by Mark Allen
Or maybe she would just thank him for giving her love that was not dark and twisted and full of thorns.
She was no fool. She knew this love could not, would not last, nor was it meant to. Even in the midst of their passion last night, even as their flesh and souls merged, she’d sensed that Kane’s heart belonged to another. She had felt him holding back some sliver of himself, some piece of his heart that had been compartmentalized. Something he could not give her because it belonged to someone else.
As Kane slept last night, he had dreamed, and as he dreamed, he’d murmured a name: Cara. The way he’d said her name made it clear, even in the darkest, drowsiest hours of the night, that she was the one who held the missing piece, the one who could put his broken self back together once and for all.
With the sun kissing her face and the soft breeze ruffling her hair, Luna smiled. Being a self-honest person, she admitted she felt a twinge of jealousy toward the unknown woman, but that was all it was—a little twinge. She thanked God or destiny or whatever whimsical name you wanted to call it for however long she had with Kane. She might shed a tear when he rode off into the proverbial sunset, but it would not be a tear of regret.
Neither of them had known until the moment it happened, but Kane had needed her, and she had needed him. Not forever, just for a time.
It was enough.
A chipmunk scrambled up on to the picnic table, pulling her from her thoughts. Tail flicking, the cute little rodent darted closer, nose and whiskers twitching, checking to see if she had any food for him.
“Sorry, little guy,” she said. “All I’ve got is one last bite of ham and egg sandwich, and I’m guessing that’s not what you’re looking for.”
The chipmunk chittered at her, then dashed to the edge of the table. As Luna popped the last morsel of sandwich in her mouth, the chipmunk suddenly stood up on its back legs and looked toward the trail, clearly on high alert.
“What is it, fella?”
A few seconds later, Luna heard it.
The sound of an engine approaching.
The rumble of a heavy-duty motor disturbed the stillness and serenity of the woods. With a loud squeak of alarm, the chipmunk leaped off the table and vanished into a woodpile. A jay perched in a nearby pine tree took flight in a flash of blue, screeching out a warning.
Luna felt a cold knot of tension coil in the pit of her stomach. She wasn’t sure why—this could be nothing more than Ernie coming up to check on Kane—but she had learned to trust her instincts.
She darted back inside the cabin and grabbed the SIG M17 off the table. She was no gun expert—the only way she knew the make and model of the pistol was because it was stamped on the weapon—but she knew how to disengage the safety and pull the trigger.
She tucked the handgun into the waistband of her jeans at the small of her back, covered by the tail of her untucked flannel shirt. The hard metal felt cold against her skin. She made sure the Sig was loose enough to be drawn quickly if necessary.
Stepping back outside, she heard the sound of the engine shift as the vehicle started up the incline to the cabin. Her tension worsened as she recognized the sound of the motor. Knowing who was about to pay her a visit, she was damn glad she had armed herself.
The 1996 Ford Bronco crested the hillock, the chrome brush guard coming into view first like the blunt snout of some lumbering prehistoric beast. The rest of the truck followed, the oversized tires easily devouring the trail. A light bar was centered on the roof just above the windshield, the official red and blue sandwiched between two non-regulation spot-lamps. The truck was painted white, with the Vesper Lake Sheriff’s Department logo painted on the side.
Behind the wheel sat Sheriff Duncan “Double D” Dunkirk.
Below his mirrored aviator sunglasses that looked like they belonged to a rogue cop in a 1986 action movie, the lawman’s mouth curled into a cruel smile when he saw Luna standing outside the cabin. Nick rode shotgun, and she could see Paul wedged in the back.
The Ford halted next to Kane’s Jeep. Dunkirk killed the engine, and all three men exited the vehicle. They moved slow and steady, no rush, acting like they were completely in charge.
The sheriff was in full uniform, including a .40 caliber Glock 22 pistol holstered on his right hip and magazine pouches on the left. A cowboy hat perched on his head, a gold sheriff’s star embroidered on the front. The hat violated the department’s uniform policy, but nobody in town, including the mayor, dared tell the crooked lawman he couldn’t wear it.
Nick wore jeans and a light jacket. The ruts where Luna had clawed him the night before had scabbed over, leaving dark stripes on his face. He moved carefully, no doubt favoring the cracked rib Kane had given him. Peeking out from beneath the cuff of his jacket was the cast for his broken wrist. Even from twenty-five yards away, Luna could clearly see the hate in his eyes. It was almost as cold as the metal of the sawed-off pump-action shotgun he held in his left hand.
Deep down inside, she began to steel herself to the fact that if she wanted to survive this confrontation, she would probably have to kill for the second time in her life. The gun nestled at the small of her back felt like both a blessing and a curse.
Paul, wearing a duck hunter's vest and some kind of urban tactical pants that seemed stupidly out of place here in the forest, stood slightly behind his brother. Somebody had fixed his broken nose, but it still looked red and swollen. It would make a dandy target if—or more likely, when—shooting time came. He didn’t appear to be armed, but Paul had always been more of a hand-to-hand brawler anyway. Still, she couldn’t rule out that he had a pistol or blade concealed somewhere.
The Dunkirks lined up and walked toward her like a trio of outlaws strolling toward a high-noon showdown in some old western. Her adrenalin spiked and she struggled to control the shakes, just barely managing to keep them at bay. These three assholes knew they had her outnumbered and outgunned. They expected her to show fear. She’d be damned if she was going to give them the satisfaction of seeing her tremble. Besides, the secret Sig put her on a far more equal footing than the sheriff and his sons believed.
She would do her best to talk her way out of this one, but if violence turned out to be the only language they would listen to? Well, then she would shoot first and ask questions later. Better to be judged by twelve than carried by six, as the saying went.
The Dunkirks halted about fifteen feet in front of her, Nick on the sheriff’s left, Paul on the right. Nick canted the shotgun over his shoulder in a casual manner, as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
Sheriff Dunkirk reached up and touched the brim of his hat in a gentlemanly gesture that was as fake as a four-dollar bill. “Afternoon, Luna. Wondered where you’d run off to. We’ve been looking for you.”
“Looking for you,” Paul echoed.
“Well, you found me,” Luna said. “So why don’t you tell me what the hell you want so we can get this over with, and I can get back to my peace and quiet?”
Nick tapped the shotgun against his shoulder. “Peace and quiet ain’t on the menu today, Luna.”
“Ain’t on the menu,” Paul agreed.
“Where’s your friend?” the sheriff asked. “I’d like to have a chat with him.”
Luna didn’t even try to play coy. “Out hiking,” she replied.
“Who is he, Luna?”
“Calls himself Kane.”
“You screw him?”
“Can’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“Normally, I would agree with you,” the sheriff said. “But this ain’t a normal day.”
“Ain’t a normal day,” Paul repeated.
Luna replied, “Looks like a normal day to me.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Sheriff Dunkirk said. “Because on a normal day, you wouldn’t be hiding out with some two-bit stranger who rode into my town and proceeded to not only kick my boys’ asses, but the whole damn bar’s.”
“Whole damn bar,” Paul affirm
ed.
“Kane was minding his own business until these two assholes”—she pointed at Nick and Paul—“decided to damn near rape me right there on the dance floor.”
“That a fact?” The sheriff smiled. “Way I heard it, you were shaking your stuff all over Saws ‘n’ Suds, pretty much begging for it.”
“Begging for it,” Paul said.
“So now dancing in a bar is justification for your two meatheads to have their way with a girl?”
The lawman’s smile evaporated in the blink of an eye like a drop of dew hit by a blowtorch. “This is my town, bitch, and my boys will have any goddamned thing they please.”
Luna knew the situation had just taken a serious downturn, transitioning from mock-pleasantries and fake chitchat to cold malevolence and angry threats. Her muscles tensed, ready to make her move when they reached the point of no return. Which, short of a miracle, wouldn’t be long now.
She didn’t raise her voice, but she injected steel into her tone when she said, “I don’t care who you are, sheriff. I’m not a plaything for your boys.”
“So, my sons aren’t good enough for ya, but you’ll spread your legs for a drifter.”
“I’m sticking to my guns on this topic,” Luna said, cognizant of the irony in the statement as she felt the pistol lying cool against her skin. “None of your business who I sleep with.”
The sheriff shook his head. “You messed up last night, girl. Not only did you hurt one of my boys, but you stood by and let a fucking stranger hurt them even more. And then you added insult to injury by shacking up with that stranger.” He hooked his thumbs behind his belt buckle. “I can’t let that kind of behavior go unpunished, Luna. I let you get away with that shit, folks in town will start thinking they don’t have to do what I tell them, and I can’t have that.”
Luna took one last shot at talking it out, knowing that if she failed, the next shot would come from the barrel of a gun. “Listen, sheriff, just walk away, and I’ll make Kane leave town as soon as he gets back. Just get back in the truck and drive away, and I’ll fix this.”
The lawman shook his head again. “We’ve gone beyond that now, Luna. The time for walking away—for you and this Kane bastard—was last night. Since you didn’t walk away then, we can’t walk away now.”
Luna’s eyes narrowed as her heart started hammering. “What exactly do you want, sheriff?”
“Kane’s life and your ass.”
“Your ass.” Paul sounded downright giddy at the prospect.
“You want Kane’s life, take it up with him,” Luna said. “You want my ass, you’ll have to take it over my dead body.”
“Don’t make this hard, girl,” the sheriff warned.
“Hard!” Paul hooted, and the growing bulge at the front of his pants testified that he was telling the truth.
“You heard me, sheriff,” Luna said. “Those two sons of bitches who call you daddy try to put their hands on me, I swear to God I’ll kill ‘em.”
“Enough of this crap.” Nick started to bring the shotgun down from his shoulder. “I’ll just kneecap the whore and bend her crippled ass over that table.”
Now! Luna’s mind screamed at her. You’ve gotta move NOW!
She reached behind her, fingers wrapping around the Sig. Just before the shotgun muzzle dropped down low enough to blast her, she whipped out the pistol and pointed it one-handed at Nick’s face. Before anyone could react to her sudden move, she pulled the trigger.
The bullet plowed into Nick’s right eye.
The shotgun fell unfired from his suddenly-spasming hands, and his head jerked to the side as a large chunk of his skull flew off in a spray of blood and brains. He corkscrewed to the ground, dead before his shocked face bounced off the dirt.
Snarling a curse, Sheriff Dunkirk reached for his Glock.
Luna darted sideways and took cover behind the massive stone fireplace as she heard the lawman roar, “You fucking bitch!” He punctuated the profanity with two quick shots, both of which ricocheted off the rocks.
Luna responded by blindly reaching around the corner and capping off a couple of rounds. She didn’t expect to hit anything but hoped it would be enough to keep them at bay.
She clearly missed the sheriff because as soon as the sound of the gunshots stopped reverberating through the trees, he bellowed, “You fucking whore! You killed Nick! You’re gonna die hard, Luna!”
“Die hard!” Paul cried out, and she could hear the grief in his voice. Apparently, even dumbasses loved their big brothers.
Following those outbursts, everything went silent.
Luna wanted to peek around the corner and see what the two men were up to, but she didn’t want to risk catching a round in her eye socket like Nick.
She took advantage of the lull to examine her options.
The fireplace was built near the edge of the hillock, meaning the ground dropped off sharply just a few feet behind her. Not quite a cliff, but close, with swampy ground, rotting stumps, and tangled deadfalls at the bottom. Throwing herself over the edge would be better than the rape-murder fate the Dunkirks had in store for her, but it was a last resort, a desperation option. A suicide play, really, because the leap would most likely kill her.
Problem was, to her left and right loomed nothing but open space. If she tried to run in either direction, she would be exposed and vulnerable, and the sheriff would pick her off easily.
The best thing she could do was wait it out. They might try to come at her from the right and left at the same time—flanking, she thought it was called—but if they did, she could at least get off some shots and maybe get lucky.
She heard footsteps walking away from her, followed by the sound of a truck door opening. A moment later, the door slammed shut, and the footsteps came back.
“Hey, Luna,” Sheriff Dunkirk called. “I’ve got some bad news for you.”
“Bad news,” Paul echoed, his psychological compulsion still ticking despite his grief.
She almost remained silent, but then changed her mind. As long as they kept talking, it meant the bastards weren’t actively trying to kill her at that particular moment. Given her pinned-down position, chatting was better than shooting.
“Yeah?” she said. “What’s that?”
“I’ve got a grenade launcher, Luna, and I’m going to blow that fireplace to rubble if you don’t get your murdering ass out here.”
A grenade launcher? What the hell?
She risked a quick glance around the corner, keeping low and only exposing her right eye for a few seconds. She saw the sheriff holding an assault rifle that sort of looked like an M-16, only shorter. There was some kind of black tube beneath the barrel that she assumed was the grenade launcher.
She slid back behind cover, mind racing, sifting through her limited options. She could charge the Dunkirks with gun blasting, going out in a blaze of glory. Or she could take the suicide leap over the edge.
Either way, it looked like she was about to die.
No time to make peace with her Maker. She would just have to hope God was in a good mood when she knocked on Heaven’s door.
Dunkirk snarled, “Have it your way, bitch. This is for Nick.”
“For Nick,” Paul said.
Luna heard a whump and instinctively knew there was a grenade whistling her way.
Time for this angel to fly.
She threw herself over the edge into space.
The world exploded around her.
The blast smashed her in midair like a giant’s invisible fist, hurling her even farther out over the edge. Stone shrapnel slashed all around her, peppering her body like buckshot. As she started her descent toward the trees and boulders below, something crashed into the back of her head. She fell the rest of the way in blackness.
When she hit the earth, body breaking as it bounced off unyielding rock and wood, she didn’t feel a thing.
Kane was two miles northwest of Dribble Creek Camp when he thought he heard gunshots. He paused
and listened intently. Sound could travel a long way up here in the mountains, but sometimes the thick forest acted as a natural noise barrier, making it difficult to decipher the source of the sound and where it was originating from.
It sounded like a single shot from a handgun, followed by a couple more shots from a different handgun, followed by two more shots from the first one. But he couldn’t be sure.
He had just started walking again when he heard the explosion. This time the sound was easier to pinpoint. It had definitely come from the vicinity of the cabin.
Kane felt something curdle deep down in his guts. These woods made running impossible, but he picked up the pace, moving toward the cabin—and Luna—as swiftly as the rugged terrain allowed.
He steeled himself against what he might find when he got there.
Luna woke up in a world of horrific pain and wondered if she had gone to Hell when she died.
Everything hurt. Thorns were twisted and tangled in her hair, and she could feel lacerations all over her scalp. Her left eye was swollen shut, and her right cheek was ripped open so badly that she could feel the breeze on her exposed teeth. Her nose was flattened and askew, caked with blackened blood.
She tried to move her arms and nearly passed out from the sharp agony. They were both broken. More pain seared through her sides, and it was hard to breathe. From somewhere deep inside her battered brain came the knowledge that she must have snapped some ribs and punctured a lung.
Turning her head and using her one good eye, she discovered that she was lying on the picnic table, the planks rough against her back since her shirt was nothing but shredded rags. She tried moving her legs and they responded, so they weren’t broken, and neither was her spine. But her knees felt like someone had hammered on them with a meat tenderizer, and her right shin was gashed to the bone.