“…with this kind of shit! It ain’t worth the fuckin’ money to get treated like fuckin’ dogshit,” he bitched. “All I say is, they better let me take my turn with the bitch after John works her over, because I mean to teach that cunt nobody messes with Curtis, man—ay!”
His monologue choked off to a shriek. He pawed at his buttock, and held up the throwing star Duncan had lobbed. “What the fuck?”
The second guy howled. A star protruded from his shoulder.
Curtis spun, and sprayed the woods with bullets from his Uzi. “Who the fuck are you, you fuck?!” he shrieked. “I’ll waste your ass!”
So much for stealth. Curtis was wavering, toppling. The other guy went down even faster. The points of the stars were treated with a high-power, quick-acting sedative. He waited for some reaction from the barn. Sure enough. The door opened. A man poked his head out.
“What the fuck is going on?” he snarled. He saw the unconscious men collapsed on the ground, and his face twisted with disgust. “Fucking jerk-offs,” he muttered, and lifted his automatic pistol.
He pumped a short burst of bullets into them both. The sprawled bodies jittered on the ground and then lay still.
Duncan stared through the foliage. The men were torn apart, lying in pools of blood. The Fiend lifted his gun and sprayed the woods in a wide arc. Bullets sliced through grass and leaves, right above Duncan’s head. Splinters of bark and earth flew, bullets thudded into the ground.
The Fiend laughed, hysterically. “Fuck off and die, shithead!” he howled. “It’s your turn, now! I got her! Go fuck yourself!” Another spray of bullets punched into the forest, rat-tat-tat-tat.
The guy ducked back inside. In the distance, police sirens started to wail. Duncan flew like a bolt from a crossbow across the carnage in the clearing and flung himself at the door. “Nell!” he bellowed.
“Duncan?” she called back, just as bullets pumped through the door.
One of them grazed Duncan’s hip like a lick of flame. Another caught his pocket above his knee, ripping the fabric. She screamed, a wrenching cry that curdled his blood.
He sprinted around the building.
“They’re coming,” John said to Haupt. “We have to cut loose. Curtis and Turturro are meat. Didn’t see Gerard. Probably dead, too.”
“They’re coming? Who is coming? How did they know where to come? How is it possible?” The man’s voice rose to a shrill, querulous squawk. “You stupid, incompetent—”
“You want to berate me on our way to jail, or save it for later?” John snarled back. “Move it!”
He slashed the ropes that bound Nell’s arms. Her arms fell free, numb and tingling. John yanked a handful of her hair, jerking until she cried out. “Be good, bitch,” he hissed. “Or I’ll gut you like a steer.”
He hoisted her up and flung her over his shoulder, letting her head and arms dangle down over his back.
Something banged against the door. “Nell!”
Duncan. Oh, God. Oh, God. “Duncan?!” she yelled.
“I said, shut up, bitch!” John swung up his gun, riddled the door with bullets. Light shone through the pattern of holes. She screamed again, in horror and despair, but John was running now, and her voice was jolting in her throat, her torso bouncing and thudding against his back.
They burst out of the back of the barn. She could not see where they were going, just green leaves, the ground behind John’s pounding heels, the fact that John’s belt was loose, his T-shirt riding up, showing acne-spotted rolls of flab hanging over the waistband of his jeans.
The sound of his footsteps changed. A hollow thud, on wooden planks. Haupt hurried along beside them, huffing and puffing.
A bridge. She heard hollow footsteps on wood, saw weathered planks below John’s booted feet. Water murmured below. John swung around, started shooting, a deafening barrage of bullets. Her whole body shook and jiggled with the jackhammer explosions.
Her blood-slicked hand tightened around her splinter. She worked it down in her hand until the sharp part protruded a couple of inches, and the blunt part was clutched in her fist. The point was wickedly sharp. She gathered her nerve for the blow. Everything she had to give: her passion for Duncan, her love for her sisters, for Lucia. Even for Elena. Her reverence for beauty, fineness, love. Her respect for effort and honest sweat. For things that could not be bought. Not for any money.
John turned. The gun rose up. No. Because he had no right to hurt her, or Duncan, or anyone.
He had…no…right!
She stabbed down, driving the splinter deep into the meat and fat that covered his kidney. He squealed. His shots went wild.
Bam, Duncan’s bullet blew John’s gun out of his hand. It flew up, curling and turning in the air. John lunged to catch it one-handed, but it danced off his fingers and down. An eternity later, it splashed into the river.
“Put her down.” It was Duncan’s voice, incredibly cool and even.
John stared back, panting. He laughed. “Sure thing, shitbird.”
He heaved her over the bridge railing.
She flew, fell, down, turning, spinning. Cold green water closed over her head.
Duncan sprinted to the middle of the bridge and pitched himself over the side. The current was strong when he came boiling up for air, the river swollen with the recent rains.
Nell bobbed to the surface, face plastered with hair, gasping for breath. He fought his way over to her, clasped her to him.
When he finally got them over to the shore, he scooped her out into his arms. Her cheek was swollen, her lips split. There was blood crusted in her nostrils. They’d been hitting her. Rage clawed at him, but the fuckers were long gone. No one to catch and punish. Not yet.
Her eyes fluttered open and fastened onto his. Her lips chattered so hard, it took a long time for her to speak.
“Y-y-you c-c-came back for m-me,” she said.
She dropped her face against his chest and shut down. Shock. Her face was so pale. He struggled up the steep creek bank and launched into a heavy, stumbling run through the forest.
Hoping to God that whoever was blowing those police sirens had the presence of mind to bring a goddamn ambulance along.
Chapter
12
Duncan stared at himself in the hospital bathroom mirror. He stank of that foul, bitter antiseptic foam soap in the squeeze bottle over the sink, with which he’d attempted to clean himself up. He supposed it beat out the stench of river mud. But the blend was pretty nasty.
Nancy and Liam had brought him a change of clothes. Liam’s stuff fit well enough, although the shirt was tight around the shoulders. His own clothing lay in a clammy, mud-slimed snarl on the bathroom floor. He shoved the gun back into his jeans, covered it with the shirttail. He was crashing. He felt icy cold inside, and his hands couldn’t stop shaking. His face was a rigid, staring mask.
The doctors and nurses had forced him out of Nell’s room to get her examined, and all the various tubes, needles, and machines hooked up. He’d waited outside the door like a wet, patient hound shivering on the doorstep until they took pity on him and let him in again.
She looked so fragile. So pale. Only her hair had vitality, lying in great curling snarls all over the pillow.
He was so scared, he could hardly breathe. Wondering if he’d earned enough points with this stunt to get another chance with her.
He’d seen the world without her in it. He’d felt that reality to the fullest during that hellacious race against time. Gut-wrenching fear that never eased. The ache of loss. Emptiness, silence. Sick regret.
He couldn’t face it. He’d say any words she wanted to hear. He didn’t give a fuck whether they were true or not, realistic or not. He no longer cared about honesty, dealing straight, any of that meaningless bullshit. She could write out a script for him, if she wanted, and he’d parrot it back to her, get it signed and witnessed and notarized. He wasn’t even ashamed of it. He didn’t have the energy for shame. He knew when he was whipped.