by Tarah Benner
He stops, and then — to my horror — he kicks an old dented can lying in the alley.
There’s a flash of movement on the porch, and Eli flattens himself against the rough wood exterior.
A burly man in his early thirties whips around the corner. He catches a glimpse of Eli in his periphery, but it’s too late.
Eli’s arm shoots out, grabbing him around the neck. A blade glints in the sunlight, and he swipes it cleanly across his throat.
As the drifter struggles for his last dying breaths, terror and hopelessness fill his eyes. Blood coats Eli’s sleeve, and he carefully lowers the man’s body to the ground.
My chest tightens, and the dry air suddenly feels too thin in my lungs.
Looking over the edge of the dumpster, Eli nods. I step out, white-knuckling my rifle and trying to conceal how freaked out I am.
“Stealth,” he whispers.
I step over the dead man and pick my way up the squeaky stairs in front of the restaurant.
When we reach the entrance, we each flatten ourselves against the outer walls, and Eli is first to check the view inside. He nods, and I follow him through the door.
Once my eyes adjust to the dim lighting, I see there’s no one on the main floor. The restaurant is exactly as it was the last time we were here, only now I can hear voices emanating from between the warped floorboards.
I follow Eli’s steps exactly to avoid making a sound. We reach the kitchen, and when he moves toward the basement door, I grab his arm. He wants to listen in on their conversation, and he’s prepared to go down that staircase to do it.
He widens his eyes at me in his signature “do what I say” expression and pulls the door open. Everything inside me is screaming that it’s a bad idea, but I trust Eli enough to follow.
Angry voices drift up the stairs. Heart pounding, I step onto the landing and pull the door shut.
“We don’t like being set up,” says one man. He has an accent I don’t recognize, and he sounds furious.
“It wasn’t a setup,” growls another voice — younger and defiant.
There’s a harsh slap — the back of someone’s hand — and the first man makes an angry noise in his throat. “Do I look fucking stupid to you?”
“He’ll be here,” says the younger man.
“He better be. Otherwise, it won’t end so good for you.”
“What do you want with him anyway?” asks the hostage. “If you have business with Jackson, I’m your guy.”
As I listen, I realize there’s something familiar about his voice.
“He was supposed to be on cleanup duty at the last location, but his guy on the inside chickened out.”
“We don’t know what happened to Travis,” growls the young man. “He might be dead.”
“That’s what I call shitty planning. But I’m sure your man Jackson has a backup plan.”
“Travis was the backup plan, you idiot.”
There’s a long, pregnant silence, and I would bet the man doing the threatening has a gun pointed at the other guy’s head. “For your sake, I hope that’s not the case.”
I feel a hand close around my arm and nearly jump out of my skin. Eli flashes me a look and opens the basement door again.
I rise into a crouch and follow him back into the kitchen. He makes a beeline for the exit, rifle poised. I quicken my pace, letting my nervous energy propel my legs forward.
When we step outside, the warmth of the open air is a welcome relief. I wait for Eli to say something, but he just leads me back to the gas station without a word.
“Why did we leave?” I ask, yanking off my mask and feeling the rush of fresh air against my sweaty face. “It was just getting good!”
“It was just getting dangerous,” Eli says. “We stumbled into the middle of a gang deal gone bad.”
“But Jayden said —”
“Yeah. Jayden wanted us there. She wanted us in the middle of it because she doesn’t care if we get shot collecting intel.”
“Do you know who those people were?”
Eli’s eyes narrow, and he crosses to the streaky window to peer out at the restaurant. “I have an idea.”
I watch him, waiting for him to finish. “Well, who?” I ask, impatient to fill in the blanks.
“Back when I worked for Freeman, there were a few major gangs that controlled the area. They fought for territory — territory where they could salvage stuff from before Death Storm: food, medicine . . . all the stuff that was in short supply out here. They made a killing selling it back to survivors.”
“So what was all that about?”
“I don’t know. But we don’t want to get caught in the middle of it.”
“We need something to tell Jayden.”
Eli opens his mouth to protest, but I cut him off.
“You know as well as I do that the second we’re not useful to her anymore, she’s going to have us both killed.”
“She’s trying to get us killed right now.”
I shake my head. “Her curiosity is the only thing keeping us alive. I say we find out what’s going on, give her a taste to keep her wanting more, and then get the hell out of the compound.”
Eli sighs. He knows I’m right.
“What happens when this Jackson guy finally shows up?”
I can’t believe he’s actually considering my plan.
“It didn’t sound like he was going to show. But if that’s what you’re worried about, we can just wait until we know he won’t.”
“That guy could be dead by then. Gangsters are not the most patient people.”
“No. They need him. He’s the closest link they have to this other guy. If he doesn’t show, they’ll keep him around just to see what he knows.”
Eli stares at me for a moment, thinking through my reasoning.
“All right. We’ll wait them out for a few hours. Then if this guy doesn’t show up, we’ll go back in.”
“Okay.”
We sink down onto the floor to watch the restaurant, and I try to conceal my excitement. I’m not just proud that Eli listened to my idea; I’m also curious to hear what the gangsters are so anxious about.
Eli passes me an energy bar, and we eat in silence. I don’t know why I care what happens to the captive in the basement, other than the odd sense of déjà vu I got at the sound of his voice.
I don’t share these thoughts with Eli. If he thinks I’m a little too eager to throw myself in harm’s way again, he doesn’t show it. I can tell it’s killing him, too — not knowing what those men were talking about.
We wait for three hours, my lower body growing numb from sitting on the hard floor.
“Well, our friend may be out of luck,” he says finally. “I don’t think Jackson’s going to show.”
I stand up and stretch, my heart pounding a little harder against my ribcage. I wanted to go back, but now that Eli is ready to put our plan into action, the danger of the situation is finally hitting me.
He hands me my mask. “You ready?”
“Yeah,” I say, hoping he can’t tell how nervous I am. “Let’s go.”
As soon as we enter the restaurant, I can tell things have gotten a lot worse for the young hostage in the few hours since we left. The tension is palpable in the voices rumbling up between the floorboards, and thunderous footfalls down below make the shelves of souvenirs rattle.
Somebody in the basement yells, and then there’s a loud crash. I pry off my mask, and Eli follows suit.
He shoots me a sideways look — silently asking if we should continue — and I nod.
We’ve come this far. We can’t turn back now — not when we’re so close to learning more about the drifters.
We inch through the kitchen and push our way onto the landing again, careful not to disturb the creaky floorboards.
“Where is he?” shouts the man down below.
“I . . . don’t know.” The younger man’s voice is definitely weaker than before.
There’s
another crash — louder this time. It sounds as though somebody flipped the chair over and kicked the man in the side.
I cringe at his guttural yell and shrink back against the wall.
Suddenly, I feel a warm draft behind me that wasn’t there before.
Alarm bells go off in my head just as the door to the kitchen flies open. My stomach drops when I see a tall, meaty man standing there in baggy jeans, a black shirt, and a black bandana.
His gaze bounces from me to Eli, and it seems to take a long time for his brain to process what he’s seeing.
“What the —”
Before he can finish his sentence, Eli flips the butt of his gun around and whacks the guy under the chin.
The man staggers backward and crashes into the metal shelf behind him. Every muscle in my body clenches as pots and pans bang together.
I finally get my rifle trained on him, but the men downstairs have fallen silent.
“What the fuck was that?”
Eli reacts before I do. He shoots the fallen drifter in the head and then throws himself in front of me and aims his gun at the foot of the stairs. My ears are ringing so badly I feel as though I’ve gone temporarily deaf.
A weathered brown face pops around the corner half a second before Eli shoots again. The man goes down, and Eli flies down the stairs.
My heart is racing. If there are other gangsters in the area, they must have heard the shots. Hopefully they’ll think it was their men.
Eli steps over the crumpled body, but before I even reach him, a bullet cracks through the wall behind him. He hits the deck, and two more shots follow.
My body starts moving before my brain can react. I stumble down the steps beside Eli and raise my head over the half wall at the foot of the stairs. I shoot and miss, and Eli yanks me down to his level.
Another bullet pierces the thin drywall in front of us, just inches from Eli’s torso.
He swears and raises up into a crouch, shooting off four rounds. I hear a yell and know he hit at least one of the remaining men. But another bullet close to the head sends him back down next to me, breathing hard.
“There are two more,” he gasps, his voice going in and out.
“Whatdowedo?” I ask, the panic scrambling my thoughts.
“Both of us need to shoot at once. You get the guy on the left. I’ll get the guy on the right.”
I tighten my grip on my rifle, trying not to dwell on the fact that I’m about to kill another human being. Instead, I focus on what I need to do to get Eli out of here alive.
I trained for this, I think. I’m ready. One shot. One shot is all I get.
Eli mouths a countdown. On three, I spring up and take aim at the man nearest me. He’s also wearing black, though he’s skinnier than the last guy.
To my amazement, my bullet hits him cleanly in the chest.
Surprise and pain animate his face for the briefest second before all traces of who he was disappear.
As he sinks down, I glance at Eli’s target. His eyes are half closed in a grimace, but when the bullet hits the wall behind him and ricochets off, everything seems to fall in around me.
Eli missed.
Eli — the strongest, best lieutenant I’ve ever known — missed.
It only takes a split second for me to realize just how high the cost will be.
Everything slows down. The man he was aiming for still has his gun raised. I see him zero in on Eli — see the decision on his face to end him.
I’m not fast enough to get a bullet between Eli and the other man. But out of the corner of my eye, there’s another flash of movement.
A gunshot pierces my eardrums, and I cringe. I look at Eli, expecting to watch the light leave those beautiful blue eyes, but he’s staring straight ahead, looking as though he can’t believe what he’s seeing.
The man before him crumples to the ground, blood seeping from his leg. Eli finally shoots, and it’s a kill shot. The man already knew he was going to die, but there’s no remorse on his face — only fury.
My brain is slow to put the pieces together. My eyes drift from the fallen gangster to the young man lying next to him.
He’s still tied to a folding chair, one arm locked underneath him. The leg of his cargo pants is pulled up ever so slightly, revealing the black strap of a holster around his ankle. One of his biceps has wiggled free from his ropes, and in his hand is the smoking gun.
Eli trains his rifle on the man but hesitates. He glances at me, and I shake my head once.
“Don’t move,” Eli growls at the man on the ground — the guy who just saved our lives. He still has his gun raised at an awkward angle, and I have no idea how he managed to hit the other guy in the leg from his bound position.
He doesn’t say a word.
Eli crosses in front of me with his rifle pointed at the man’s head. I grip my gun harder and follow him, dazed and unsure whether we should kill the guy or not.
Just because he shot the drifter who was going to shoot Eli doesn’t mean he’s friendly. We just gave him the chance he needed to get rid of his captors.
We take a wide path around the man’s legs, and when I get a good look at his face, I suck in a breath of surprise.
His face is swollen and bloody from the earlier beating, but familiarity rocks me to the core.
Under one battered eyebrow, I catch a glint of sharp blue eyes. Even under all the blood and bruises, I can make out the defiant set of his jaw and the same probing gaze.
Only there’s no fondness or pride there now. Unlike his doppelgänger, this man wants me dead.
Then his gaze flickers to my left, and those unsettling, familiar eyes widen in shock. He opens his mouth to speak, but he can’t quite form the words.
It’s Eli who speaks first, and the name that comes out of his mouth is the last I ever expected to hear.
“Owen?”
eighteen
Harper
“Eli?” the man whispers in shock.
There it is again — that familiar voice I couldn’t quite place. It’s nearly identical to Eli’s, but there’s an edge to it that makes him sound more dangerous. Even in Eli’s angriest moments, his voice never scared me quite like that.
“It’s impossible.”
Eli’s face has drained of color, and his eyes are bright with shock and horror. It looks as though he’s seen a ghost, but if he’s seeing one, that means I am, too.
Then his gaze narrows, as though he thinks he’s being tricked. In one swift motion, he reaches down and yanks the chair back into an upright position, causing the guy to jerk forward. As he settles, Eli kicks the gun out of his hand, and it skitters across the floor out of the man’s reach.
Now that I’m looking at him head-on, there’s no denying the possibility that this could be Owen — Eli’s older brother who supposedly died thirteen years ago.
At first glance, they could be twins, but Owen’s jaw is more square, and his gaze is harsher under heavy black eyebrows. He wears his dark hair buzzed, and unlike Eli, he has a pronounced five o’clock shadow. He’s also bulkier, with a more rugged, dangerous appearance.
Only their eyes are exactly the same: a deep, piercing blue.
“What’s your name?” Eli demands.
“What’s yours?”
Eli raises his rifle again, training it on the man’s face. “I ask the questions here.”
I glance up at him. “Eli . . .”
“Owen Parker.”
Eli’s eyes widen, but he tightens his grip on his gun.
“You’re not my brother,” he growls. “You can’t be. I saw my brother die. He was dead.” Eli’s voice is wavering now, though whether from grief or confusion, I can’t quite tell. “Your men raided my house and killed my parents and my brother in cold blood.”
Now it’s Owen’s chance to look shocked. “You are him,” he whispers.
“Shut up!” Eli yells.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Eli lose control, but his wary, confide
nt demeanor is unraveling quickly. His usually steady hand is quivering on his rifle, and he swallows several times before speaking again.
“What are your parents’ names?” Eli asks.
“Luke and Ellen.”
Eli sucks in a breath, but his eyes are still distrustful.
It’s not that he doesn’t believe Owen; the problem is he does. I can almost see his world crumbling around him. The grief he carried around for years was based on a lie. Now it’s been replaced by a devastating uncertainty.
“Eli . . .” I murmur, reaching up to push the rifle down. He doesn’t stop me, but he won’t meet my gaze either. He’s too busy staring at Owen.
Owen’s gaze flickers over me but snaps back to Eli within seconds.
“How are you alive?” Eli asks.
“What do you mean?”
“You were shot,” Eli says aggressively, as though trying to reassure himself of the facts.
But Owen shakes his head. “I wasn’t. I ran outside and got turned around. I was running, but somebody grabbed me and dragged me off.”
“But the body . . .” Eli seems to be racking his brain, trying to recall the details of that night.
From what he’d told me, it had been too dark to make out the person’s features, so the body he’d thought was his brother’s must not have been.
When Eli looks back at Owen, I’m startled to see his eyes look shiny and bloodshot, as though he’s trying not to cry. “Why didn’t you come back for me?” His voice comes out as a harsh croak, and my heart aches at his pained expression.
“I did. I went back to the house the next day, but you weren’t there. I didn’t know where you could have gone, but I was determined to find you. I looked for you for years.”
That seems to take the fight right out of Eli. His shoulders slump, and he turns away from Owen. I want to reach out for him, but it’s clear he needs some space.
With his back to us, he sinks down into a crouch and lets his eyes wander unfocused over the filthy floor. One of his hands is resting on his rifle; the other arm is draped over his leg and hanging helplessly in the air.
He lets out several breaths, and I start to worry that maybe this is what will finally drive him over the edge.