In Seconds

Firing again, he hit Gully in the gun arm, and the pistol fell to the carpet. The fat bean counter was neutralized. But Horse was very much alive. In between cursing and calling for help, he tried to shove Gully out of the way so he could reach the fallen gun. When he couldn’t do that without exposing himself, he pulled Gully in front and used him as a human shield.

“This is the leader you were willing to die for?” Virgil shouted.

Red-faced and gasping, Gully managed to wriggle out of Horse’s grasp, leaving him unprotected for only a second.

That was all Virgil needed. Planning to crash through the window in order to get out, Virgil crossed the room while firing into Horse’s corner again and again. Splinters and Sheetrock dust rained down on them but Virgil was moving too fast to see if he’d hit Horse. At this point, everything was a smoky blur.

At the last minute, he had the presence of mind to shoot the window. He thought that might make it easier to break. But he didn’t get the chance to jump through it. He was on the bed just a foot away when the other Crew members began pouring into the room.

Although his gun was empty, bullets began flying—from their guns. It took only a split second for one, then another, to hit him in the back.

27

L.J.’s vision was blurry, but the pain was gone. Had he really been shot? Or was it just a bad dream?

He blinked, trying to make sense of the bright light directly above him and the fuzzy objects surrounding him, but once he saw the picture hanging on the wall, he knew getting shot had been no dream. He was inside the cabin those dads had rented, the ones who’d walked through the door and been shot to death by Ink.

His mind shied away from the rest of the memory, the process of dragging them outside and digging their graves, but there was no avoiding the replay. It cycled in a never-ending loop—until he was distracted by the odd smell around him, a smell he couldn’t place, and the sounds of someone rummaging in the kitchen.

He wanted to call out, ask what was going on and why he felt so strange, but he was afraid it was Ink. Had to be, didn’t it? He hadn’t been with anyone else since he’d busted out of prison. Ink had been with him in Laurel’s house. Ink had been with him when the sheriff appeared and started firing. Ink had been in the truck after they ran through the forest. And Ink had helped him limp into the cabin, said he was going to operate—

Oh, God. L.J.’s hand wanted to go to his chest, to determine what might’ve happened to him while he was unconscious. But he couldn’t move. His wrists were tied to something above his head.

What the hell was going on? Was this Ink’s idea of saving his life? Or Ink’s idea of revenge for nearly leaving him in the forest?

“Hey, you’re awake!”

It was Ink, all right. The last person L.J. wanted to see. The last person L.J. wanted cutting into him. Ink didn’t know anything about removing a bullet or what other damage he might cause by digging into a guy’s shoulder. Neither did he care. That was the most frightening part. This would become just one more thing to brag about.

If L.J. lived.

Actually, if he died, Ink would still brag about it.

His mouth as dry as cotton, L.J. had to swallow before he could answer. “I can’t…move. Why can’t I move?” His voice sounded hoarse and panicky, unfamiliar even to him.

“Sorry.” Ink came around the table carrying a dish towel, which he was using to wipe his hands. “Had to tie you down. For all I knew, you’d wake up and start thrashing around and hurt us both. You should’ve seen the way you jumped when I cauterized that hole in your shoulder.”

“When you…what?” That was the smell. Burning flesh. His flesh. The thought made him more nauseous than he already was.

“Cauterized the wound,” Ink repeated. “I used a metal spoon. That was all I could think of. The only way to sterilize it and get it to stop bleeding since I had no needle and thread to try and stitch it.”

“But who said you should—”

“Saw it in an old Western once,” he broke in. “Worked great, too. You should thank me. We’re out of the woods now.” He laughed. “Out of the woods. That’s a good one.”

It was called a pun. But Ink wouldn’t know that. Maybe he was cunning, but he wasn’t educated. At least L.J. had graduated from high school. It wasn’t until a cousin got him into boosting cars that he went to prison and met the likes of Ink and the rest of The Crew. “Pun intended,” he muttered, hearing his grandmother’s voice saying the same thing.

“What?”

Unable to explain, he shook his head. “Just something that…came to me.”

“So? How do you feel?”

L.J. squinted at the bright light above him. “Where am I?”

“My makeshift operating table, aka the dining room table. Pretty clever, huh?” When Ink tapped his head, L.J. thought he would definitely be sick. For all he knew, Ink had taken out one of his kidneys. Ink liked to talk about such morbid things, used to entertain the other guys in prison for hours with stories of black-market organ transplants and doctors who supposedly made a bundle stealing kidneys from the poor.

L.J.’s lips were cracked and peeling. He made an effort to wet them so he could speak. “What’d—what’d you do to me?”

“I removed the plug that damn sheriff put in you. What do you think?” He held up a small, slightly flattened piece of metal. “See? Here it is.”

There was smear of blood on Ink’s arm. He’d washed his hands but he hadn’t done a very good job, hadn’t washed high enough to reach all the evidence of his “operation.”

“Great. Thanks,” L.J. said drily. “So…will you untie me?”

Ink stared at him for so long, L.J. was afraid he’d refuse. But then he grinned and shrugged and got a knife that was still stained with blood to cut the strips of sheet anchoring his hands to two different objects that wouldn’t budge. When he sat up and rubbed his wrists, L.J. saw that Ink had used the wooden captain’s chairs, one on each side of his head, which shouldn’t have been all that heavy. He was just weak. Weak and sick and confused.

“How do you feel?” Ink asked again.

“Okay, I guess.” L.J.’s hand went to his head as if that might help sort out his thoughts. “What’d…you give me?”

“The last of my pills. That’s friendship for you, huh?”

Friendship? L.J. didn’t even want to be here. He would’ve left if he could have. Ink was crazier than anyone L.J. had ever met. “What were they?”

“Maxidone. Or so I was told.”

“Which is?”

Ink tossed the knife onto the table. “Who knows? And who the hell cares? They work, don’t they?”

“Yeah.” He couldn’t feel any pain; they must’ve done their job. Ink had obviously taken some, too—more than usual, because he was in a better mood than he’d been in so far. Odd, considering their situation had fallen to shit. “And you got them from…where again?”

“Quit being stupid, huh? I got ’em from Wiley Coyote, and you know that because you were there. Jeez,” he added with a chuckle.

Jeez? Ink was high, all right. He’d probably smoked the joint that’d been on the coffee table, too. Or mixed drugs and alcohol.

“You remember Wiley, don’t you?”

Dimly, L.J. recalled The Crew member who’d helped them get away from the prison and provided Ink with a container of tablets for his back. “Yeah.”

“Time to get you off this table.” Ink motioned for him to get up. “I’ll take you to the bed. You need to