Sacrifice

by Brigid Kemmerer

  “He was going to kill me. So I tried to kill him first.”

  Hunter finally spoke up. “Hand to hand?”

  “Yeah.” He paused. He almost didn’t want to say what had happened, as if admitting it would make it more real. It was plenty real. He’d scrubbed the blood off his hands forever. He still felt like he hadn’t gotten it all. “I stabbed him. A couple of times. Broke some ribs, too.”

  “Holy crap,” said Tyler. “What did you stab him with?”

  Michael met his eyes. “A rock.”

  “And they think he was the same guy who bombed the restaurant?” said Hunter.

  Michael shrugged. “I don’t know. But I think so.”

  “Interesting.” He paused, and his expression said he was working through something in his head. “If he was the kind of guy to work from a distance with a bomb, I’m surprised he confronted you in the woods like that.”

  “There was a lot of smoke and fire in the underbrush,” said Michael. “Poor visibility. He was shooting at us to begin with.”

  “Huh.” Hunter picked at his food again.

  “What?” said Tyler.

  “I don’t know. I just think people tend to fall into two camps: those who prefer to be violent from a safe distance, and those who prefer to be an active participant. My dad and uncle were opposite sides of that coin. My dad had lots of experience in hand-to-hand combat. He wouldn’t work from a distance unless he had to. He thought violence should mean something. My uncle was a cop, and he’d been trained to take care of a situation from a distance, if he could. It was a safety thing: why engage with a bad guy if you don’t have to?”

  “So what’s that all mean?” said Michael.

  “I don’t know. Maybe nothing.” He paused. “But there wasn’t just one Guide last time, right?”

  The question made Michael’s heart stop for a moment. “No. But why wouldn’t the other one step in to save the first?”

  Hunter rolled that around for a long moment. “I don’t know. I can’t see any advantage to letting you leave if the first was going to kill you. Especially since the police have a body and a name and someone to investigate.”

  “What was his name?” said Tyler.

  “Warren Morris,” said Michael.

  Tyler snorted. “He sounds like he should be preparing taxes, not walking around hunting people with a gun.”

  “Maybe he does prepare taxes,” said Hunter. “He doesn’t have to be military. Guides come from all walks of life. Look at Becca’s dad. He works for the Department of Natural Resources. Not exactly the front lines of the militia.”

  “So there could be another Guide in town,” said Tyler.

  “Right,” said Hunter. “And it could be anyone.”

  Not for the first time, Michael was glad that he didn’t know where his brothers had been taken. They were safe. Hidden.

  Michael pushed his food away. He’d barely touched it, and he didn’t want it now. “There’s always a chance of a Guide being in town,” he said. “Nothing different about today.”

  “You have a bigger target on your back,” said Tyler.

  Michael scowled. “Nothing different about that either.”

  His cell phone chimed. Michael tensed and fished it out of his pocket. Another message from Hannah.

  I’m worried about you.

  He didn’t respond. He hadn’t answered any of her texts since leaving his neighborhood with the fire marshal.

  It was killing him.

  But hearing those gunshots and knowing she was in the woods—he couldn’t take it. He couldn’t go through that again. He needed to end this. She’d never be safe while involved with him.

  His thumbs hovered over the phone anyway. He wanted to reply. He wanted to invite her over. He wanted to spend one night away from fear and anger and worry, to just be a guy and a girl.

  But that wasn’t possible for him.

  For her either.

  He shoved his phone back in his pocket.

  A knock sounded on Tyler’s front door, and they were all instantly on high alert.

  Tyler stood up, but Hunter put up a hand. “They could shoot you through the door.”

  No one moved.

  Finally, Michael stood up. “Wait. I’ll answer it.”

  “It’s my house,” said Tyler.

  “Yeah, but I’m the one they’ve been trying to kill.”

  Tyler considered that, then stood back.

  Michael stopped in front of the door. He looked through the peephole, but the person was wearing a ball cap and looking at a phone. Through the distortion of the fish-eye lens, he couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman.

  He held his breath and turned the dead bolt, ready for a bullet to hit him in the chest.

  Nothing happened.

  Then a female voice from the other side said, “Are you going to open the door or what?”

  Michael opened the door. “Hannah.”

  She stood there in a cap and raincoat and jeans, everything speckled with raindrops. Her eyes were red rimmed yet furious. “I don’t know whether to hit you or hug you.”

  “Do both,” he said.

  She did one better. She kissed him.

  CHAPTER 25

  Hannah hadn’t realized how much she’d missed Michael until she was pressed against him. She’d taken him by surprise with the kiss—but it wasn’t long before he caught her waist in his hands and kissed her back. She loved the way he kissed: slow and strong and sure, nothing hurried, as if he needed to memorize each moment.

  Someone cleared his throat from farther back in the apartment, and Michael broke the kiss, but he only drew back a few inches. His brown eyes were close and intent on hers.

  “You left that out of the options,” he said.

  “My bad.” Her anger had dissipated, leaving only relief that he was safe and well and here, right in front of her.

  He caught her face in his hands. His palms were warm against her cheeks, and she thought he might kiss her again.

  Instead, he sighed and closed his eyes. “You need to go home,” he said, letting go of her face and taking a step back. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  Talk about a one-eighty. She frowned. “Why?”

  “I don’t want—” He hesitated and made a frustrated noise. He sat against the back of the couch and gripped the edge hard enough to turn his knuckles white. “I want to keep you safe, Hannah. It’s not safe for you to be around me right now.”

  Her day had been too long and too intense, and she didn’t even want to attempt to make sense of that. “Why?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  Her anger had burned off during their kiss—but it flared right back up again. “You can’t tell me.”

  “No.” He met her eyes. “I can’t tell you.”

  “Bullshit. You can’t say something like that and expect me to turn around and drive home.”

  “That’s exactly what I expect,” he said. “You can’t throw a fit and expect me to explain things that are a hell of a lot bigger than just me, okay?”

  “A fit? You think I’m throwing a fit?”

  He inhaled like he wanted to placate her.

  “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t bother.” She wanted to hit him. Hard. Right in the face. She knew how to throw a punch, and it would probably feel fantastic to drive her rage into something.

  But she didn’t. She was bigger than that.

  “Don’t talk down to me,” she said. Her hands were still in fists at her sides.

  “I’m not talking down to you.” His jaw was tight, and he looked like he wouldn’t mind getting into it either. “I’m trying to protect you—”

  “Screw you, Michael. You think I’m some damsel in distress? You think I want your protection? You don’t know what I can handle. You have no idea.”

  “I’m not getting into a pissing match with you, Hannah.” He stepped forward, into her space. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

  She di
dn’t back away. “I know that if you can handle it, so can I. I’m so sick of men trying to protect me for my own good. My father tells me to stay away from you, but he won’t tell me why. Irish tells the chief that I’m not fit to work a scene. Now you tell me that I have to stay away from you, because it’s just not safe. Well, that’s bullshit. I’m an adult. I’m raising a child. I’m a goddamned firefighter, Michael. You don’t know what I’ve seen. You don’t know what I’ve dealt with. And if you think that I’m the type of girl to sit in a corner and paint my nails while the big, strong men do their thing, then you’re a jackass, and I don’t know why we’re wasting our time.”

  She was breathing hard. So was he.

  “Talk,” she said. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “Hannah.” His eyes had gone hard. “You don’t want any part of this—”

  “Try me.”

  He glared at her for the longest moment, until she was sure she’d pushed him too far and he was going to yell at her to get the hell out of here. Regret began elbowing its way into her thoughts. She wasn’t angry at Michael. Not really.

  This rage was all about her father.

  She realized she expected Michael to shove her out the door with dismissive words, the way her father would. To treat her like a little girl who couldn’t deal with the big, bad issues of the world.

  But Michael straightened and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. “Here,” he said. “I’ll show you.”

  He unlocked the screen, went to the text messages, and handed it to her.

  She read the first few on the screen, and they didn’t make sense.

  Right now, who is hunter, and who is prey?

  Do you really think a jail cell will keep you safe? That’s funny, Michael.

  As if you’d even get to a jail cell.

  As if I’d let you leave this neighborhood.

  The tone was chilling, even from the relative safety of a cell phone screen. Someone was stalking him? Were these messages from the man her father had killed? Why didn’t Michael want to tell her about this?

  Then she stopped on the next line.

  Your girlfriend is adorable how she plays fireman. Maybe I should introduce myself.

  Her eyes flicked to the top of the screen to see that these texts had been sent from a random number, not from anyone in his contact list. She directed her gaze up to Michael. “Who sent these?”

  “Warren Morris. The man your father shot in the woods.”

  She glanced at the phone again, then back up at him. “Does my dad know about these text messages?”

  “Yes.”

  He put out a hand, but Hannah took a step back and held the phone out of reach, scrolling up, reading through a brief exchange. “Do you know this guy?”

  “No.” He paused. “Sort of.”

  “So someone has been threatening you? For how long?” Michael didn’t say anything. She glanced past him, to where Tyler and Hunter were sitting at the dining room table. “Do they know?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, so they get to be in on all the secrecy.”

  “Hannah—”

  She glanced at the text messages again. “Did this just start today?”

  “No.” Michael took a long breath. “It’s complicated.”

  “Is this related to the fires in your neighborhood?”

  He hesitated. “Yes. And the restaurant bombing.”

  He didn’t say anything else, but she kept looking at him expectantly. “There’s more,” she said. “I can feel it.”

  He glanced away, but he talked. “Your father doesn’t even know all of it. Like I said, it’s bigger than just me. The recent arson attacks. The fires at the school carnival—”

  “That long?” She wanted to hit him again. “And you didn’t think maybe I should know?”

  “I’m trying to keep you out of it, Hannah!” He shoved away from the couch and stood over her. “You don’t think it kills me to get text messages like that? To know that the more we’re together, the more of a target you are? Do you have any idea what it was like to get those messages when you were in the woods, just trying to do your job?”

  She punched him in the chest with his phone. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to know that you kept this from me?”

  He drew back. His expression looked bleak. “I didn’t want to tell you like this.”

  Hannah looked from him to Hunter and Tyler and back. So much secrecy. She wanted to storm out of there right now.

  She didn’t. She needed to piece it together, but she didn’t have enough clues yet. There’d been so much violence and destruction that she probably should be afraid of whatever Michael was involved in, but she’d known him too long and she wasn’t the type to back away from a threat. What could he and his brothers be into? Were they arms dealers? Drug smugglers? That didn’t seem to fit. Michael always seemed so concerned with doing what was right. He was a solid role model for his brothers.

  She almost couldn’t believe they were having this conversation. “What are you involved in?”

  “Nothing like you’re thinking. My parents struck a deal five years ago, and it didn’t work. Now I’m just trying to keep my family safe.” He paused, and his expression turned desperate. “Not just my family. Everyone. You and James. Hunter and his mom. Becca and Quinn. Adam. Layne and Simon and—”

  “They’re all involved?” Hannah stared at him. “All those people?”

  He nodded. “Like I said, it’s bigger than just me.”

  “But they know. They know the risks?”

  Michael hesitated, then nodded.

  It had been months since the carnival fire and the arson attacks in town. He’d been keeping this secret—whatever it was—for months. Years, if she believed what he’d said about his parents. She gritted her teeth. “And now I’m a part of it.”

  His voice was very soft. Almost ashamed. “I’m sorry, Hannah. I didn’t want—”

  She didn’t care what he didn’t want. “But it’s over, right? The man is dead?”

  “The guy who sent those texts is dead.” Michael paused. “But I don’t think he was working alone.”

  “What else do you know?”

  “Nothing!” he cried. “I don’t know anything else! Don’t you understand? I’m not in control here.” He swallowed hard, and she could swear the tension in the apartment was going to rip him apart. “Jesus, there’s a part of me that’s relieved my brothers aren’t here. If no one I know has any idea where they are, they’re safe.”

  He looked so distraught that part of her wanted to hug him, to tell him they’d figure it out, if only he’d tell her everything.

  Another part of her thought it was way too late for all that.

  “All right,” she said. “You think I’m safer if we stay apart?”

  He winced. “Hannah. Please—I don’t—”

  “Good call,” she said. She opened the door and walked out, easing it closed behind her.

  He didn’t follow. Of course.

  In the parking lot, she thought of her father, coming after her at the last minute. She waited, wondering if Michael would make an appearance.

  He didn’t.

  She told herself not to cry. She’d never needed a man before, and she sure as hell didn’t need one now. Especially not one with a box of secrets that would rival Pandora’s.

  She didn’t want to go home. It was after nine, and her father would be there for sure. She didn’t want to see him. She didn’t want to see her mother, either, because Hannah was worried she’d demand truths she just wasn’t ready to hear. James would already be in bed, dreaming of SpongeBob and Legos by the time she walked through the door.

  She had no girlfriends she could call. Anyone she knew was more of an acquaintance than someone she could dump all of this on. The guys from the firehouse weren’t much better.

  Except one.

  She pulled out her cell and typed out a text.

  What are you up to?

&n
bsp; Irish responded immediately.

  Going to bed. On at 0500. :-/

  She frowned.

  Sorry. Talk to you tomorrow.

  She locked her phone and shoved it in her bag, not wanting to see if he responded. She shifted into reverse and began to ease out of the parking place.

  Her cell phone rang. Hannah sighed and put the car back in park.

  The display was lit up with Irish across the screen in black letters. She slid her finger across the bottom to accept the call.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She swallowed. Her throat felt tight. “Nothing’s wrong.” Silence hung on the line for a beat or two. “You’ve never texted me before.”

  “Well, we can text more tomorrow. I didn’t realize you had an early tour.”

  “It’s all right.”

  A long pause, during which neither of them said anything. Hannah knew she should talk or hang up, but she didn’t like either of those options. The words were all jumbled in her throat and couldn’t make it out. But hanging up meant she was really alone for the evening.

  So the silence dragged on.

  Her throat tightened further. God, she’d never hear the end of it if she started crying.

  “You know,” said Irish, “I really can’t sleep. I was going to make a pot of coffee. Want to join me?”

  She started to decline. She actually opened her mouth to say no.

  Instead, she found herself saying, “Sure. Text me your address.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Irish lived in a tiny two-story duplex right on the water, down at the end of a quiet street. His front yard was barely bigger than a postage stamp, and parking was along the road, but the lawn and a few bushes were kept neatly trimmed. She pulled her cap down to keep the rain out of her eyes and stepped out of her car.

  He opened the door before she knocked. “Come on in,” he said. “I hope you’re not expecting much.”