When she lands on the other side with a cry of agony, I leap over and scoop her into my arms.
“We can’t leave Dad,” she sobs.
“He’s right behind us.” He fucking better be.
“We have to go back,” she pleads in a stuttered rush.
“I will, just as soon as I get you someplace safe.” I snatch my jacket from the fence and drape it over her. It’s soaked but maybe it’ll keep her a little bit warmer.
We race for the woods, slipping and punching through the slushysnow to the soupy ground below it while the rain pours down. I try to think ahead, to force my scattered thoughts to formulate a plan. Linnea’s not going to last much longer on her feet. And even if I carried her, where do we go? Did Rowdy get here by vehicle or did he come on foot the way I did? My truck is miles away on the other side of Little Elk Creek, which is likely flooded and too swift to cross now. Could we use the forest as cover, and make it to the main road? That would be my first choice, but what about Sheriff Thomas?
The thick edge of the forest nears, the ground transitioning from partially thawed meadow to hard-packed snow. Linnea falters, and I dive to catch her. She cries out in pain but I gently bring her to my chest. She’s shivering so hard.
“Where’s Dad?” She stares over my shoulder just as a diffuse glow from the direction of the compound’s entrance washes over her face. The low hum of engines cuts through the drumming rain. Vehicles—several of them—are entering the compound.
Is it Sheriff Thomas, here to aid the cult? Or is it a convoy of hostage negotiators and their skilled backup team?
I realize it doesn’t matter—either option spells danger.
“I don’t know,” I reply, my tone strained. Rowdy should have caught up by now. If he gets caught in the crossfire of whatever’s about to happen…
An explosion of gunfire erupts, lighting up the rainy night. Linnea buries herself in my chest, her screams muffled against my rain-soaked sweatshirt.
I drop to a crouch and set Linnea down at the base of two thick cottonwoods. It’s as good a hiding place as any. “I’m going back.” I slip the stolen gun from my waistband. “You know how to use this?”
She shakes her head. “You keep it,” she says with chattering teeth as more gunfire erupts from the center of the compound. Someone’s shouting into a bullhorn but I can’t make out the words, and I don’t know who’s doing the talking, one of the good guys or a cult leader?
Damn it! Why didn’t I keep that second gun? Tucking this one back into my waistband, I plant a firm kiss on Linnea’s forehead. There are so many things I want to say to her in this moment, but she grips the back of my neck and lifts her lips to mine. We share a firm but quick kiss, and when I pull away, her eyes are wet with tears.
“Hurry back,” she says just as another burst of shouting and gunfire erupts from the center of the compound.
I want to tell her what to do if I don’t return, but the words lodge in my throat.
And she doesn’t need me to tell her. She already knows how to survive. She was doing it just fine before I came along. If I weren’t so fucking terrified right now, I’d make sure she knew how in awe I am of her courage.
I force myself to pull away and dash for the edge of the forest, my pulpy heart crashing into my ribs.
Before crossing the pasture, I grip the gun and scan the compound, but I only get a partial view thanks to the hulking barn. The light coming from whatever vehicles are parked on the other side of it illuminates the now-dark farmhouse and the surrounding slushy grounds. At the back of the property, the three houses are dark. I can’t see the shady dorm buildings from this vantage point.
Several gunshots explode from the other side of the farmhouse as I run at a crouch to the fence, then vault over it, landing in the soggy pasture. I sprint for the back of the barn, but when I get there, Rowdy’s not tucked behind the entrance where we left him.
I clear the shadows on my way there. Has he been hurt? Has he moved positions? I reach the opposite side of the barn without a trace of him.
The bullhorn is going again, but the sound is directed away from me. There are three SUVs parked sideways to the farmhouse. Crouched behind are a dozen uniformed men and a few women, their weapons drawn. All are wearing tactical vests, some with “SHERIFF” and some with “CIRG” written in big, yellow letters across the backs. That both local and federal agents have teamed up this quickly means something immediate and life-threatening is going down—like a hostage situation, or children in peril.
More gunfire, and the agents and deputies drop out of sight. If Sons of Eden are fighting back, this isn’t going to end well.
Where the fuck is Rowdy?
One of the agents lobs a can of something over their vehicle barricade, filling the air with thick yellow smoke. Two deputies pop up to fire in its wake, the blasts aimed at the far side of the farmhouse. Are Wakefield and his disciples returning fire from the farmhouse’s shot-out windows?
Movement from the shadows draws my attention—it’s Rowdy, limping, his face set in a tight grimace.
He’s also got a small bundle strapped to his chest. What the?—?
More gunfire between both sides, the smoke so thick it swallows the farmhouse.
I’m already in motion, legs pumping, lungs burning. He’s too close to the gunfire. It’s too volatile, too dangerous. He sees me coming and even in the muted glow from the vehicle headlights, I can make out the agony on his face. There’s blood staining his upper thigh, confirming my worst fear: he’s hurt.