“HOPE,” I SAID, AND pointed to the door.
She heard them, too: the heavy tread of footsteps.
“Brown Shirts,” she said, more to herself than me. Then she whispered fiercely, “Go.”
“No. I’m staying here with—”
“If they find you, they’ll kill you. They can’t hurt me.” The footsteps became louder. “Hurry!”
There was no talking her out of it. “So where do we meet?” I asked.
Something passed across her face—something I couldn’t read. “We don’t.”
I reached out a hand but she wouldn’t take it.
“Go,” she said again.
Everything was happening too fast. The footsteps were nearly to the door and Hope wouldn’t take my hand. I didn’t want to leave but I had no choice, so I launched myself through the open window, landing hard on the ground outside. Even as I pushed myself to a standing position and started to run, I saw how much distance I had to cover. The opening in the fence was a good fifty yards away. Not close, but I could make it if I hurried.
As I ran, I thought of the expression on Hope’s face. What did she mean when she said We don’t?
The searchlights flicked on with a bass-like whoompf. A moment later a siren blared. Gunshots peppered the ground but I was through the fence before they got me. I tore back to the barn. Four Fingers and Argos were there, waiting.
“What’s going on?” he said.
“Long story. Come on, quick!”
The three of us took off for the cover of the trees. Behind us we heard the scraping groan of the metal gate. Then the growl of soldiers’ vehicles.
The ground was covered in soggy leaves and twice I fell. It didn’t help that we were running up a hill in pitch black. On pure mud. It was like one of those dreams where a killer’s coming and you’re stuck in slow motion. He’s getting closer and closer and there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it.
We heard a Humvee emerge from the trees and threw ourselves to the ground, our breath ballooning in front of us. But while Argos and I were able to tuck ourselves behind a boulder, Four Fingers wasn’t so lucky. Two jostling beams of light landed right on him.
The Humvee skidded to a stop and out jumped two soldiers. One of the Brown Shirts took the butt of his rifle and smashed it against Four’s cheek. Blood and teeth rainbowed through the air, and Four crumpled to the ground.
I fired off a pebble from my slingshot. The projectile missiled through the air, hitting the heavier of the two soldiers just below the eye. He cried out and dropped to the ground, hands covering his face.
The other Brown Shirt, a wiry guy with a severe military crew cut, swung his rifle in my direction and let loose a volley of bullets. They ricocheted off granite. I cowered and pulled Argos into me behind the boulder.
I was loading up my slingshot again when Crew Cut yanked Four to his feet. Blood squirted through a gash on the side of his face. He seemed woozy and limp. The Brown Shirt lifted his rifle and placed the barrel against Four’s temple.
“You come out now,” he shouted, “or your friend here gets it.”
I stared through the Y of my weapon. I could still fire. I could release the elastic and hope my rock would down the Brown Shirt before he had a chance to pull the trigger. I could give it a try.
But one look at Four’s cringing face told me how improbable that was.
I lowered my slingshot, pushed myself to a standing position, and began marching to my surrender. I refused to be the cause of another LT’s death.
As I eased my way down the slippery hill, another thought hit me: barring some miracle, Hope was completely on her own. There was no way I’d be coming back now.