“I don’t care about that right now,” Blake said. “You’re in danger, Kiernan. Get out of here as fast as you can. Leave Meacham to me.”
“He plans to assassinate you.”
Blake froze. He stared at Kiernan as though he’d never seen the boy before in his life. “The town would go to war.”
Kiernan grimaced. “I’m sure it would. But Meacham can’t stand the peace any longer. He’s ready to take over Lansing and Outridge. Everything is set. He’s even got enough assault rifles to outfit all of his men. I’m talking M16s, Blake. Even grenades.”
Blake rubbed his right temple to soothe a sudden ache. “That’s where the town’s money has been going.”
Kiernan was slowly shaking his head. “It’s like he’s getting ready for war.”
“Maybe he is,” Blake said. “Listen, there’s something else you don’t know about John Meacham. Those three women your boys brought back—the men who kidnapped them weren’t raiders. They were slavers disguised as caravan drivers that Meacham invited into Gulch. He let them kidnap those women in exchange for the guns—”
The window behind Blake suddenly shattered, a vile crack followed by the tinkling of falling glass. It triggered Blake’s reflexes. Sent him rolling over the desk for cover.
As he crouched in the desk’s shadow, he saw Kiernan Sail arch with the grace of a dancer, eyes fluttering, head lolling at an unnatural angle. Then he dropped. His eyes stayed open, a sure sign he was dead from what appeared to be a bullet in the forehead. Yet his body still twitched.
Blake scrambled over to the man.
“No,” he said in a high, shaky voice. The sound of rushing mountain wind entered through the broken window. There was no way a slug could have passed by Blake and hit Kiernan unless it had come from a sniper on the roof across the street.
The twitching stopped as Kiernan’s nervous system went silent. Blake closed Kiernan’s eyelids, a pathetic way to express his gratitude, but it was all he could do for now. He crawled over to his desk and pulled out a pistol. He checked the clip, chambered a bullet, and made his escape out the back door.
He ran along the street in the dark of night, taking cover where he could and wishing he’d brought his coat. Using telepathy, he scanned for the sniper. Instead, he picked up the heat of fervent brain activity a few streets over. There was a whole group of them.
Trying to keep calm, he poked his head around the corner, keeping his back to the wall, pistol against his sternum.
In the wash of light coming from a truck’s headlamps, John Meacham and a few of his men were beating someone. The man being brutalized tried to get up. Whoever he was, he was covered in his own blood.
“John,” Blake shouted into the street. “What’s the hell’s going on?”
Meacham ordered his men to stop. “Blake, that you? We caught one of your boys committing treason. I had him followed.”
Was Michael the one being beaten?
John Meacham released a loud, dramatic huff of relief when Blake arrived. “Good. For a second there, I thought he’d gotten you, too.”
The closer Blake got, the harder his stomach twisted. He recognized the man on the ground as Reggie Smith, despite the damage that had been done to his face. A scoped hunting rifle lay beside him.
Blake kneeled by his side.
“Spiteful savages,” he said through his teeth. Reggie’s eyes were going to swell something fierce. He was barely conscious. He would live, but not without scars.
Rising, Blake scanned the faces of Meacham’s men. Elkin was there with his skinny face and neck, his lopsided grin. Blake recognized all the others—except one who was missing.
Where was Warren?
“Now you put that gun down,” Meacham said. Only then did Blake notice his hand and the gun he held trembling from his rage. “Your boy killed one of mine. No rhyme or reason for it. My boy was unarmed.”
Blake slid his finger over the trigger. Meacham was having too much fun to notice.
“You know what the penalty is for murder. Right, Louis?” Meacham smirked down at Reggie, who had curled up like an infant. “He’s mine now.”
“Where’s Warren Jones?” Blake asked.
“What?” Meacham said, eyes hooded like he was suddenly tired.
“There are two men in Gulch who can shoot like that. Where’s Warren Jones? Tell me, John, and speak the truth. I’ll know if you’re lying.”
Just then, Warren came jogging up the street from the other direction, opposite the Matinee. The slimy son of a bitch must’ve run around the Hollows to make it look like he was coming from the wrong direction to be the shooter. Blake wondered where he had ditched the rifle.
This had all been planned; they had been watching Kiernan Sail for a while now.
“You’d better come up with convincing evidence he’s your killer,” Blake said, reaching to pick Reggie up. “Or even I won’t be able to call off Dominic.”
That would give them something to think about. Meacham’s grin fell away.
“Good luck,” Blake said as he dragged Reggie away.
Meacham kept quiet.
Reggie went straight to Midas Ford for treatment, but he was kept under surveillance. John Meacham had instructed three of his men to watch the prisoner at all times. They were under orders to shoot anyone who tried to remove him from Midas’s medical center.
Louis Blake gathered Dominic and the boys in their living room on Silo Street. Caught up in a rage after hearing about Reggie, Dominic flipped over the dining room table and punched a hole in the wall.
“I’m gonna slice him open, then remove his spiteful heart with my bare hands,” he said, angling his fingers into claws and staring at his hands as if he could already picture Meacham’s blood all over them.
“Where are the girls?” Blake asked. “Are they safe?”
Peter closed his eyes, reached out with his telepathy. “They’re down the street. Pink house.”
“No, they aren’t,” Dominic said, having calmed himself. “Not all of them.”
Michael closed his eyes, reaching out much as Peter had done. Dominic was right. Arielle hadn’t gone with the others to the pink house. He sensed she was somewhere in town, the café probably. But why would she be there?
Arielle, he called. Come back to Silo Street. Fast.
Her response was clear and immediate, as if she had been planning this moment. Maybe that was the reason for the look she had given him at the doorway.
I’ve got an idea, she sent. Come to the café. Now. And do everything I say.
“Arielle needs me at the café,” Michael said.
Blake nodded once. “Go to her. Keep her safe. Tonight we’re ending John Meacham’s rule over this town. No one shoots at my boys and gets away with it.”
Chapter 18
Peter rubbed circles over his eyes in exasperation.
Michael had left in search of Arielle before anyone could get in his way. Peter had heard his bike tear through the night until the noise became a distant drone.
“You okay, Pete?”
Blake’s voice sounded stern. It wasn’t a question, but more a demand to snap him out of his thoughts.
“I’m ready,” Peter said.
Blake ordered him and Eli to go down the street to the girls’ house and remain on the defensive until they were called. If Gulch fell into a state of anarchy, with the men in town outnumbering the women three to one, there was no telling what could happen.
“Come on,” Peter said, motioning for Eli to follow him. Bursting through the front door, he jogged across the moonlit yard. Crickets chirped in the bushes and trees.
Eli hung back. “How about you follow me for once, Rivers?” He made for the driveway, where they had left their bikes.
“It’s right down the street,” Peter said.
“But we might need them. Trust me.”
Eli was right. If the town went to hell, they might need to get out quick.
They brought the engines t
o life, then sped down Silo Street toward the pink house at the very end.
“Ian, you’re with me tonight,” Blake said. “Dominic can take care of himself.”
Dominic had already disappeared, having flown out of the house much like Michael had. Ian had to admit he felt abandoned. Blake put a hand on his shoulder.
“How do you feel right now? It’s your father after all.”
Without blinking, Ian looked him straight in the eye. “I want him dead just as much as you do. Come on. I know all his hiding places.”
Blake dug a set of keys out of his pocket. “We’ll take my truck. Here.” He passed Ian a pistol. “You point that thing at your father’s men only. If a civilian tries to stand in your way, use hand-to-hand or telepathy.”
“I won’t need a gun,” Ian said, passing it back. He felt in his pocket for the switchblade he always kept on him, his fingers grazing its metal length. Blake seemed to understand; stealth had always been Ian’s preference.
Ian kept silent throughout the short drive, mired in his own vengeful thoughts.
“Hey, Ian,” Blake said as they barreled down the dark road, headlights illuminating the trees sweeping by their windows.
“Yeah?”
Blake hesitated, seemingly unsure how to proceed. “You let me deal with your father. Trust me on this. No matter how much death you see in your life, you’ll never forgive yourself if you kill your own father. The pain will never go away.”
Ian considered this as he glared out the window. Blake was right. He couldn’t kill his own father.
His father’s men, on the other hand….
“Let me off here,” he said.
“What?” Blake shot him a confused look. “Why?”
“Warren,” Ian said simply. “He’s mine.”
Blake brought the truck to a screeching halt to let Ian jump out.
Chapter 19
The storage room of the Cold War Café was frostier than usual. Elkin’s nipples were hard beneath his shirt, but the temperature was only part of the cause.
Arielle lay on a pile of aprons and towels, still reeling from a blow to the temple. She couldn’t even look at him. That was good. This time, he was the one in control.
No, wait—that wasn’t it. Her eyes were on Charlotte’s boy, who was whimpering a few feet away as Toby James held a knife to his throat. Elkin and Toby had caught the girl out in the open, then had chased her and the boy inside. It was almost like they had wanted to be caught.
Now, here she was, lying tits up in front of him, helpless and scared like he had always fantasized. It had been so easy. After tonight, the town would be theirs, and he would have Arielle every night, just like this, with no one to get in his way.
As for the boy—Toby would hold him back for now. Toby James was good at that sort of thing, following orders and keeping his mouth shut. Normally, Elkin would have sent them into another room, but he liked the idea of the girl being watched while they did it. After that incident with the skillet, when the little bitch had almost burned off half his face, Elkin had been thinking of ways to shame her—to make her feel the way he’d felt that night and every night since.
“It’ll be all right, William,” Arielle told the boy in a shaky voice. “He’ll never touch anyone again. Not after tonight.”
If Elkin hadn’t been half drunk, he might have wondered what she meant by that. He’ll never touch anyone again. She was probably just trying to intimidate him. But he was beyond being afraid. He was calling the shots now.
The boy was breathing heavily, shifting on and off his bad foot. With Toby’s knife against the boy’s throat, Arielle wouldn’t dare scream for her boyfriend or the doctor or anyone else—not this time. A drop of Elkin’s sweat landed on Arielle’s neck as he positioned himself between her legs.
“You scream and we cut the boy,” he said, his voice taking on a shaky shrillness. He could no longer contain his excitement. “You don’t own this restaurant no more, you see? Now I own it, which means you’re trespassing. Meacham drafted the bill tonight. Exile for Reggie, Dom, and Blake, and all ments will get stripped of their businesses. You never get to kick me out again. You never get to tell me where I can and can’t go again.”
Her breathing was quick and shallow, each puff of air warm against his face. Yet she kept focusing past him like she was determined not to meet his eyes. Fine with him. It didn’t make a damn bit of difference where she looked.
The boy had started to whine.
“Aunt Arielle, he’s hurting me.”
Arielle didn’t move as she spoke. “It’s okay, William. This’ll be over soon.”
Elkin grinned. “Like hell it will. I’m gonna take my sweet time.” He reached down to the collar of her shirt and stretched it open, then reached inside with a greedy smile.
Arielle tried not to wince.
This was what Elkin had wanted all along. Like a naïve child, she had tolerated him inside her café, assuming he was no more than a dirty, simpleminded man, harmless as long as John Meacham didn’t let go of his leash.
What a stupid girl she’d been. Tonight, she would fix that. Do everything I say, she’d told Michael. And he had listened to her. He was still listening—watching and waiting as she had instructed, barely controlling his anger. It radiated from him like heat. This had to work the way she planned.
“Just tell me one thing before you rape me,” Arielle said, eyes on the shadow near the back. Elkin didn’t seem to notice the shift in her awareness.
One more minute, she sent. Are you getting this?
The shadow responded, unhappy at her request, ready to come forward as soon as she said the word. She spoke to Elkin in a soothing voice.
“It was John Meacham’s sniper who shot Kiernan, wasn’t it?”
Elkin’s perverted grin deepened. He apparently liked this new angle. And why not? He was going to kill her anyway—might as well brag about how smart he and his friends had been in pulling this off.
(All over Gulch, eyes opened wide, people stared at walls, windows, even their own hands, not seeing what was in front of them, but a vision unraveling in their minds…)
“It was Warren,” Arielle said, wincing as Elkin’s hand, like a hairless, pale tarantula, grabbed one of her breasts and squeezed. “Warren shot Kiernan Sail, didn’t he? No one else could have made that shot.”
Ever watchful, the shadow against the back wall shifted.
Stay back, Arielle ordered. This is my way of getting payback, and you had better not interrupt me. Not yet.
Elkin tore her shirt down the middle, exposing her breasts. She had always thought of them as being too small. Now they seemed too big—eager to invite evil things.
“Yer damn right he’s the only one man could have made that shot. It was Warren who did it, but it was me who found out that son of a bitch, Sail, was a mole. I was the one caught him snooping by the barns.”
Elkin bent to sloppily kiss Arielle’s chest. Sniffling, William turned away, his tears running freely. He’d been so good, so brave. Arielle would have to commend him for that later.
The unkempt, bearded man holding the knife to William’s throat smiled even wider at the scene. He’d been grinning like that for a while now, like a perverted, wooden dummy.
Elkin had lost himself against her skin, eyes closed, mouth open, tongue creeping over her in a way that made her want to scream.
(Eyes widened in terror or squeezed shut with disgust as the vision of Elkin craned over a defenseless Arielle seared itself into their minds…)
Now? the shadow asked.
Now.
The shadow broke away from the back wall, taking form behind Toby and William. Toby’s head twisted around with a deep pop. The knife fell from his limp hand as he collapsed to the ground.
A force pushed William to his knees.
Cringing from the pain, William peeked over his shoulder to see the man who had been holding him. He was standing like before, arms hanging limply by his sides w
ith the thumbs out.
He looked strange, though. His face wasn’t where it had been before.
It was too terrifying to comprehend at first, but then William finally made sense of what had happened. The man’s head had been rotated all the way around. Instead of his face, all he could see now was the back of one ear and the hanging part of his mullet, which draped his neck.
The shadow that had committed this horrifying act took human form for a moment—the eyes gleamed cruelly at William, orange in the candlelight—before disappearing to leave the man to topple into the boxes like a sack of dirty laundry.
(A few streets over, a woman clapped in victory, having just watched the entire thing.)
(John Meacham, seated behind the wheel of his parked truck, flinched before punching the steering wheel, causing it to briefly honk. “No,” he said. “Goddamn it, no!”)
Elkin leaped off Arielle, pulling a hunting knife out of the back of his pants. He sidestepped toward the door, half-crouched in a defensive stance. His eyes darted frantically as he searched the room.
The shadow positioned itself between him and Arielle, as if it were guarding her. It wasn’t a shadow at all, but a man—Michael Cairne, dressed all in black. Even his face was black, though the color appeared to be shifting, as if his skin were covered in a dense swarm of wasps.
“You ment bastard,” Elkin said, gasping in shock. “You son-of-a-bitch ment bastard.”
(“Do it,” a man urged from the safety of his small house, his wife and children squatting behind him, eyes closed as they watched the skinny man with the jutting cheekbones cringe…)
Instead of attacking, Michael perused Elkin with all the emotionless intensity of a camera, two fingers pressed to his right temple, eyes as dark as before.
“Say hello to Gulch,” Michael said as he approached.
Elkin’s mouth moved of its own accord, even as his brain told him a confession would do him no good. For the first time in his life, he understood this had been his own doing. It was his own fault he would never leave this room alive. Yet his shivering lips still poured out what he thought might save him, maybe just this once.
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