Three.
He turned his head, as if he’d heard a sound.
Two steps.
He spotted her. His eyes grew wide.
One.
Letting out a bellow, she swung the branch like a baseball bat, aiming at his head. It connected. The blow shuddered up her arms.
Bertram released Diana. He spun to fully face Sylvie, the knife blade ready in his hand.
“No!” Diana screamed. She grabbed Bertram’s legs from behind.
“Diana, run!” Sylvie swung again.
Bertram dodged to the side.
The branch missed, its momentum throwing Sylvie off balance. “Run!” she screamed at her sister. “Run!”
Diana stumbled to her feet.
The professor reached for her.
Sylvie swung again.
But this time, Bertram was ready. He grabbed the branch and twisted it. He was strong, too strong. He wrenched the weapon from Sylvie’s grasp and threw it to the ground.
Diana was stumbling forward, moving, but slow. Sylvie had to keep Bertram busy long enough for Diana to get away.
She lashed out with a foot, kicking Bertram’s thigh.
He grabbed her ankle and pulled.
Sylvie fell backward and hit the ground. The force jutted up her spine and slammed her teeth together.
“Goddammit.” Bertram loomed over her, his face contorted with rage. He pulled back a foot and plowed it into her ribs.
Sylvie gasped for air, the force of the fall still clanging through her head. Now she was the one in danger. She had to clear her head. Get to her feet. Run.
Pushing herself into a crouch, she looked up…
…and into the barrel of Bertram’s rifle. Eyes hidden by night-vision goggles and face twisted with anger, the professor looked inhuman. Monstrous. Insane. “Go ahead and scream. No one can hear you. That’s why he brought them here, you know. So he could enjoy their screams. Revel in their fear.”
“You enjoy it too, don’t you?” Sylvie knew she should shut her mouth, that she risked making him angrier. But she couldn’t help it. She’d had enough of this bullshit. Enough. “You really are just like him.”
Bertram flinched. “I’m nothing like him. I don’t want to do this. I have no choice.”
Fear no longer rang in her ears, no longer pinched the back of her neck. She’d had it with Bertram. His self-pity. His excuses. She wanted to shove his words down his throat and make him choke on them. “It’s time you stop blaming Dryden for everything you do. It’s time you stop letting him determine your life. It’s time you stand on your own goddamn feet.”
“Shut up and take off your clothes.”
“Pervert.”
“Not me. Dryden. He cut off their clothes with a knife. He made them… he humiliated them. My Dawn. He… he did shameful things.”
“He has nothing to do with this. You want to—”
“Take them off. I don’t want to shoot you yet, but I will. I can still hunt your sister. She’s easy enough to catch.”
“Oh, so doing exactly what Dryden did isn’t that important. Just the me getting naked part.”
His lips twisted in something resembling a snarl.
“This isn’t about revenge. You just want to do every little shameful thing you’ve been obsessing about all these years. But you’re not honest enough to own it. Yeah, that’s right. I didn’t think you had the—”
Reaching out, the professor clamped down on Sylvie’s throat.
She gasped, struggling for air.
Oh, shit. Maybe she’d underestimated him. Maybe…
He brought the knife to her throat.
So this was how it would end? Right here in the clearing? Naked and defiled at the hands of this delusional asshole?
Bertram slipped the blade under the scoop neck of her sweater and slit the fabric open. He fumbled with the knife, trying to slip it between the cups of her bra.
Summoning all her strength, Sylvie plowed her foot backward. And the same time, she pushed his arm away as best she could.
He grunted. The knife fell into the tall grass.
She kicked again. Harder.
He staggered back. Released her throat.
She twisted and ran, dashing across the opening. Racing for the cover of brush and trees. Zigzagging as much as she could to keep him from getting a clear shot.
Gunfire split the air.
Sylvie tensed, waiting for the bullet’s sting. Waiting for the force of it to knock her to the ground.
Waiting for all of it to be over.
Bryce
Bryce had barely realized his shot missed when Bertram spun around, crouched down in the grass, and started firing back.
A bullet whizzed past Bryce’s ear.
He hit the ground, his pulse thundering in his ears, his whole body shaking. He wasn’t a good shot. Not like his little brother. But when he’d seen the professor raise his rifle to his shoulder and train the barrel on Sylvie as she was running away, he’d just fired.
Now with no cover except tall grass—which was no real cover at all—he was up shit creek.
But wait…
So was Bertram.
Bryce slowed his breathing.
In and out.
In and out.
He might only get one shot. He had to make it count.
He snugged the rifle to his shoulder. He put his finger on the trigger. He counted off the seconds in his head.
One.
Two.
On three, he rose from the grass, spotted Bertram coming toward him, and fired.
Blam.
Blam.
Blam.
The professor fell backwards.
Bryce ducked back down in the grass. Did he hit him? Was Bertram hurt? Dead? He peeked over the wispy seed heads, but he couldn’t see anything but more grass.
He wasn’t sure how long he waited, but it seemed like hours. Finally he stood and walked cautiously across the clearing.
Bryce spotted an indentation in the vegetation. He kept the rifle at his shoulder. If Bertram was playing him, he needed to be ready to fire back.
He stepped closer.
Closer.
The first thing he noticed was darkness. It stained the grass’ silvery leaves. Then he made out Bertram himself.
The professor lay on his back, his chest dark and shiny. Blood. And lots of it. His breathing was fast, a loud sort of wheezing.
Did I do this?
Bryce heard a sound behind him. He started, spun around—
“It’s Val. It’s Val Ryker. It’s okay.” The former cop held her hands up. As soon as she saw that he recognized her, she lowered them to her sides.
“Oh, shit.” Val darted around him and dropped to her knees beside the professor. She moved the rifle away from him, then shucked her jacket, wadded it up, and pressed it to Bertram’s chest. She put her fingers to this throat, checking for a pulse. “Hang in there, Professor.”
Bertram didn’t answer, his chest making that wheezing, sucking sound.
Bryce couldn’t move. He just stared. When he’d pulled the trigger, he’d known what he was doing. He’d wanted to destroy this man. But now? Watching him struggle, witnessing his pain, Bryce felt sick.
“We called the locals. They should be on their way. But it wouldn’t hurt to call again.”
Bryce heard Val talking, but it took him a few seconds to grasp her words. “What?”
“Call 911.”
Bertram’s breathing slowed, the sucking sound growing weaker. Bit by bit, the life seemed to leach from his staring eyes.
Bryce pulled out his phone. “No signal.”
“Shit.”
Perreth caught up with them. He looked down at Val. “Dead?”