The driver tucked the items into her shirt pocket. “Hang onto these for a minute, sweetheart, and let’s see what else you got. Now I’m curious.” He put his hands on her hips and slid them down her thighs.
Charity wanted to knee him. Her legs ached with the effort to restrain.
A clanking sound came from the truck, and the man unloading it swore. The driver looked over his shoulder to see what the trouble was.
The worker stumbled and dropped a portable gas tank over the side of the truck bed, the type of tank people carried with them when they went on long trips. The lid popped off and gas gurgled onto the ground.
Some splattered the gunman standing nearby. He cursed and wiped at his eyes. The driver turned to yell at the man. “Don’t you know how much that costs!” He strode toward the truck.
Fear flashed across the worker’s face. He jumped over the side of the bed and fumbled with the can.
Gas was leaking out, and Charity had the matches in her pocket. Her gaze shot to the closest gunman. He still had his rifle pointed at her, but his attention was focused on the gas can. She pulled the matches from her pocket and took one out.
She paused. If she threw a lit match at the gas, maybe she, Zia, and Milo would die. She had no idea how big the explosionwould be, or if the gunman standing guard would shoot them. Could she take the chance she might kill them all?
The man who’d been unloading the truck was a slave, wasn’t he? Bent over as he was, she couldn’t see his neck. If she threw a lit match at the gas, he was a dead man.
As Charity stood frozen and undecided, Zia ripped the matches from her hand. She lit the whole book on fire and flung it toward the gas can.
Before the matches even hit the puddle, flames shot up, engulfing the three men by the truck. Heat pushed into Charity, so sharp and quick that she stumbled backward. The men ran from the flames, burning, screaming, flailing onto the dirt.
A sputtering of shots rang out. Retribution. Charity dropped to the ground and looked for Milo. Her brother stood nearby, the rifle in his hand, pointed at the now downed and bleeding guard.
The guard hadn’t shot anyone. Milo had. He must’ve wrestled the gun away from the man when Zia threw the match.
Milo turned the rifle and shot the burning men too. That was probably a mercy. Their flailing and screams stopped.
Charity got to her feet, eyes averted. The smell of burnt hair and flesh filled the air.
Milo turned to Zia. “Are you all right?”
“I will be,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.”
Milo handed her the rifle. “Shoot anyone who runs around the tent. I’ll get the other guns.” He hurried to the burned men, pulling off his shirt as he went. He used his shirt to pick up the gun the bearded raider had dropped, protecting his skin from the heat.
Zia raised the rifle, pointing it first at the left side of the tent, then the right.
The other slavers must have heard the screams and gunshots. They wouldn’t be stupid enough to run around a blindcorner. They would approach carefully, creeping along the sides of the tent.
Charity took Zia’s arm and pulled her through the tent door. And there, sure enough, on the left side, she saw the shapes of two men darkening the tent wall as they hugged it.
She pointed to them, then second-guessed herself. What if they weren’t slavers? Did captives have a reason to slink along the tent wall?
Zia didn’t question. She shot through the tent. Both men went down. Both screamed, then fell silent.
Charity headed toward the door. “We need to get out of here. They know we’re in the tent now.”
Zia followed her out. “I’ll cover you. Get their weapons.”
Get their weapons? Charity didn’t want to go anywhere near the injured men. They might still be alive and able to shoot. And certainly, every other slaver would shortly descend on them. They needed to get in the functional truck and look for any road out of this place. Before Charity could say this, Zia headed out the door and darted to the left side of the tent.
Milo came over, spotting Charity as well, even though he probably didn’t know what she was doing.
Was Charity the only one who wanted to live? She groaned.Whatever, fine. She wasn’t going to be remembered as the cowardly one. She’d already hesitated throwing the match so Zia had to do it.
Zia peered around the corner of the tent at the downed slavers and waved to Charity that the way was clear.
Charity dashed along the wall toward the men. Neither moved. They lay in heaps, their guns still clutched in their hands. Blood darkened the dirt and pooled under them.