The Headhunters Race (Headhunters #1)

by Kimberly Afe

  Jake is gone. It doesn’t seem real. It can’t be real.

  McCoy finally makes the first move, although I feel his reluctance to let me go when he hesitates. “We’ve got to keep moving,” he says. “Jake knew what the risks were. He told me all along that he thought his sister, Joselle, might have died when she ran the race. He said if he died, it wouldn’t be for nothing; he knew he’d see her again.”

  “That doesn’t make it any easier for us,” I say and face toward the window. I can’t even look at him. I’m afraid I’ll lose control and I won’t be able to reclaim it.

  “I know it doesn’t. But he’d want us to keep going. Now do me a favor. We need the money. It’s in Boom’s bedroom. He said there was a false bottom in the drawer of his nightstand. You’ll need to pry it out.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  McCoy fills his chest and then exhales before he speaks. Like he wants to tell me but at the same time he doesn’t. “I need to take care of Jake,” he says, and I can hear how hard he tries to contain his agony.

  “Oh, yes,” I say. “That would be the proper thing to do.” I make my way to Boom’s bedroom, tears still tumbling from my eyes. Jake’s death brings back memories of Verla’s last few breaths, when she could barely breathe and she clutched my hand so tight I feared I’d have to be buried with her. The cancer that had ravaged her lungs left her just a wisp of a human being: thin and barely able to breathe, unable to eat.

  I watched her fight to the end, cursing, defiant. I still remember the last thing she said to me. You will have your day, Avene. Verla’s voice echoes through my head now, over and over I hear her say those words. She’d said this to me more than once, always when King’s name came up. She knew I had revenge in my heart. She had it in hers too.

  I find the nightstand and use my knife to bust out the bottom. Layers of cash line the base of the drawer. I inspect one of the bills, grateful to see the words Millers Creek Currency printed across the top. I scoop up every coin and bill as fast as I can, not bothering to count it. I shove a few of the bills in my pocket, some in my bra, and a couple down my boot. Just in case.

  There’s no telling if McCoy is really on my side or against me. I see how much he cares for Jake. Maybe he really does care for me, but I can’t take any chances. And he’s right, we need to get back on track and I’m sure Jake would have wanted us to. Besides, it’s not like we can quit anyway.

  McCoy has finished wrapping Jake in a sheet from Boom’s linen closet by the time I return. His body is lying on the couch. I can see his arms are crossed over his chest. His head is propped up on a pillow.

  McCoy turns to me. “A moment?”

  I nod and stand beside McCoy, who places a bible on Jake’s chest. It must have been Boom’s. The edges of the pages are frayed and the cover is peeling. McCoy takes my hand, we bow our heads, and I’m ashamed of myself because all I can think about is McCoy’s warmth radiating up my arm and it reminds me of earlier when his arms wrapped me in solace. It takes a second, but I rein in my thoughts and focus on Jake like I’m supposed to. I’m sorry I was mean to you at first. You’re a good kid. I hope you’re with Joselle now, if she’s there. If not, I hope you’re at peace.

  “Time to go,” says McCoy, releasing my hand with a light squeeze.

  I hand over a wad of money to McCoy. “What’s the plan?”

  He shoves the cash and coins into his pocket, saving some back and handing it to me.

  “I took some already,” I say, pushing it away.

  McCoy nods like it’s no big deal that I took some of the money and tucks the remainder in his pocket. “We start asking around. Do you think you’d recognize Gavin if you saw him?”

  I hadn’t really thought about it. I expected he’d look nearly the same: dark hair and fair skin, except maybe taller, like his father. I’m sure he would, only older. “Yes.”

  McCoy and I scavenge through Boom’s cupboards for food and find jars of pickles, pears, and a bottle of whiskey, some crackers, and a bag full of jerky. We take it all.

  “We should cover our collars,” I say, rummaging through Boom’s linen closet. “I didn’t like the way that man was staring at us earlier.”

  McCoy agrees. I tear a towel in half and we each wrap it around our necks like bandanas. Then we fill our canteens and head out, leaving Jake interred to Boom’s apartment.

  Outside it’s busier than before and I keep a lookout for anyone young enough to resemble Gavin. I see lots of dark-haired guys roaming the streets, but none young enough to be him. We visit several shops, starting with the one next to the barbershop, and work our way down the main road. We don’t get a nip.

  We stop at an eatery for a quick bite. “If we don’t find Gavin by nightfall, we leave,” says McCoy.

  I halt tipping the glass I’m about to gulp from. Easy for him to say. He’s still got me, which reminds me once again that I can’t let my guard down, no matter how sincere McCoy seems. Or how much I want to believe there’s something between us.

  The sun hangs somewhere around four in the afternoon by the time we reach the second to the last street in town, which happens to be named Second Street. We go inside a smoke shop, my lungs instantly filling with a mix of sweet and bitter tobacco. Rows of small square wooden slots fill the wall behind the counter. Each slot is filled with smokes … cigars, cigarettes, and a variety of raw tobacco in glass jars.

  I’m grateful the place is empty when McCoy starts asking questions. I’m tired of the funny looks and snickers we’ve received all over town. “You ever heard of a man named Gavin … Gavin King?” asks McCoy.

  The shopkeeper leans on the counter with both elbows and rests his chin on clasped hands, thinking. After a few seconds, he shakes his head. “Used to be a kid that worked down at the knife shop, down on First. Everyone called him G. I don’t know his last name. That was a few months ago, not sure if he’s still there.”

  My heart thumps wildly. It has to be him. A knife shop would be exactly where Gavin would go.

  McCoy thanks the man and I’m outside the shop so fast, I’m out of breath. “That has to be him,” I say, and I’m practically running toward First Street.

  “Avene,” says McCoy, yanking me to a halt. I whirl around. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

  “What do you mean ‘don’t get my hopes up’?” I say, my anger rising with each word. “It has to be him.” I don’t know what trick McCoy has up his sleeve now. Until I realize he doesn’t know about Gavin’s experience with knives and that this world would be his domain. He doesn’t know it, but I do.

  McCoy’s jaw flexes. “I’m just saying he might not be there anymore. Or it might not be him.”

  I start toward First Street again. “We’re not going to find out by standing around.”

  Finally McCoy picks up the pace. Several shops later we find Carver’s Knives. A little bell jingles as we walk in. The place is like I imagined: a small shop filled with every type of knife ever forged in these parts. Knives in a glass case at the counter. Knives hanging on the walls. Knives everywhere. Fixed-blade knives, folding knives, knives for hunting, survival, wood carving, kukri knives, utility knives, machetes. And throwing knives, the ones I’m most familiar with.

  Several people are browsing. I can’t tell if they’re customers or the shop’s attendants, but it doesn’t matter to me who they are. I scan every man, every kid, every person’s face, but none resemble Gavin. McCoy turns back to me, as if looking for a sign that I’ve spotted him. I shrug and go in for a closer look at a young guy perusing the knives on the back wall, acting as though I’m interested in a sleek-looking fixed blade next to the one he’s admiring.

  It’s not him. This guy has a small port-wine stain on his neck which I know is something you’re born with. As soon as I turn to check out the next person, I start to second guess myself. What if Gavin has changed so much that I won’t recognize him?

  A kid at the counter about McCoy’s age catches my interest. I make m
y way over, positioning myself so I can get a better look at his face, but he’s scratching at his chin, blocking his features. That’s when I remember the scar where King had carved an X on the back of Gavin’s left hand when he’d said he didn’t want to practice one day. It was a warning, and a reminder to both of us to never disobey King’s orders.

  Finally, something I can use to confirm Gavin when I find him. Now I feel like I need to re-check everyone in the shop, starting with the customer at the counter. I move around to the other side. It’s just my luck that he has his hand in his jeans pocket. But I see a watch on his wrist, and I’m about to ask him the time when a guy bursts through a swinging door from the back of the shop and hands the guy what looks like a Tanto knife, a Japanese short sword. A blade I wouldn’t mind having myself.

  McCoy paces back and forth behind me, every so often nudging my shoulder and each time I give him a look. The attendant explains all the features to his customer while I salivate over it. I’m admiring the blade with its sleek shiny steel and sturdy black handle when I notice the X on the attendant’s left hand.

  I inspect every feature, every line, every expression Gavin makes, wanting to believe that I’ve really found him. Wanting it to be him more than anything. So many thoughts and feelings swirl through my head. Will he laugh the same way? Is his voice the same? Will he recognize me?

  My face burns hot when Gavin notices me staring at him. “I’ll be with you in a minute, Miss.” He says it like he’s annoyed.

  I nod and force a smile. He’s definitely different and not just physically. There’s something peculiar and off-putting about his whole demeanor. His voice has changed, too. It’s much deeper, older, hardened. His features have become stony, with a long thin face, yet I realize that he doesn’t look much like his father at all. Well, except the stony part. Maybe he takes his features from his true mother, who I never met. In any case, I remind myself it’s been three years since I last saw him.

  McCoy steps beside me. The enthusiasm must show in my face because he raises his brows questioningly and I respond in kind. The guy inspecting the Tanto knife agrees to buy it and I know it’s almost my turn. Suddenly, I’m not sure what to say. He must have heard about the race.

  I wouldn’t be here if I knew about the race. And then it dawns on me that this can’t be Gavin. If you knew you were being hunted, why would you put yourself out in the open? Unless you enjoyed playing games. Or you were looking for a fight. There is no mistaking he’s a psychopath. I saw his drawing of me and my mother. With knives in our eyes and blood everywhere. I’d seen that journal and his sketches a hundred times and never once knew he hated me with that much passion.

  But psycho or no psycho, you’d think he’d be scanning the place with his eyes wide and his body primed for running, yet he doesn’t seem to be on edge in the least. Maybe McCoy was right to warn me. Maybe I have made a mistake.

  I turn to leave, but McCoy halts me with a hand on my shoulder. “What are you doing?”

  I shake my head. “It’s not him. You were right.”

  “The least you can do is ask. Otherwise, you’re going to wonder for the rest of your life.”

  I grunt because I know he’s right again. It will be something that nags at me. I’ll never be able to find peace or resolution if I don’t take care of this now. Besides, maybe he does like the thrill of a fight. Why else would Gavin still be here?

  The bell on the shop door jingles. My breath hitches in my throat when I see Kurt and Squint, now obviously allies in the search for Gavin. Before I have a chance to ask McCoy what we should do, they’re striding with determination toward the counter, eyes focused, jaws set tight, hands on their weapons.

  Squint points a greasy finger at Gavin, like he’s just eaten an entire slab of bacon. “Tell G we have business with him.”

  The shop goes quiet. Everyone remains frozen where they stand. Kurt steps around to my left. Squint takes a stand on my right. McCoy is behind me. He gently eases me back, out of their way. Gavin holds steady, but I sense his fear. Each of them in a stare down. Me and McCoy look on while my mind spins, trying to calculate how this will go down so that we don’t lose Gavin. Before I know what’s happening, Gavin bolts toward the back door. He doesn’t get very far. Squint leaps over the counter like a bobcat pouncing on a cornered hare. Kurt attempts to toss his knife at Gavin, but he unintentionally elbows me in the head in the process, which makes his knife falter and go way off mark.

  Kurt spins around, his mouth twisting angrily as he grabs my collar. “Get in my way again …”

  A look of recognition materializes in the blacks of his eyes. I reach for my hunter’s knife but he’s faster. His hand moves from my collar to my arm, his grip like a vice. I kick him in the gut, catching him by surprise. The force of my strike sends him stumbling into the counter. The glass shatters, launching shards in every direction. I turn my head to protect my face, stealing a glance at Gavin. Squint has him pinned against the wall while Gavin struggles to break free with a knife at his throat. I need to get to him. I want him alive when I spit out every nasty thought I’ve had about him for the past three years.

  Kurt lunges at me before I can slip my knife from its sleeve. McCoy intervenes, wrenching him to the ground, throwing punches, deflecting hits, each of them rolling over the glass crunching under their weight.

  I take aim at Squint, Gavin meeting my eyes at the second I thrust my hunter’s knife. It sails through the air, scoring a hit between Squint’s shoulder blades. He arches and reaches toward his back. Gavin shoves him to the ground, but Squint catches Gavin’s leg and trips him before he gets away. I whirl to see Kurt scrambling to his feet, McCoy knocked out, or dead.

  I drop to my knees beside his head. “McCoy!” I smack at his face. “Wake—”

  Someone yanks my ponytail. I grunt and reach back to stop the pain, to stop from becoming someone’s ticket to freedom, but I’m forced to my feet. I reach for my shank. It’s knocked from my hand so I pivot and start kicking until the sharp point of a blade grazes my jugular.

  My eyes lock on Kurt’s. He tips his head with a smirk. “King said he wants you alive, but he didn’t say we couldn’t take an arm or an ear. You best cooperate or that’s exactly what I’ll do.”

  I swallow hard, lowering my head in compliance. I’ll have to wait for a better moment to make a run for it. I steal a glance at Gavin and see him under the control of Squint, although Squint doesn’t look like he’s going to make it very far. His breathing is labored. Blood soaks his shirt, falling in drips to the floor. My aim did enough damage that I don’t think he’ll recover. “You better lead us the fastest way out,” Squint says to Gavin with a knife at his throat.

  Kurt drags me through the shop. Customers move out of the way, some whispering, some shouting for the sheriff, and I feel like that must be a joke in a city of criminals. I glance back at McCoy before we push through the swinging doors into the back of the shop. I catch a glimpse of him holding the side of his head at his temple. This is a good sign. At least he’s alive.

  We make our way through a workroom. Tables full of tools and metals and materials for making knives of all types are scattered everywhere. Kurt stops to bind my hands with cord. Squint does the same with Gavin. We exit through a door and into the alley that separates the buildings from the wall that surrounds the town.

  “We can’t go back through town,” Kurt hollers at Squint.

  Squint halts and when we catch up, Kurt digs his fingers into Gavin’s neck. “You best take us the quickest way out of this city and back to the desert.”

  Gavin just stands there, confused, like he doesn’t understand what’s going on. Kurt digs his fingernails in deeper. “Otherwise, you die right here.”

  “Okay, okay,” says Gavin, rubbing his neck when Kurt releases him.

  Gavin takes us down the alley, me continually looking over my shoulder, hoping to see McCoy. Gavin halts in front of the wall where several planks of wood are stacked. He nods
at the wood with his head and holds up his hands to show that he can’t move them. Squint cuts his hands free. Gavin moves the planks while we look on, revealing what looks like cracked adobe, but it’s really a small door. Gavin yanks out a brick and pushes the door open. Squint and Gavin go through first.

  Kurt and Squint force us to sprint across the desert toward the plateau. Running with my hands tied behind my back requires more effort, more concentration. I manage it by being grateful that I’ve still got eyes on Gavin. I glare at his back as we run, wishing I could take him out now. Realizing he’s one of those calm sociopaths, the kind that are so cunning you don’t know whether you’re coming or going until they’ve got you entangled in their web.

  Squint coughs, pulling my thoughts from Gavin. It’s amazing that he’s able to keep up, pushing past his injury. I don’t think he understands that he might be on his death bed. Soon after I think this, his sprint slows to a jog. Halfway to the plateau, Squint has to stop completely. I steal a glance toward town, but so far no one is after us. Not even McCoy.

  The bleeding is worse. Squint removes his shirt and ties it around his chest. I figure he only has hours to live, but he acts as though his injuries are nothing. I’m sure he’s in denial and when Squint dies, Kurt will be outnumbered. In fact, if I have anything to say about it, he’ll be dead too.

  It isn’t until we’re at the foot of the cliff where the trail leads up that I pause and finally see someone crossing the desert after us. A flicker of hope stirs inside of me. It’s McCoy and he’s about halfway from Millers Creek. I can tell it’s him by the way he runs, with an awkward gait, like he has no idea how to coordinate his legs with his arms. No wonder he prefers walking.

  Kurt shoves the small of my back. “Move it!” he yells.

  Dusk is shadowing the path, making it more difficult to negotiate. I start up the trail, choosing my steps carefully since I’m unable to use my hands to steady myself. Ahead of me Squint is nearly doubled over, gulping for air. Unable to stand on his own, he commands Gavin to assist him up the path. But he never gets very far, maybe two or three steps and each time Squint stops, Kurt screeches at the top of his lungs to speed it up, aware that McCoy is on our tail.