by Kyla Stone
Maddox strained to listen.
“Those people…all those lives…the whole country is burning to the ground,” his father murmured. “What…What if…”
He left the words unspoken. What if we were wrong?
Sister Hannah leaned closer to her husband. She placed her small hand on his quaking shoulder. “It is not our place to question.”
“I know—”
To doubt is to sin, Solomon.”
“I know. It’s just—”
“The Lord gives us difficult tasks to test us, just as he gave the Israelites. He ordered them to slay the wicked Canaanites, instructing them to kill men, women, and children. Even babies.” Sister Hannah’s pious voice grew louder, full of vicious zeal. “Why did the Lord do this? Because those people were idolatrous pagans, vile and grotesquely evil.
“They had to die before the Israelites could claim the promised land. It is the same now, Solomon,” she said fervently. “The wicked in America must die so the Prophet may birth a new America, the one where we are the ones chosen to lead and rule in a land of prosperity, a land flowing with milk and honey.”
“You’ve been blessed with holy insight, woman,” his father said gruffly, appropriately chastened.
Maddox moved closer to hear better. His foot struck the bottom of a pew with a thud.
His father rose swiftly and spun around. Tears trembled in the man’s eyes.
Maddox stared at him, gaping, too stunned to be embarrassed for eavesdropping. He’d never seen his father stricken with grief, regret, or uncertainty. Had never seen him doubt himself, their faith, or the Prophet. Not once.
His father wiped furiously at his eyes until they were dry and there was no sign he’d ever felt anything but zealous devotion. His expression darkened. “What’re you doing here?”
“He should be whipped for his disobedience,” Sister Hannah said, her voice dripping with disgust. She was an attractive woman but dour, always frowning, like her incessant misery was a public declaration of her piety.
She had never loved Maddox, had only seen him as a burden—had detested him as furiously and passionately as he detested her.
Sister Hannah pointed a bony finger at Maddox. “Send him to the mercy room—"
“Silence!” his father boomed.
She pressed her lips together and obediently dropped her gaze to the floor.
“We will speak alone,” his father ordered. “Now.”
Sister Hannah scurried down the narrow aisle, passed Maddox without a word or glance, and slipped out the door, her long skirt swishing behind her.
Maddox took a step toward his father, his mind reeling. He was still muddled and thickheaded from the radiation poisoning, but one thought pierced through the fog: if his father harbored doubts over what the Shepherds had done, maybe he also doubted Eden’s calling.
Maybe they could stop this. Maybe she could come back and just be a kid, not some wrinkled old patriarch’s seventh wife. “Eden—”
“Has been set aside for…for a holy purpose.”
“Do you really believe that?” Maddox whispered. “What if he’s wrong?”
His father took two long, swift strides to reach him. He slapped Maddox hard in the face.
53
Maddox
Maddox staggered back against the pew, his hand flying to his face. His cheek stung. One of his blisters burst. Pus leaked down his neck.
“The Prophet may be my brother, but he is no mere mortal!” His father glowered at him. “He is the voice of God. Do you understand that? We must obey. There is no choice in the matter. None.”
But of course. The Prophet had already announced that it was God who commanded Eden be set aside for him. If the Prophet allowed Eden to slip through his grasp, then God was wrong—or else the Prophet was.
And maybe that was all it would take to cause his devout followers to doubt him. Maybe it would plant a seed of uncertainty, a question of the most dangerous kind, one neither Solomon Cage nor the Prophet could abide.
Absolute faith—and absolute obedience—were required above all else. Even if his father was allowed a moment of weakness, of unbelief, certainly no one else was.
His father glared at him in disgust. Like he was repugnant, rotten to the core. Beneath the man’s disdainful gaze, Maddox felt something inside himself shrivel.
He bowed his head, the dutiful, compliant son once again. Jacob’s replacement. “Yes, Father.”
For a long moment, there was silence. Maddox did not look up. He was still dizzy and lightheaded, but he dared not show it.
Would his father continue to berate him? Or would he order him to the mercy room for his insolence? The lash wounds striping his back were mostly healed into ridged, wormy scars.
But Maddox did not fear pain. He never had. He simply waited.
Finally, his father spoke. His voice was gruff, but no longer laced with revulsion for his remaining son. “I have ordered Reuben to send a contingent to the Burrows’ homestead. They’ll take care of things and bring Eden back to us.”
“Reuben?” Maddox sputtered, looking up. “But it’s my job—”
“You’re barely on your feet. Your presence would compromise the mission, if not outright ruin it.” He placed a heavy hand on Maddox’s shoulder. His stern expression softened. “You must recuperate. I have need of you. This holy war is just beginning.
“As soon as we close this loose end and return the Prophet’s bride to her rightful home, we can focus on the glorious future at hand. We will rule this country. We will build it anew, but better this time. Pure and holy, and above all, obedient.”
Maddox heard his words but couldn’t focus on them.
“We must remain faithful,” his father said. “The most difficult task is already over.”
“You could…spare the girl.” He didn’t know what he was going to say until the blasphemous words were already spilling out of his mouth.
He longed to strangle Dakota Sloane himself, with his own two hands. He’d dreamed it, again and again and again. She was his. After her betrayal, after all the pain and suffering she’d caused him, he deserved that.
And yet…
An image flashed into his mind—the two of them out in the airboat, drifting free in the river of grass, laughing about nothing. He saw the sunlight reflecting off the auburn strands of her hair, the way her tough features softened when she smiled at him.
Out there, together, they could just be. She was the only person in the world who’d never expected him to be anything but what he was.
“You could show her mercy,” he whispered, hating the words even as he spoke them, despising himself for his weaknesses, his myriad impotent flaws. “One last time.”
His father’s eyes flashed with fury—and seething contempt. His fingers dug into Maddox’s trapezius muscle until it hurt. He squeezed harder. “That little slut killed your brother. Have you forgotten?”
“No…no, of course not.”
“And that paranoid old fool harbored her.” Solomon Cage bared his teeth, his face a rictus of hatred. “I won’t rest until I see them both dead.”
“I know, but—”
“You’re unwell,” his father said sharply. “Your words are nonsense. You don’t know the profanity of which you speak. I will ignore it due to your illness, nor will I mention it to the Prophet. This time.”
“Thank you,” Maddox said, but he felt anything but grateful. He forced himself to accept his father’s will—God’s will. “When will it happen?”
“Tonight.” His father released his grip on his shoulder and moved past him. “They’ve already left.”
“What are Reuben’s orders?”
Solomon turned and stared at him. There was no trace of doubt in his eyes now. No sorrow, regret, or guilt. There was nothing but hard, steely purpose. “Attack the Burrows’ homestead. Get Eden. Kill everyone else.”
Maddox said nothing.
His father’s expression changed again, t
his time shifting to paternal affection and concern. He reached out and touched Maddox’s still-stinging cheek, his fingers gentle. “Whose side are you on, boy?”
An ache started somewhere beneath Maddox’s ribs, a throbbing pain, a desperate longing for something he’d never had. “Yours.”
“Do not disappoint me, son,” Solomon Cage said, “and you will take your dead brother’s place and serve at my right side, as you deserve.”
An overwhelming shame filled him. Shame and bitter self-loathing. She had done this to him. It was her fault. It had always been her fault.
No longer.
Maddox lifted his chin, strangling the wriggling shame, shoving it deep down, allowing a cold, cleansing resolve to fill him instead. “I won’t.”
54
Logan
Julio jerked the wheel, pulling a right turn so hard the truck went up on two tires as he slid into the oncoming lane. Someone was screaming.
Everyone was thrown against each other, against their seatbelts, against the door. Park’s elbow jammed into Logan’s tender ribs. He barely registered the jolt of pain.
He tugged his loaded Glock 19 out of its holster and thrust it at Park. “Use it only if you have to.”
Park nodded tightly. “Got it.”
Julio grunted with exertion. He wrestled the wheel straight again. The tires touched down on the blacktop, and he stomped on the gas. They lurched forward.
The seatbelt seared Logan’s neck, but he didn’t care. That cold, detached calm washed over him. He thought only of what he needed to do next to keep everyone alive. He braced his left hand against the door frame, trying to keep the rifle steady against the window as he flicked off the safety.
The truck accelerated to twenty-five, thirty, then forty. Their headlights were twin beams piercing the thick blanket of darkness. The shining hulks of cars appeared and disappeared as Julio veered out of harm’s way.
Behind them, tires squealed as the gangbangers struggled to maintain control of their vehicles. The Porsche was still in the lead, with the Jaguar right on its tail.
The Maserati lagged a bit further behind. It kept fishtailing across both lanes, braking then accelerating like the driver was indecisive, or overly cautious.
The sportscars were sleek, well-oiled machines, designed for elegance and speed. If not for the obstacle course of doom, as Park had called it, they would’ve already been overrun.
Over the rumble of the engines came the distant pop, pop, pop of gunfire. All three vehicles had their windows down now; Logan caught the gleam of moonlight off the barrels of rifles and pistols waving in the air.
The occupants of the Porsche were close enough for Logan to make out the heavy ink swirling across their arms, chests, and faces. Definitely Blood Outlaws.
“You got your side?” Logan said.
Dakota lifted her AR-15 and flicked off her safety, too. “Got it.”
Logan and Dakota buzzed their windows down simultaneously. The hot wind rushed in, buffeting him, whipping his hair, his shirt.
With the windows down, the sounds of gunfire grew louder. The fast, steady pop, pop, pop of a handgun. The rat-a-tat of semiautomatic gunfire. They were aiming for their back tires and simultaneously trying to blow out the rear window.
“Get down on the floor!” Dakota screamed at Eden.
There was a click and a dull thump as the girl unbuckled her seatbelt and threw herself against the floorboards. He glimpsed her out of the corner of his eye, cowering behind the seat, her hands wrapped over her head, letting out harsh little gasps.
Park scooted down to keep his head below the headrest. He clutched Logan’s Glock to his chest with his good hand.
Most of the Outlaws’ shots went wildly wide and high. It was extremely difficult to aim and shoot in a fast-moving vehicle. This wasn’t the predatory drive-by shootout against competitors’ unsuspecting family members they were used to.
This felt like balancing on an exploding rocket while trying to nail a three-inch target.
Eventually, though, a bullet would find its mark.
Logan released his seatbelt. He braced the rifle against the window frame, his spine wedged against the back of the driver’s seat, his legs bent awkwardly and feet anchored against the lip of the rear seat so he could properly angle his shots and give himself some sort of leverage. If the truck crashed, the impact would severely injure him, if not kill him outright.
He punched off several shots. Missed them all.
The Porsche returned fire. Logan flinched but refused to duck.
He fired another volley. The stock kicked against his shoulder. Three shots missed. The fourth struck the windshield, punching a hole through the safety glass right above the driver’s head.
The Porsche skewed left as the driver ducked instinctively. He righted himself, sneering and shouting words Logan couldn’t make out. They sped up, lurching so close they nearly kissed the Ford’s bumper.
In the passenger seat of the Porsche, a hulk of a man the size of a linebacker leaned out the window and aimed his semi-automatic with both hands. Boom! Boom! Boom!
The Ford’s rear window exploded.
55
Logan
Gummy safety glass sprayed across the backseat, raining harmlessly over Logan, Park, and Eden. Logan squeezed his eyes shut. A few shards struck his face and neck and fell to the floor. He felt nothing more than a mild sting.
“Damn, damn, damn!” Dakota chanted, squeezing off a shot with every curse.
Julio veered the truck sharply to the right to avoid a stalled white Volvo in the dead center of the road. Logan’s shoulder exploded in pain as he smacked against unforgiving metal.
“Damn it, Julio!” Dakota shouted.
“I’m doing the best I can!”
His best was good enough. Julio had waited until the last possible second to swerve, while the Porsche was so focused on ramming them that the driver didn’t even see the stalled Volvo.
Its tires screaming in protest, the Porsche slammed its brakes and slewed sideways before smashing into the Volvo at fifty miles per hour. The front of the Porsche crumpled like a soda can. Metal ripped and tore. Glass shattered. Smoke poured into the night sky.
Logan whistled. “Hot damn.”
“Yeehaw!” Park pumped the Glock above his head. “They’re not walking away from that one.”
“Yes!” Dakota shrieked, giddy as a little girl. “I take it all back, Julio. You’re the man!” It was the happiest Logan had ever seen her.
“Where the heck did that come from?” Logan asked Julio.
A glimmer of a smile flickered across Julio’s face. “I told you I could drive.”
“No kidding!” Park shouted gleefully. “That was awesome!”
“One down, two to go,” Dakota said, already back to business.
The Jaguar and Maserati didn’t stop to help their wounded compatriots. They didn’t even slow down. The Jaguar swung into the lead, roaring after the truck with a renewed fury.
The Jaguar driver wasn’t as cautious as the Maserati or as skilled as the Porsche. He weaved crazily over the narrow road, barely maintaining control.
Julio kept his eyes straight ahead, his hands so tight on the wheel his knuckles were white as paper. The wind shrieked through the opened windows. The inside of the cab stank of gunpowder. Logan’s ears rang from the percussive blasts in such close quarters.
He breathed in, breathed out, steadied his nerves.
His head was clear. He wasn’t sick. He wasn’t drunk. He could do this.
He was made for this.
It didn’t matter that he was a terrible person, that he could barely maintain a normal conversation let alone a healthy relationship with another human being, worthless at anything but killing.
Violence was in him, dark and seething, infused in his pores, his very bones. There was no way to escape it. The only way was to embrace it—the cold, the dark, the monster.
In this world, killing was what
was needed.
He didn’t look down at the tattoo inked on his forearm, the Latin inscription warning him of an abyss he’d already leapt into, feet first. The words were just marks now. Meaningless.
Everything was meaningless but the task before him.
That cold, mechanical calm descended. His senses sharpened. Emotions, thoughts—everything faded away. Logan blocked out the wind, the darkness, the spearing blaze of the headlights—and focused on his target.
Inhaled, exhaled. Squeezed the trigger. Logan fired at the Jaguar’s right front wheel. The bullet hit home, punching through its target and blowing out the tire. Black rubber exploded.
He unloaded five more shots into the front windshield.
The Jaguar slewed hard to the left, rising on two wheels and coming down hard on its ruined rim. The vehicle crashed through the guard railing, pitched off the road, and careened headfirst into a pine tree.
The deafening crash echoed in the night as metal caved and twisted. Steam boiled up from the bent, distorted hood, the sportscar shuddering in its death spasms.
Logan stuck his head out of the window, blinking against the stinging wind.
Behind them, the battered passenger door wrenched open. The big linebacker stumbled out. His rifle dangled at his side. He took a single faltering step before collapsing to the pavement.
The Maserati zigzagged furiously to miss the huge man lying in the middle of the road like a felled tree. Logan couldn’t tell from that distance, but it looked like the Maserati lurched over an arm or a leg as it sped past.
Either way, the linebacker didn’t get up.
Logan shifted his attention from the dead guy to the final sportscar. The Maserati roared after them, throwing caution to the wind now. Logan and his group had taken their guys out multiple times. It was an insult to their very existence.
Hellbent on it, they’d do anything to get their revenge.