THE BLAST PROPELS us out the open front door, onto the front lawn, flat onto our chests. For a brief second, the wind is knocked out of me. I search for Penny. She’s only a few feet away from me, on my left-hand side. She’s moving around, so at least I know she’s alive.
My head is ringing, the ground beneath me spinning. I’m waking up from a vivid dream that’s made me temporarily paralyzed. It takes all my strength to peel myself up off the ground. But when I manage to get back up on my feet, I spot the chopper making one more go-around. As it’s coming back at us, I shoulder the .30-30 and open up on her with all the ammo I have left, the rounds connecting with the Huey’s front end.
Flames shoot out of the exhaust, but it doesn’t seem to affect the chopper’s ability to fly. Just a few seconds later, it disappears beyond the tree line.
The police know our precise location. That is, if the chopper belongs to the police in the first place. Maybe it belongs to Rabuffo, or both.
What this means is, Penny and I have no choice but to get the hell out of here. Go deeper into the woods, or maybe get out of the woods altogether and head to another town or city. Someplace we can lie low, figure out a way to rescue our daughter, then expose the men and women who are setting me up as a murderer. It’s exactly how I put it to Penny as the quiet of the deep woods once more replaces the mechanical blade slapping, whop-whop-whop noise from the helicopter.
“Listen and listen clearly, Sidney,” she says. “I will not leave this place until we have our Chloe back. Do you understand me?”
She’s right. There’s no point in even considering heading to another town when it only makes sense that whoever abducted Chloe is keeping her nearby.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s grab the bags, go deeper into the forest. If we’re lucky we’ll come upon another safe house.”
We head back into the cabin. The damage from the grenade is not as extensive as I first thought. It’s taken out a good portion of the kitchen, but not much else. Even the fire is still burning steadily in the stone fireplace. It’s like we merely stepped outside for a nice brisk, post-thunderstorm afternoon walk in the fresh country air.
“Check your phone again, Pen,” I say, heading to the bunk beds. “I’ll grab the stuff.”
“There’s no messages,” she says.
“How do you know? You haven’t even looked at your phone.”
I pick up the daypack, strap it over my shoulder. Then I go to the gun rack, grab hold of the shotgun and an extra box of shells. I’m about to put the shells in the daypack when I feel the solid slam against the back of my head. My brain matter bounces against the interior of my skull, and the cabin turns into a deep, dark black hole.