home intoxicated” was on his radar yet. Which was reasonable, since I was fourteen, had never done anything like that, and hadn’t been drinking anyway.

Up early the next morning, I’d made a round of calls. Incredibly, the guys hadn’t backed out.

So there we were, me and three wildly hungover boys, riding in Kit’s SUV.

I checked the iPad. Just over fourteen hours left.

Kit was at work, of course, even though it was Saturday. We hadn’t asked to borrow the car. No need for daddy dearest to know I was meeting a stranger at a secluded firing range.

Ben turned right at Steed Creek and eased onto Willow Hall Road. Around us, the forest of longleaf pines grew denser.

“I don’t remember anything,” Ben said abruptly. “I blacked out.”

“You took the whole world and drank it,” Hi mumbled. “Then you tried to fight Jason. And then you—”

“Let’s discuss last night another time,” I said, hoping to avoid the subject. “Right now, we need to focus on finding the range.”

Blacked out? I watched Ben from the corner of my eye. I’d never known him to lie, but I got the feeling he wasn’t being completely honest either.

He remembers. But he’s probably embarrassed about getting all sentimental.

I let the matter slide. “Blacked out” and forgotten worked fine for me.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere.” Hi, staring out his window. “There’s nothing here but woodchucks.”

It was true. The woods pressed close to the road, blocking the sun. I hadn’t seen a building in miles.

Another half mile, then a wooden sign appeared: “Twin Ponds Rifle Range.”

Ben pulled into a gravel lot. Only one other vehicle was present—a muddy Ford F-150, black, with oversized tires and a steel gun rack attached to its bed.

My sneakers hit the ground first. “Let’s find our expert.”

“Why does the Forest Service operate a shooting gallery?” Shelton leaned against the parked 4Runner, wheezing from the effort of getting out. “Seems weird.”

“It’s not much, just a designated area for firing weapons.” Hi stretched, rubbed his lower back. “What better place to pop off some rounds than deep in the woods?”

A series of reports echoed from the trees ahead.

Hi cocked his ear. “Someone’s popping caps as we speak.”

I shouldered my backpack and we headed down a short trail toward a long, rectangular structure divided into stalls like an open-air market. Each section had its own bench, rack, and a firing platform facing the open field beyond.

Fifty yards out, a rough wooden beam crossed the field, designed for propping cans, bottles, and other small objects. Fifty yards beyond the beam was a thick earthen backstop suitable for pinning paper targets.

Debris littered the field—signs, old washing machines, TVs, and trash cans—all rusted and riddled with bullet holes.

The range felt neglected. Forgotten by the world. The surrounding forest was deathly quiet. Spooky.

I was very glad to have company.

“What a dump.” Ben kicked a pile of casings at the building’s edge.

“Rednecks like shooting things,” Hi said. “But they don’t like cleaning up.”

More shots sounded in rapid sequence. I spied a man in military fatigues hunched over in the farthest stall, systematically firing a high-powered rifle. Bullets slammed a target at the edge of sight. There was no else on the property.

“Mr. Marchant?” I called.

No response. Of course not. The shooter was wearing earmuffs.

I waved an arm over my head. He noticed our presence, set down his rifle and headgear, and strode over to greet us.

The man was tall, with pale skin, hazel eyes, and light brown hair. Younger than I’d expected—no more than thirty-five—he had the wiry physique of a long-distance runner. He wore orange-tinted glasses and jackboots.

“Mr. Marchant?” I repeated.

“Call me Eric.” He extended a hand. “You must be Tory. Hope you don’t mind, but I thought I’d get in some practice this morning. I don’t get out here too often.”

Suddenly Ben stiffened. Without warning, he lurched sideways and puked noisily in the bushes.

The rest of us skittered back in surprise.

Damn it, Ben. Not now! This guy works for the police.