Blood flooding back into her veins like liquid fire, Bethany limped away from Luke’s truck, his rifle clutched to her side. Parked outside the circle of trailers was a loose cluster of other trucks, some of them unlocked, none with keys anywhere obvious. Bethany heard boys shouting. The entire camp was on alert: there were more angry men here than Bethany could hope to hold off on her own.
There was nothing behind her but empty country. They would hunt her down in seconds if she ran that way.
Only one option.
She bolted to the nearest trailer, a rusted silver Airstream, and threw herself into the dirt. Took a quick breath, scrambled beneath it.
Clay smeared her cheeks. Someone rushed past the trailer behind her a moment after she pulled her feet out of sight. Boys shouted from the trucks, from inside the circle.
The boys behind her moved on. Bethany adjusted her grip on the slick rifle.
A hand wrapped around her ankle.
Bethany kicked at the hand and felt another grip her free foot. She screamed. She struggled, she flailed but there was no resisting it: soft-eyed Tomas Hernandez dragged her wailing from beneath the trailer.
Bethany’s head struck the base of the Airstream on the way out, her outstretched wrist was sliced by a rock. The loaded hunting rifle dropped, soundlessly, from her hand and settled into the dark.