Afraid

snout.

So what was … ?

Santiago poked his head out of the bushes, scaring Josh so badly he jumped backward. The killer stood up, facing Josh, Woof’s collar buckled around his neck.

“I found Logan,” Santiago said. “Was that you, did that to her? I’m surprised. She was very good. A woman, yes, but she liked to get her hands dirty.”

Josh backed up. Santiago carried no weapons, but his hands were balled into fists.

Woof growled, trying to bark.

“And what of Bernie?” Santiago asked. “We haven’t heard from him lately.”

Josh’s wanted to say something tough, but his voice wasn’t working. He nodded his head.

“Bernie, too? Impressive. Especially from someone with no training, no skills at all. You must be a very lucky man.” Santiago grinned. “But your luck has just run out.”

“Woof,” Josh managed. “Go.”

Woof whined.

“Go!” Josh yelled.

Woof took off. The killer came at Josh low and fast, so fast that Josh missed when he swung the Maglite. He tackled Josh, lifting him up off the ground, driving him into a tree. It felt like someone had stuck a tube in Josh’s mouth and sucked out all of his oxygen. He fell onto all fours, struggling to breathe, but all that came out was a high-pitched wheeze.

Santiago knelt next to him and Josh felt the man’s lips touch his ear.

“This is for Bernie.”

And then Josh was flat on his face, his right arm pinned behind his back in a hammerlock. Santiago grabbed his little finger.

Bent it.

Kept bending it.

Kept bending it.

Josh actually heard the crack.

Tears came, but his wind hadn’t returned so he couldn’t suck in a breath to scream.

“This is for Logan.”

Josh’s ring finger bent back, hyperextended, and cracked like a twig. But Santiago didn’t let go. He kept manipulating it, kept pulling, until Josh’s entire world was a reduced to a white-hot pinpoint of pain.

“And this is for my ear.”

Santiago didn’t move on to the middle finger. He went back to the pinkie.

The killer twisted it around a full 360 degrees before Josh finally passed out.

• • •

Wiley stared at his plasma-screen TV in the great room. Three men stood around the fake deer at his entrance. One was the soldier who’d found his camera. The other was an older man in fatigues who didn’t look like a soldier at all. The third, incredibly, was that big son of a bitch he’d shot.

Wiley used the remote control to zoom in. The giant was bloody, and his right arm hung limp, but he’d miraculously survived eight shotgun slugs. Wiley had hunted bear before and never needed more than four. He was liking their chances less and less.

Fran and her boy also gawked at the TV, motionless.

“If you want to survive,” he told them, “you have to do everything I say. Fran, have you ever fired a gun before?”

Fran shook her head. Wiley reached behind him and pulled the shotgun out of his shoulder rig.

“This is a Beretta Extrema2, a semiautomatic shotgun. It will fire as fast as you can pull the trigger, and it has a recoil system so it won’t take your arm off. Just point and shoot.”

Fran showed no reluctance in taking the gun. “Show me how to reload.”

“I have to go back to storage, get more shells.” Wiley stared hard at Fran. “Should I bring a gun for Duncan?”

Fran’s gaze went from him, to her son, to the Beretta. She managed a small nod.

“I’ll be right back. It doesn’t look like they’ve figured out how to open the door yet. When they do, the alarm will sound again. Push that table over, get behind it, and shoot anything that comes through the door that isn’t me. It’s also possible they’ll go after the generator. There are candles around the room, matches on the table. Light them all.”

Wiley didn’t wait for a response. He jogged back to the storage area and headed for the gun rack. He grabbed another semiauto shotgun, a Benelli Super Black Eagle II. Then he strapped on two more holsters, one for a Glock G17 .45 ACP, the other for his 50-caliber Desert Eagle. He also clipped an A. G. Russell tactical folding knife to his belt. A leather bag sat on the table, and he filled it with ammo for all three weapons, along with some 380 rounds and the Hi-Point for Duncan.

“Wiley.”

He glanced back, saw his brother had his eyes open. Wiley went to him.

“How you doing, brother?”

Ace offered a weak grin. “Never been better.”

Wiley scooped up the water jug, tilted it so Ace could take a sip.

“Need another shot of Demerol?”

“It depends. Where are the bad guys?”

“Knocking at the front door.”

Ace shook his head. “Instead of the drugs, how about something in a Magnum?”

Wiley smiled for the first time that day, which was also his first smile of the decade. It felt strange, unnatural. But also good.

“Got a Taurus in .357, and a Ruger in .44,” he said.

“Gimme the Taurus.”

“Ruger has more stopping power.”

“Too much kick. Throws off the aim.”

Wiley patted his brother on the chest. “I miss these little conversations, Ace.”

He turned his attention to the open first-aid box and dug out a syringe and a bottle of Prilocaine.

“This won’t put you to sleep. Just numb the area.”

Ace winced when Wiley gave his stump several injections. Then he went back to the pegboard, added the Taurus and a box of rounds to the ammo bag, and slung it over his shoulder.

“This won’t be pleasant,” he told Ace.

Ace only cried out twice as Wiley dragged him across the floor to the great room. Once when he first moved him by pulling his arm, and again when his stump accidentally hit the doorway.

“It’s me!” Wiley called out to Fran. “Hold fire!”

He tugged Ace over to the sofa and couldn’t tell who was breathing harder, him or his brother. Fran had followed directions and overturned the large oak coffee table. She’d set it on an angle to the doorway, so it would be the last thing someone saw when they opened the door and walked into the room. Wiley approved and felt something akin to pride.

It took all three of them to lift Ace up onto the sofa. The sheriff stayed stoic, though his face scrunched up and his forehead beaded with sweat. Wiley propped some pillows behind his back and aimed him at the door, on an angle like Fran had done. Then he spent a minute showing her how to load the Beretta and showing Duncan how to work the slide on the Hi-Point to jack the first round into the chamber.

“The TV,” Streng said, pointing. “They’ve got Josh.”

Everyone looked at the plasma screen. Someone held one of Wiley’s remote cameras in front of a man’s face. The man was screaming in terrible pain. Wiley was grateful there wasn’t audio.

“We have to help him,” Fran said.

Wiley shook his head. “No. They want us to open the door so they can get in.”