57

 

 

My eyes snapped open. Adrenaline blasted through me. I whipped my head left and right searching for the threat as I leapt to my feet. My knee buckled and I stumbled slightly. I caught myself, and right at that moment, I spotted him.

The goon Thad Richards owned stood about twenty yards away. In the sunlight, the cold fury in his eyes contrasted with the bright red of his acne-riddled face.

I heard a scream from the other side of the park, male but high pitched. The picnickers. The sound came to me as if my ears were stuffed with cotton. I shuffled to the side, my eyes glued to my attacker.

He said something I couldn’t understand, more of a snarl than words. The shotgun came up to his shoulder. He drew a bead on me. I stared at the massive hole at the end of the barrel. Like a mystic cobra, I was transfixed by the image.

This is what death looks like, I thought.

Followed by I don’t even know your name.

Then, No!

I leapt.

He fired.

The sound of the gunshot was almost comically small, just a small pip. The concussive force of the blast washed past me, though, almost as if we were underwater and it was a current passing nearby. The slightest of zings rippled through my shoulder as I fell.

As soon as I hit the ground, I scrambled back to my feet, pushing up with my good knee. I shot a glance at my attacker. I watched him rack the shotgun again. The crack of the action echoed throughout the park.

He raised the gun.

I ran, zigging and zagging in a frantic, limping sprint. Another blast erupted behind me. I didn’t feel any impact or pain. I didn’t dare look over my shoulder, or stop. I cut to my right, then immediately back to my left when I heard him work the action a third time. I took two steps, then reversed direction again. My knee screamed in pain with the sudden force, but it just barely held, propelling me back to my right.

The sound of the shotgun blast was loud this time, as if an artillery cannon had been fired. There was no pain, but I collapsed. The fragrance of clean, green grass filled my nose when I first hit the ground. A moment later, the wet, coppery smell of blood assaulted my nostrils.

I tried to get up, but my leg wouldn’t cooperate. Something was wrong structurally. I glanced down and all I could see was a red, pulpy mess below my left knee. The panic that had been curled inside my chest exploded outward, a wild, rolling sensation. I gritted my teeth, forcing it down. Instead, I tried to rise up using my right leg.

That was when the pain hit.

It was bad enough to make me howl out in agony. The sound escaped my lips without thought, tearing raggedly through my throat.

I collapsed back to the grass, reaching down and clutching at the wet, painful mess.

“That’s right, motherfucker!” he screamed. His voice was closer than before. Black waves passed across my vision. I struggled to stay conscious.

Then he was standing over me, the shotgun held loosely across his chest. A twisted, manic grin shone from his face.

“Stop,” I whispered weakly, but somehow he heard me.

“Stop? Are you fucking kidding me?” He shook his head. “No. Because of you, I’m going to get the needle.”

The needle? My mind scrambled to make sense of what he said. Then it fell into place. He’d been the one to hit Henry Brassart from behind with his car. It was Thad Richards who planned it, but this guy did the dirty work. Somehow, I’d expected as much all along.

“They can’t kill me twice,” he growled. “So I’m taking you with me, you son of a bitch.”

“No,” I said, but my words had no sound.

His eyes bored into me. With a fearsome twitch, he racked the shotgun slide.

I am going to die now.

No images flashed before my eyes. No regrets sang out. No one filled my thoughts. A blank silence fell upon my mind.

I stared up at him and waited.

The barrel swung toward me as he tucked the stock into his shoulder. The black hole at the end of the gun caromed into view. I clenched my jaw and gazed into its dark depths. The only thought that whispered to me was to die like a warrior. It seemed a small, insignificant concept in that moment, but it was all I had. All I knew.

I clutched at it.

A shot rang out.

There was no flash. No pain. Just a frozen moment. Then the tip of the shotgun wavered, and dipped.

A second shot. And then, immediately, a third.

He bucked and staggered to his left. Our eyes locked. His were filled with a confused rage that was already glazing over.

I blinked, and when I opened my eyes again, he’d collapsed to the ground.

“Stef!”

The voice came from far away. Miles and miles.

I blinked again.

When I opened my eyes, she was there.

Anna.

“Stef!” Her face was painted with barely controlled panic. When our gaze met, her panic seemed to flare. Then her expression turned steely. “Hold on,” she ordered me.

I tried to say yes, but could only blink in response.

Before I could open my eyes again, I felt her tearing my belt off. I tried to force my lids open to see her face once more, but the darkness around me pressed in too closely, and then my mind surrendered to it.