by CJ Daly
They circled each other like furious lions. From my insect view, I saw
the duct tape was holding steady. But I couldn’t hold on to a second of relief
because the elite cadets began exchanging blows, fighting in weird jabs and
darts, swift kicks, and more thrown objects. A wooden hanger hurtled at Pete,
only to be caught and hurled right back. I wasn’t aware my bedroom stored so
many weapons. Now Ranger used his mass advantage to bulldoze Pete back
into my dresser. Pete slammed both fists—hard and fast—into Ranger’s ears.
He roared in pain and fury. Somehow the dresser got dumped over in all the
chaos, and they started wrestling around on the contents of my wardrobe.
I saw that things could go either way. And I wasn’t the kind to cower
behind some upended furniture, peeping out every-once-in-a-while to scream
while the villain beat up on the hero until the hero was able to rally. For
one thing, my hero was working at a disadvantage this morning being both
injured and hungover. Plus, Ranger ambushed us while we were sleeping, and
I considered that cheating. Not to mention that he was the type of guy who
looked like he chewed up HGH for breakfast every morning. Oh, and there
was the little matter of him bringing a gun.
The gun! Where was it? Lost under a blanket of covers, clothes, and
combat objects. I scrounged for it until my hard-backed bible went soaring
past my head, and then I duck-dove out of the way of Ranger’s foot as it went
through dry wall. They were going to break down my walls if they didn’t
break each other first. Finally, I rallied to crawl to the door, where I stood, a
shocked survivor from the battlefield. Ignoring the pain radiating from my
midsection, I half-lurched, half-limped into my father’s room to get his gun
down for the second time in eight hours. I was dismayed to find my father
splayed across his bed like a felled grizzly across the hood of a Chevy, snoring
away peacefully while World War III broke out in his house. Drugged no
doubt.
God he was worthless.
Crap! The gun was missing—still outside by the elm tree! Adrenaline
• 456 •
pumped my legs out the door to go fetch it, despite my achy gut. When I picked it up, it felt satisfyingly heavy in my hands. I lope-limped back into
the chaos. Crashes, smashes, and grunts greeted me at the door. I needed to
get back to the frontlines, but some instinct steered my body towards my
brothers’ room instead. Slamming through the door, I found them lying on
top of their beds. Bound and gagged. The whites of their eyes flashed terror,
tears steaming over wind-chapped cheeks. I howled with fury. Spinning back
to the bathroom, I dug the razorblade from the bottom of the trashcan. And,
still working on instinct, I ran it back to Mikey and sawed through his ropes.
“Untie your brother and run!” I screamed as though my mouth weren’t
right next to his ear. Then me and my shotgun crashed into the now ominously
silent bedroom. I came upon Ranger, dangling the same piece of broken lamp
that Pete had dropped earlier. Over Pete’s face.
“Guess good guys really do finish last” was just coming from a sweating,
heaving, bleeding Ranger. Even in the midst of the crisis, he sounded like he
was reading from the villain’s role of a bad western.
On cue, I delivered my own line: “Not today they don’t.” Theatrically, I
cocked back the hammer of the shotgun.
Ranger guttered a laugh. His hands reluctantly went up as the jagged glass
went down. “I was wondering where that shotgun had run off to.”
“Right now it’s pointed at your back.” I nudged him with the barrel to
prove my point.
He started laughing again—at me, Pete, the situation, I wasn’t sure.
“You’re quite the little Tom cat, Miss Connelly. Maybe that’ll be my new
nickname for you at The Academy . . . Katie-Kat seems a little too tame
for you.”
“Stand up.” I punctuated this command with a hard kidney poke.
Ranger slowly rose, a skyscraper ripping clouds, the grin on his face
made more malevolent looking by the blood dripping from his mouth. I
peeped around him at Pete, who didn’t look so good. He was also bleeding.
Profusely. And I wondered, with a shot of fear, if the blood smeared all over
Ranger was actually Pete’s. I saw the washcloth had finally come off—ripped
off most likely. I didn’t see how it could’ve fallen off. Hot anger oozed from me. I leveled Ranger with a decimating glare.
“Come on, Connelly, you know you’re not going to shoot me . . . I believe
that’s Commandment numero uno in the Good Book: Thou shalt not kill.”
“Number six,” I corrected.
“Huh,” he said, using his shoulder to wipe some blood from his lip.
• 457 •
“Could’ve sworn that was the first one. . . . What is number one, then?” He seemed genuinely interested.
“Thou shalt not have any Gods before me.”
“Well, I guess it’s true—you do learn something new every day.”
“But it don’t say nothin’ ‘bout shootin’ off a foot,” I said as he made to
move. He appeared to kick at something—most likely the pistol. I stalled
him with my aim.
“Well it ought to . . . doesn’t seem very Christian-like,” Ranger put out
there, along with an arched black brow.
I could hear Pete start to rally a little. “Pete, are you okay?”
He kind of groaned from the floor, holding his head in one hand and
giving the thumbs up with the other.
“You know what I can’t believe?” Ranger inquired pleasantly, despite the
fact he was still dripping blood all over my carpet. Neither one of us answered
him, so he continued on. “Well, quite a few things really . . . like how you
could prefer slummin’ it out here, at the warty, bare-ass end of civilization
with trailer-trash, to your privileged life at The Academy for one.” He used
the same conversational tone members of the church did when socializing at
potluck dinners.
Ranger went to go on with his monologue, but Pete had to protest this.
Grunting, he muscled himself into upright position. I don’t know why he
bothered—I wasn’t bothered by scumbags.
“You don’t deserve to lick the dust off her boots, you piece of shit asshole,”
Pete said, managing to rise unsteadily to his feet.
Ranger looked at my face in mock horror, yet seemed utterly delighted by
this. “Now that don’t seem Christian-like at all. Am I right, Kate? . . . Doesn’t
seem like you’ve been a very good influence on him.”
“Don’t even say her name,” Pete warned, grabbing the discarded, busted
lamp globe that seemed to be a key player in this battle (and it was pink no
less). He pointed it at Ranger.
“Wow. You got it bad, man. I almost feel sorry for you. But I’ve digressed
too far already regarding your poor choice in women—oops!— girls, I should
say.” Ranger seemed so smug, like someone who was sure they were holding
the ace of spades, and not like someone who was outnumbered and on the
receiving end of a long-barrel shotgun. “Know what else I can’t believe?” He
cleared his throat.
“I said . . . know what else I can’t believe?”
“What?” I felt safe enough to take the bait now that I had a gun. I raised
it up a fraction, but had a sinking feeling.
“. . . That no one bothered to check to see if there were actually any bullets
• 458 •
in that old thing.” With a vicious laugh Ranger lunged forward, yanking the barrel to him. I countered by pulling the trigger to what I knew would be a
very disappointing— click.
“I can’t believe you did that!” preceded a whap of a slap that left my ears
ringing. Ranger followed that up by wrestling me into another headlock.
Honestly, did he have no other moves? When I could focus, it was to see that Pete now held Ranger’s pistol in his hand. Halleluiah! . . . I was wondering where he’d got off to during that whole exchange.
“It’s over Davenport. Drop the gun, or I’m snapping your girlfriend’s
neck . . . just like her glasses.” He wasn’t kidding around. I was already
blacking out—for real this time. I tried shaking my head no. Wanted to
yell Take the boys and run! But the only noise I was making was a very scary gurgling in the back of my throat.
For the second time, I wished Pete wasn’t such a good guy because—
Clunk!— of course, he dropped the dadgum thing. Ranger immediately
released a little of the pressure. Still, I couldn’t see, the blurry spots now
blacking out my carpet. I fought to stay awake, not liking the direction things
were going. The bad guy was currently winning. Winning and kneeling
down—taking my head with him—while he snatched up the gun. He stood
us back up, pointed it at Pete, cackled. “You lose Davenport. I got the gun. I got the girl . . . Game over!”
I was just thinking too bad he doesn’t have a handle bar mustache to pul ,
when out of nowhere a little ball of fury came hurtling in, charging at the
giant. Ranger simply knocked him to the ground, where he landed on a pile
of clothes.
“Mikey!” I screamed. “Get outta here!” Mikey just hauled himself up to
face off with Ranger. In a David-and-Goliath-like manner.
“You got a slingshot in your back pocket, shorty?” Ranger asked, like,
amused despite himself. I couldn’t believe we were thinking along the same
lines . . . spooked me a little.
“You let Kadee go wight now!” Mikey shrieked up at the towering cadet
so hard he looked possessed.
Inexplicably, Ranger immediately complied. I fell to my knees, gasping
for breath. Mikey flew over to save me and knocked me over. By the time I
scrambled to my feet, Ranger’s face was looking about the same as Mikey’s
from a moment ago—possessed.
Pete spoke next in a sure, commanding voice. “Mikey, tell him to drop
the gun.”
• 459 •
Ranger bellowed now, all sense of superior calm depleted from his voice.
“Slater, back up!”
What’s going on? That was a strange thing Pete just said. And then it
dawned on me—who the gifted brother really was. Of course! Mikey also had
the enlarged pupils. I wrapped my arms around my littlest brother, who was
busy staring down the giant. “Tell him to drop the gun again,” I whispered
in his ear.
“Slater! Get your ass in here!” Ranger yelled so loudly, I wondered if he
knew the bedroom bug was swimming around the cesspool.
“Hurry, Mikey!” I exhorted.
Mikey patted my face, eyes still trained on Ranger. “Dwop the gun,” he
said, voice trembling.
Ranger’s muscles strained, his face going the color of boys in P.E. during
a pull-up. His hand began to shake from the effort of holding on to the gun,
so he brought the other one up to steady it.
I could tell it wouldn’t be long now. Slater (whoever that was) was on his
way. They were better prepared than us. After all, it had been an ambush. No
wonder Ranger had been so smug this whole time—he hadn’t come alone.
They would win. We would lose. I felt it clearly now — in that peculiar way
I had — the way this would all pan out.
I knew what must be done. They weren’t going to hurt us—we Connelly
kids. But they would the bleeding renegade who had turned on them to warn
me. Very soon, I wasn’t sure how long, Pete would be dragged from here.
Maybe never to return. I had to save him.
While Ranger was preoccupied with controlling his gun-holding hand, I
turned my conviction on to Pete by gripping his arm. He tore his eyes away
from Ranger. It seemed like we hadn’t so much as glanced at each other since
this whole mess started. Seemed like forever, but was probably only the span
of a handful of minutes.
“Pete,” I breathed, “you have to run! They’re not gonna hurt us. But
you . . . God, Pete! You have to go!”
“Not happening.”
“Pete, please. You have to trust me . Run! Now!”
“I’m not leaving you guys behind.”
A bang! like the back door just got blown off its hinges, interrupted us.
Ranger was still hanging on to the gun. Barely. He was sweating and shaking,
and obviously in so much pain, he looked like a man who needed to be put
down.
Mikey kept repeating, “Dwop the gun.”
• 460 •
I thought his voice was too quiet, like he was just saying the words.
“Harder Mikey. Yell it like you mean it!”
“Dwop the guuuuuuunnnn! ” Mikey bellowed.
Heavy boots could be heard tromping efficiently through the house. I
slammed the door and locked it. Ranger was now bent over at an odd angle,
his face contorting into a grotesque-grimace like Bell’s Palsy had suddenly
struck. The pistol finally shook from his hand, dropping—right into Pete’s
hot hands.
Why am I not relieved?
“Run, Pete! Please! . . . It’s your only chance.”
His only move was to turn the gun back on Ranger, who was on the floor
gasping for breath. A loud Crack! from combat boot splintering hollow wood rattled us. I would’ve laughed under normal circumstances—all he had to do
was use an insignificant toothpick to do the job. But I was so scared my knees
were actually knocking together.
Then several things happened at once: The foot attached to that boot
bludgeoned through the door, creating a manhole right in the middle of the
flimsy thing; Ranger yelled, “Dart the littlest boy!” and I paid him back with
a swift kick to his gut; he groaned and rolled over. A calm voice behind the door said, “Drop the gun. We have the boy and your father, and we won’t
hesitate to shoot unless you toss the gun through the hole in three seconds.”
Why’s Andrew stil here?
Pete spoke up, using the same level tone. “The boy is gifted, and the
mission has been to get him for months—you can’t harm him unless you
want Weston up your ass.”
This was getting more complicated by the minute. I could barely keep
up . . . and I was right in the thick of things.
“No he’s not! The gifted one’s in here, and he needs a tag, ASAP!” Ranger
hollered back while quickly rolling away from my attempts to thank him for
clearing things up. He grabbed my foot out from under me, and I went down
on my backside, landi
ng like a breech birth in the messy aftermath of our war.
“You weave my sistuh awone!” Mikey screamed, kicking him in the foot.
“Stayawayfromhim!” jetted from my throat in a hysterical mangle, like he
was one step away from the devil. I grab-carried my brother to the window
with the intent of dropping him outside.
Debating was going on outside of that door. Someone had ungagged
Andrew because he was shrieking my name. Felt like my ears would bleed
from the sheer terror in it. I clutched Mikey to me like a teddybear, unsure
what to do next. Pete stepped up to the mound, hurling the last picture frame
• 461 •
at Ranger. This time it hit the mark—the middle of his back—cutting off more orders.
“You open your mouth again, and the next time you walk, it’ll be with a
peg leg,” Pete said. Statement, no threat.
I was thinking we were at a stalemate, so wrenched open the window
feeling like we did need an exit strategy. A couple of quiet minutes later, and they made the next move. It was a good one. Bastards! My blood froze at the sight before my eyes: Andrew’s head, stuffed through the hole, with a noose
fasted around his neck.
“Katie!” he screamed, his face almost unrecognizable in his terror.
Pete and I exchanged dark looks. God help us! I was shaking like our
washer in the spin cylce. “Mikey!” I shrilled. “Tell them to let Andrew go!”
“You let my bruthuh go!”
Nothing happened . . . except someone on the other side pulled the rope
tighter. Andrew’s face turned the color of Red Death.
“Again Mikey!” I panted, panic constricting my lungs.
“Let my bwuthuh goooooooo! ” he bellowed with all his might, tender vocal
cords cracking under pressure.
This only succeeded in Andrew’s tethers tightening further. Veins popped
out on his forehead like uprooted trees, his eyes bulged from their sockets,
noiseless gasping jerked his head. It was the most gruesome and sickening
sight of my life . . . and I’d watched my mama die.
I looked over at Pete, horrified to find a matching expression on his face.
“We’re going to give you one last chance to save your brother’s life,” the
voice on the other side said, loosening the noose so that Andrew could suck
a lungful of air.
I was a pillar of fear and indecision. “Why isn’t it workin’?” I screeched at Pete as if he had all the answers.