by Casey, Ryan
Quentin looked at him as bullets continued to fly over their shoulders.
He lifted his rifle.
Pointed it at Martin.
But Martin threw himself at him before he could pull the trigger.
He wrestled him down to the ground.
And then as those bullets cracked overhead, he lifted his knife.
He pressed it above Quentin’s neck.
And he held it there. Just for a few seconds, he held it there.
“Why?” Martin asked. “Why?”
But Quentin didn’t say a thing.
He just stared up from under that black balaclava, eyes right on his.
“Go on,” he muttered. “Do what you have to do. It’ll come back to bite you, one way or another.”
So Martin didn’t even think.
Even though he didn’t want to do this, he knew what he had to do.
He looked away.
Rammed that knife into Quentin’s neck.
Heard him cough. Heard him splutter. Felt him kicking and writhing around on the ground.
All the while, more bullets flew through the trees.
One of the other men in black was still standing. Running away in pursuit of the attackers. Or away from them.
The other guy lay by Quentin’s side. Bullet wound in his skull.
Martin kept the knife pressed down into Quentin’s neck. He kept it there until he was absolutely sure Quentin had stopped breathing.
And as he crouched there, he heard the gunshots stop. He heard the shouting stop. The silence of the woods returned. The light breeze. The leaves brushing against each other. The sound of his heartbeat echoing through his skull.
He looked down at Quentin. His eyes stared up widely. Blood pooled out of the gaping wound in his neck, its warmth covering Martin’s hands.
He yanked that knife out of his neck. Wiped it on Quentin’s black jumper. Then he climbed off him. Walked over to the other guy, the other one lying by his side.
And even though he had a feeling about this already… he didn’t understand it. He didn’t know what was happening.
He crouched beside the second of the fallen men. Pulled the balaclava from his face.
George lay there. Tongue dangling out of his mouth. Bloody saliva drooling down his face. Bullet wound in his skull.
Nausea came over Martin. ’Cause he knew George too. He was one of the people from the shelter. A good guy. Not someone he knew all that well, but someone he’d spoken with several times. Used to be football-obsessed, so his Saturday afternoons were always a big adjustment in this new world.
But here he was. By Quentin’s side. Dead.
He looked at Quentin. Looked back at George. And then he looked up at the woods. He’d be willing to bet the other guy was one of the people from the shelter too. And Martin had a bad feeling about it. What if Harold was right? What if these were the people responsible for the attack?
But then… if they were, then why were they attacking the other group? The people Martin thought were the attackers?
It didn’t make sense.
None of it made sense.
He heard something. Gunfire, in the distance somewhere.
He knew he needed to get up. Get away from here.
And he needed to keep on searching.
He was in too deep to back out now.
He grabbed George’s hunting rifle. Loaded it with some of Quentin’s leftover ammo. Then he looked around at the woods, through the thick trees, over towards where the other guy had disappeared. Where the gunfire came from.
He was mad. He knew that.
“The things we do for love.”
He took a step towards the woods when he heard something crack over his shoulder.
He spun around. Pointed the rifle.
Nobody there.
Nothing.
He stared at that spot for a while. Made sure Quentin and George were definitely down. He heard birds singing overhead. The trees brushing against one another. Morning light peeking down in long beams.
You’re imagining things. Going frigging mad. Get a move on. Stop delaying. Stop finding excuses to slow down.
He lowered his rifle and went to turn around when he felt something press right against the back of his head.
Something cold.
Something metal.
“I wouldn’t move a muscle,” a smooth male voice said. “Not if I were you.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Harriet waited until she was absolutely sure Harold was working away in his office before heading out to Martin’s place.
This whole morning so far had dragged. Felt endless. The clouds were thick overhead, but it looked like the sun was breaking through, just a little. Hard to say who was gonna win the battle at this stage, though, especially after last night’s storm. Hard to know.
Harriet looked down the street towards Martin’s house. She’d monitored Harold’s movements from the comfort of her living room all morning. Truth be told, she was still creeped out by his appearance in her home this morning. She knew he’d insisted he was just keeping an eye on them both. But why couldn’t he wait outside? Why couldn’t he just knock?
Something about his entrance seemed desperate. Like it was intended to unsettle her, catch her off guard. And it just didn’t sit right with her.
She kept her head down as she walked down the street. The air still smelled of smoke, even though the explosion was a couple of nights ago. There was still quietness to the air, too. A sombreness. Like people were still mourning, still grieving. Still afraid.
And they were. That went without saying. Harriet was just as on edge.
But she got the sense that the biggest threat, weird as it was, hid just out of sight. Like she hadn’t totally put her finger on what it was. Not yet.
She rushed down the street. Kept her head down. She’d left Oscar at home. Didn’t like leaving him on his own. But she wasn’t planning on being longer than five minutes. She just wanted to get to Martin’s. Make sure Bruce was okay. And see for herself that he’d really gone. Maybe he’d turned back. Maybe he’d changed his mind.
Maybe.
She kept her head down and went to turn down his street when she saw people standing outside Martin’s.
Harold was amongst them. Bruce was by his side.
There was a look of concern on their faces.
These three people—Harold, Kev, Sally—all looked bothered about something. Like gossiping neighbours chatting about the latest news on the street.
But shit. They knew. The secret was finally out at least. She didn’t have to hide anything anymore.
But she didn’t want Harold to see her lurking around here either.
She turned around. Walked back towards her place. Heart racing. Worried about Oscar. Guilty about leaving him for just a second.
“Harriet?”
Harriet froze. Shit. He’d seen her. She thought he was in his office, but he was out here, and he’d seen her.
She took a breath. Forced a fake smile. There was no turning back now.
And then she turned around. “Yeah?”
Harold stared at her. Frowning. For a moment, he looked bemused. Like he was gonna quiz Harriet about something.
But then a serious look crossed his face. “You might want to come over here, love. We’ve got some news.”
Harriet walked over towards the gate in front of Martin’s house. Keep it cool. You know nothing about this, okay? Nothing at all. She kept that smile on her face. But then she realised that seemed too excessive. A frown. A good neutral frown.
She stopped when she reached Harold. “Is everything okay?”
Harold studied her for a few seconds. Really studied her, just like he’d studied her in the kitchen earlier. And then he half-smiled. “It’s Martin, love. I’m afraid… I’m afraid my fears were well-placed. He’s gone.”
Harriet covered her mouth with her hands. Thought it felt a little dramatic initially, but melodrama felt
more appropriate than subtlety in this instance. “He’s—he’s what?”
“Gone,” Harold said. “Left poor Bruce here, too. I just… I don’t know. All I want is to keep my community together. All I want is to keep people safe. And I took Martin by his word, you know? I… I really believed in him. Especially when I told him this place was on lockdown.”
Harriet sympathised with Harold. She looked at Bruce as he sat there, wagging his tail. Then she looked up at Martin’s house, and she swallowed a lump in her throat. “Me too.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know which way he might’ve gone, would you?”
Harriet spun around. Frowned. “What?”
“I’m just saying. You and him. You were close. He didn’t give you any clues at all, did he? It’s just… well. It’s not safe for him out there. We want him back here. All of us. Isn’t that right?”
Harriet felt torn. On the one hand, she wanted Martin back too. He was losing his mind. He needed to be here. Back home, where he belonged.
On the other hand, she thought about how infuriated he’d be if she stopped him in his tracks.
And she thought about that concern he’d had about Harold. However misplaced it might be.
She gulped. Shook her head and sighed. “I don’t know. I’ve no idea. I wish I did, but I don’t. I’m sorry.”
She lowered her head. Looked at the ground.
Then she felt that big beefy hand on her shoulder again.
She looked up. Saw Harold smiling at her. Real sympathy in his big, watery eyes.
“We’ll get him back here. Don’t you worry about that, love. Don’t you worry.”
He kept his hand there a few seconds. Tightened it.
And then he pulled it away and returned to his conversation with Kev and Sally.
Harriet turned around. Walked back home slowly. Shaking. Teeth ground against each other.
She didn’t know what to do about this.
She didn’t know what in the name of hell to do next.
And she didn’t notice something else, either.
That slip of paper Martin posted her, slipping out of her jacket pocket, falling to the ground.
Right by Harold’s feet.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Not for the first time in his life, Martin found himself trapped inside a shitty room with a bag over his head.
Probably not for the last time, either.
He had no idea what time it was. Figured it was probably still morning. He had no idea how much time had passed, but it didn’t seem like all that long. He couldn’t hear much. Muffled voices, occasionally. Birds singing somewhere overhead. He felt warm. Stuffy. Covered in sweat. And he could taste vomit right at the back of his throat.
And in a way, he was still processing everything that’d happened. Everything he’d got himself caught up in.
The search for Ella.
Finding that group.
Watching them fall.
Fleeing from conflict.
Killing Quentin.
And then being captured. Again.
He tugged at the ties around his wrists. He kept telling himself he could get out of them. He could escape them if he just put enough effort into it.
But the more he tried to pull his wrists apart, the more he felt these ties digging in. Cutting into his skin.
He dragged his feet apart. But they were bound with ties, too. He tried to bite away at the sack over his head, with no luck. Shit. He was screwed. There was no getting out of this.
But there was something.
He was alive.
This group. Whoever they were, they’d spared him.
That had to count for something.
He thought about Harriet and Oscar. Thought about what Harriet said to him about staying there. About moving on from the past. About focusing on now. Because Ella was out of reach. There was no chance he’d ever get her back. She was gone.
And then he’d seen her. Followed her. Tried desperately to get her back.
And he’d failed.
Once again, he’d failed.
And there was something crueller about this failure. Because maybe in time, if he hadn’t seen Ella, he’d be able to accept her likely fate. Accept she was gone. It’d never be easy. The agony would never die. But acceptance was possible. Like with Gary. Guilt, sure. Pain, sure. But acceptance.
Now, he’d caught sight of her and failed to save her it felt crueller. Far crueller. Because he knew she was out here somewhere. He’d had an opportunity to rescue her from the clutches of this group. And he’d failed. All over again.
He went to yank his wrists apart when someone dragged the sack from his head.
He squinted as light poured into his eyes. Blinked a few times, strained to see ahead. He got a sense of the room around him, too. Some kind of wooden shack. Smell of mould in the air. Taste of damp. A door open just ahead of him. Light creeping in. Blurry. Hard to focus.
He looked at the man standing before him, and his stomach turned.
The bald guy. The one he’d seen in the woods the other day. The leader of the group. The group who had Ella.
He smiled at Martin. Sweat trickled across his bald head. He had a soft look to him. A strangely compassionate look. Not the kind of look Martin expected from a guy who wanted to kill him.
“You want some water?” the guy asked.
He held out a cup of water to Martin’s lips. Shook it a couple of times.
“No? No problem. Just figured you’d be thirsty, that’s all.”
He put the water to one side. And then he crouched there. Stared at Martin. Looked at him. Closely.
“I’m assuming you’ll have a lot of questions,” the bloke said.
Martin laughed. He couldn’t help it. Didn’t know where it came from. But he laughed. Laughed at the hilarity of it all. Felt like he was cracking up. “Questions? Yeah. Yeah, I’ve got questions. Like—like what your problem is with my people. Like why the hell some of my people are in conflict with yours. And why... why you’ve got my daughter.”
The man’s gaze didn’t shift. He just smiled. Nodded. “Yeah. I can see why this is all very confusing. And I wish I could say it’s going to get a lot easier to swallow. But that’s not exactly true. Martin.”
He stood up. Walked towards the door of the cabin.
“How do you know my name?” Martin asked.
The man looked around. Smiled back at him. “I know a lot of things. But really. I’m sorry. I’m sorry we had to drag you here like this. We did it for your own protection.”
“My own protection? Very thoughtful of you.”
“Trust me,” the man said, not a hint of aggression in his voice. “Everything will make sense soon. There’s a lot I could tell you about where I stand. About why I’m doing what I’m doing.”
“And that’s a lot of bullshit I’m not sure I’m ready to listen to.”
“But,” the man said, interrupting. “I figure it’d be better if you heard it from someone else. Someone you’ll listen to.”
He smiled at Martin.
And then he walked back towards that half-open door.
“My daughter,” Martin said. “Ella. I—I saw her. Please tell me I saw her. And—and let her go. Please.”
The man stopped by that door.
Looked back at Martin again.
And this time, his smile wasn’t smug. It wasn’t goading. It looked compassionate. Understanding.
“Like I say. There’s a lot you don’t understand. But you will. Soon, you will.”
He turned around and pulled the door open fully.
Stepped outside and held that door.
Martin pulled against his ties, tried to shake free. “No! Wait! I...”
And then he stopped.
He stopped because he saw another figure.
He saw movement.
He saw someone step up. Step into the cabin. Block the light, which hovered around their shoulders, making them look angelic.
&nbs
p; He sat there, and he felt a cascade of emotions inside. Delight. Sadness. Elation. Confusion.
But most of all, he just sat there, silent.
He just sat there, staring.
The girl stepped inside the cabin, and for the first time in six months, he saw her clearly.
“Ella?” he said.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Ella?” Martin said.
Light beamed in through the door of the cabin. A gentle breeze brushed inside, sending shivers up Martin’s arms. He heard voices and footsteps outside. The ties around his ankles dug in deep. His throat felt sore like he’d swallowed a bunch of knives.
But nothing mattered.
Because of the girl standing before him.
His daughter.
Ella.
She stood there, right in front of him. Even skinnier than he remembered. Shorter haired. Bruises up her arms. Pale-skinned. Those beaming eyes looking at him, uncertain, unsure.
And he blinked a few times. He shook his head as tears rolled down his cheeks. Because he’d imagined this moment so many times. He’d dreamt it, so many times. And this felt like a dream. It felt like the elation he experienced in his sleep. The elation that would drift away the second he opened his eyes.
But he opened his eyes, and Ella still stood there. Stared at him. Silent.
“It’s—it’s okay, Ella. Everything’s going to be okay. I’m here now.”
She walked over to him. Stopped, right before him. And he wanted her to reach out. He wanted her to wrap her arms around him. He wanted to feel her warmth.
But she didn’t.
She just stood there.
Hardened. Like she was tougher, somehow. More stoic.
“How’ve you been, Dad?”
Her words cut through him. Because he’d waited so long for this moment. He’d pictured this moment time and time again. But never like this. Never as cold as this. Never as frank as this. Never as to the point as this.
And never as emotionless as this.
“I’ve... Ella. Six months. I lost you. I—”
“And I’m sorry about the way I left. Truly. But you have to understand, Dad. I thought I was dead. I mean, I would’ve been dead. If it wasn’t for Jax and his people.”