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Before he could think, before he could process it, Eric was out the door, running flat-out toward the burning barn. Because Durant was his only hope. Durant was the only connection to Otero, their only chance of bringing him down, putting him in prison, saving their lives.
He couldn't be dead.
Eric burst out of the trees, aimed for the barn.
"Wait!" Brady's voice was muffled, as if he'd shouted through water. Everything was muffled now. The explosion had deafened him.
Eric pressed on, running faster.
A force hit him from behind. He landed in the snow-covered grass. A heavy body rolled off him.
Brady had tackled him.
Eric fought to get away, to run again. Because to stop meant to think. And to think meant to face it. Face that their only chance for a normal life had just gone up in smoke. Face that, once again, his life had blown up.
He rolled over, pulled his fist back. Froze.
Brady froze, too. Then, slowly, he sat back on his knees, breathing hard. "You throw that punch," he said, his voice still faint to Eric's weak ears, "I'll have your butt thrown in jail."
Eric dropped his arm. He rose to his knees. His head fell forward.
"You're fast for a little guy," Brady said.
If Brady didn't have five inches on him—and Eric was nearly six feet tall—he'd have made it. "We can't all be mutants."
Eric lifted his gaze to the barn. Or what was left of it. Flames rose from the ancient boards, the only color against the backdrop of gray clouds and fluttering snow.
"You think there's any chance...?"
Brady stared, too. "No. That explosion was the definition of overkill. I can't imagine how anyone could have survived." He stood and stared, and Eric did, too. The barn was in flames. His muffled hearing picked up a loud crack, then a smash as a rafter fell.
Brady stood and started walking forward. "Come on. Let's see what we can find."
They jogged across the pasture as cars pulled down the drive. There'd been ten cops on this. Ten men wasted their Sunday to watch Barry Durant die.
To watch Eric's life float away with the ashes.
The place where the door had once stood was empty now. This entire side of the structure had been blown apart. The rest was collapsing in front of their eyes. Eric peered through the smoke for signs of life, of movement. As if anything could have survived.
He couldn't even see the body.
He didn't want to think about what had become of Barry Durant.
He took a step forward, but Brady's grip on his arm stopped him. "We're not getting any closer. For all we know, there are more bombs."
Eric stared at the flames, already burning out in the cold damp air.
What was he doing? There was nothing for him here, not now. His life wasn't Nutfield. His life wasn't his job. His life was Kelsey. Kelsey and Daniel. They were what mattered now.
Brady said, "What are you thinking?"
His hearing was coming back, and Brady's voice suddenly sounded too loud. "Can I borrow your truck?"
His friend narrowed his eyes, considered him. A moment passed while police officers milled about on the road. Far away, a siren roared.
"You have a plan?" Brady asked.
He nodded but said, "Not really."
"You'll need a different car, as soon as possible."
"I'll buy something."
Brady turned back to the barn. "They must have known we were on to them. Maybe they're long gone."
"You believe that?"
Brady met his eyes. "Keys are in the ignition. Just let me know where you leave it."
Eric turned toward the car, but Brady grabbed his shoulder, pulled him close, and slapped him on the back. "We'll catch this guy. It won't take long. So keep in touch."
Eric nodded once, turned, and jogged away.