When Mitchell Malacek dropped the tail of the truck, Bethany had the rifle aimed directly at his forehead. His mouth dropped into a cartoon’s “Oh” of surprise.
In a tight, dangerous voice Bethany said, “Don’t move.”
The fucker bolted.
She followed him with the rifle’s barrel. Her finger hesitated on the trigger for one second.
Another.
She couldn’t do it.
Malacek was gone.
Shit.
Run, she told herself. Run now.
Bethany rose into a crouch, clutched the rifle carefully by the stock and frogwalked down the bed of the truck. She leaped into the grass and collapsed when she tried to stand. Blood burned as it flooded back into her veins.
She threw an arm over the truck’s open gate. She dragged herself up.
Run.