Trial By Fire

you want me.”

Five minutes later, they were in position. Hope had found a clump of bushes about ten feet back from the barely visible trail that led from Violet Glen to town. Susan was behind a tree and another group of bushes another ten feet back on the opposite side of the trail.

They were barely in time. Hope had just pulled an arrow from her quiver when she heard someone approaching. Nocking the arrow to the string, she drew about a third back and mentally prepared herself.

Her dad hadn’t wanted to let her see what happened if she put a broadhead into the back of a Terminator’s head.

Maybe she was going to find out anyway.

It was with a sense of relief, though oddly also with a slight sense of disappointment, that she watched a pair of humans stride into sight. The man was big and black, his face dominated by a fringe of beard and a scowl, the rest of his body dominated by a holstered pistol, two shoulder-slung long guns, and an awesomely scary-looking multi-barreled weapon clutched in his arms. The woman behind him was slimmer and less heavily armed, but no less wary and competent looking.

And both of them were wearing red Resistance armbands.

Or at least, they looked like Resistance armbands.

Hope frowned, shifting her attention back to the big gun. She’d heard Susan, Oxley, and Lajard talk about the weapons and equipment carried by the various types of Terminators. That gun with its long ammo belt draped over the man’s shoulders looked an awful lot like the way they’d described T-600 miniguns.

She chewed at her lip, suddenly unsure what she should do. If that was a Terminator weapon, then maybe the man and woman weren’t Resistance at all. Maybe they were Skynet agents, here to provide support to the T- 700 by the river. The T-700 that her father and the others were closing in on at this very moment.

Or maybe the gun looked like a Terminator weapon but wasn’t.

Unfortunately, the only person nearby she could ask was hiding behind a tree twenty feet away. Maybe the smart thing to do would be to just let the strangers pass unchallenged, then go grab Susan and find out for sure about the gun.

The woman caught up to the man, who had slowed almost to a halt, and Hope saw his lips move as he said something. The woman nodded, and together they started up again.

Only to Hope’s horror, the man was now angling off the path.

Heading straight toward her.

She caught her breath. Had he decided to take a different route across this part of the forest? Had he somehow spotted her back here?

No, she realized suddenly. He hadn’t spotted her. He’d spotted the arrow.

Her eyes flicked downward to the broadhead, the taste of panic bubbling up into her throat as she saw, too late, the terrible mistake she’d made. Automatically, as she always did when stalking game, she’d eased the tip of the arrow out through the bushes so that it wouldn’t get tangled or deflected when she shot.

It never mattered if a deer saw it. Deer couldn’t recognize an arrow as a threat. But human beings could.

What should she do? Try to pull the arrow back out of sight, on the slim chance that he hadn’t yet spotted it? But if he hadn’t seen it, any movement now would draw his attention to her in double- quick time.

Should she abandon her position and try to get away? Out of the question. There wasn’t enough nearby cover to lose herself in, and she could hardly outrun a bullet.

Should she simply shoot him? Completely and utterly out of the question.

He was still coming toward her. With the suddenness of desperation Hope made up her mind. The gun in his arms was currently pointed up, toward the sky. The second he started swinging it down toward her, or shifted it to one hand and made a grab for one of his other guns, she would shoot the arrow into his hand from her current one- third pull. It wouldn’t be going fast enough or hard enough to seriously injure him, but it should be enough to warn him off. By the time he recovered enough to respond, she would hopefully have another arrow nocked and ready.

Almost here. She braced herself, fighting the panicky urge to draw her bowstring all the way back. She wanted to warn him off, not kill him.

She was still watching the gun, waiting for the muzzle to drop toward her, when the man let go of the weapon with his left hand, snapped out his arm like a striking rattlesnake, and grabbed her arrow just behind the arrowhead. Before Hope could even gasp, he turned at the waist and let the big gun swivel and fall onto the top of the bush directly in front of her, crushing down the foliage in a flurry of snapping branches and crunching leaves. Hope flinched back, reflexively blinking as a branch swept past her face.

When she opened her eyes again, her cover was completely gone, the man was looming over her with her arrow in his hand, and his drawn pistol was pointed directly into her face.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

Hope opened her mouth, but her vocal cords seemed suddenly paralyzed.

“Come on—talk,” he snarled, twitching the gun for emphasis.

“Back off!” Susan’s voice snapped.

Hope turned her head. Susan had emerged from behind her tree and was standing with her bowstring drawn back to her ear, a broadhead arrow glinting in the early-morning light.

“You hear me? I said back off.”

The man didn’t move, but in the sudden brittle silence Hope heard the soft slipping sound of metal on leather as the other woman snatched her own gun from its holster and pointed it at Susan.

And finally, Hope found her voice.

“No—don’t shoot,” she called, her voice trembling embarrassingly. “Anyone. Please.”

For a pair of thudding heartbeats no one moved or spoke. Then the woman stirred.

“Barnes?” she asked.

“She’s just a kid,” the man said, his voice still growly but maybe a little less brusque. “Yours?”

“Amateur,” the woman said.

“Hey!” Susan said, sounding offended.

“It’s all right, Susan,” Hope called. “Put the bow down. Please.”

“You heard her, Susan,” the woman seconded. “No one has to get hurt here.”

Hope looked over at Susan. The older woman’s lips were compressed into a tight line, but she nevertheless lowered the arrow to point at the ground and eased the bowstring back to unpulled position.

“Don’t shoot her,” she said, nodding toward Hope.

“No one’s shooting anyone,” the man growled, keeping his gun in hand but raising the muzzle to point over Hope’s head. “Not yet, anyway. Let’s try again. Who are you?”

“My name’s Hope Preston,” Hope told him. “That’s Susan Valentine.”

“I’m Blair,” the woman said. She was still holding her gun, but it was also no longer pointing at its original target. “He’s Barnes. Are you two from that village over there?”

“Yes,” Hope said. “Baker’s Hollow. We heard your vehicle, and thought someone should check it out.”

Barnes snorted. “And this is the best reception committee we could get?”

“Hardly,” Hope’s father’s voice came unexpectedly from the direction of town. “Both of you, drop your weapons. Now.”

“Dad, it’s all right,” Hope spoke up hastily. “We’re okay. They haven’t hurt us.”

“Good for them,” Preston said grimly. “They can put their guns down anyway.”

Hope focused on Barnes. His gun was still pointed away from her, but he had a look on his face that sent a fresh chill up her back.

“It’s all right,” she told him quietly. “That’s my father. He won’t hurt you. Please—do what he says.”

Barnes hesitated. Then, to Hope’s relief, he lowered his pistol and dropped it back into its holster. Behind him, Blair took the cue and also holstered her gun.

Not exactly what Preston had demanded. But it was close enough.

“Their guns are down,” she called.

There was a soft swishing of bushes, and six men walked cautiously into sight, rifles held ready.