Fergus’s hand snaked toward the revolver tucked into the back of his pants.
A high-pitched voice erupted from the crouching man. His firearm pointed at Fergus now.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, little feller. I’ll aim right between your eyes instead of the leg, like I did for this honey bunny.”
Serena Jo gazed up at Fergus, then gave a small shake of her head. Don’t do it.
He despised the man’s use of a friendly epithet bestowed by his friend Skeeter.
“Hands up, little feller. Reach for them clouds.”
Fergus glanced down at Serena Jo. “You know these people?” he whispered.
“The Murdock clan from Idlewild.” Her voice shook, whether from pain or fear, he couldn’t tell.
“Higher than that, shorty,” said a second man.
“Bad news, the Murdocks?” Fergus said without moving his lips.
From below, she replied, “As bad as it gets.”
To be continued...
Those Who Come the Last
Book 5 in the Troop of Shadows Chronicles
Prologue
Not for the first time during the past few days, Ray tried to open his eyelids only to realize they refused, at least until a bit of rubbing forced them to cooperate. His hands felt wooden against his face. The light that filtered through the opening of a tent carried the golden quality of late afternoon sunshine. He wondered briefly if Lizzy had captured him again and dosed him with midazolam. This mental fog felt different, though, not like the tranquilizing effect of either the midazolam or the mood elevating ketamine.
How long had he been out? Where was he? Then a more urgent question: were the children safe?
He sat up too quickly, and his head swam. After waiting a minute for the dizziness to pass, he assessed himself and his surroundings. He was nestled in a sleeping bag of excellent quality; the North Face logo embroidered on the side confirmed it. He could see his breath, which meant it was cold outside, but he was warm and comfortable inside the bag. The Klymit tent, also top-notch, was the type nature enthusiasts carried on their backs when they scaled mountains. Not that he personally would know anything about that kind of adventuring, but he recognized good brands when he saw them.
He rubbed his eyes again, mentally grasping for his most recent memories prior to blacking out: the children running toward the giant Ponderosa pine, him heading in the opposite direction to lure Lizzy away from them; a sudden slamming sensation in his chest that knocked him to the ground; pain so intense it couldn’t be registered on any known scale; weakness so disabling he could barely lift a hand to write the warehouse security code on Serena Jo’s notepad.
Her beautiful eyes had filled with sadness as they gazed down at him. The painful pounding in his chest — his excruciating heartbeat — had thumped slower and slower and slower. His final thought had been: Lizzy killed me.
Then blackness.
As he analyzed the memories, he remembered being certain that he was dying. With the same wooden hand, he reached inside his shirt, wincing in anticipation of the injury he would discover there. Had Serena Jo sewn him up? Was she giving him antibiotics to stave off the inevitable infection of a bullet wound? His fingertips encountered nothing unusual, just the skin of his chest and a smattering of hair. No gaping hole nor injury of any kind.
How was that possible?
“You’re wondering how you could have been shot in the chest and survived with no aftereffects. It’s a valid question.”
The woman who spoke stood in the tent’s opening. Because of her small stature, she didn’t have to stoop much. If Serena Jo were a foot shorter and thirty years older, this is what she would look like.
“Close your mouth or you’ll draw flies,” the woman said, not unkindly.
She stepped inside and squatted beside him. “Here,” she said, thrusting a protein bar at him. “Gotta get your strength back now that you’ve returned to the land of the living.” The voice was low, like that of a cigarette addict but without the raspy, phlegmy quality. Ropy muscles visible beneath the fitted tee indicated more than a nodding acquaintance with fitness. The tanned, lined face spoke of a life lived outdoors squinting at the sun.
“Are you Serena Jo’s mother?” he managed, his voice a croaking frog.
“That I am,” the woman said with a tight smile. “I’m Hannah.” The small hand was veined but otherwise youthful for a woman in her...sixties? There was strength in her handshake. “And who are you?”
“I’m Ray. What happened? How are the children? And your daughter?”
“First things first. How do you feel? Any pain?”
Ray shook his head. “No, which makes no sense. I remember getting shot. In the chest. How long have I been unconscious? The wound has already healed, so it must be what? Weeks? Months?”
The woman’s smile was that of a mischievous child, and her laughter sounded like baritone wind chimes on a blustery day. “Forty-eight hours. And you weren’t unconscious. You were dead.”
Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoyed this book. I'd love it if you posted a review about it on Amazon or Goodreads. Reading a well-written book in the company of snoring doggies is my favorite pastime; receiving feedback and reviews from readers about my own books is my second favorite pastime. I look forward to hearing what you think! Who was your favorite character (I have a couple), and which scenes did you like best? Did you want to punch the gun store owner in his face? Who is the better pet, Brains or Bruno?
On a side note, if you've spotted a typo, please email me a [email protected]. I hate those insidious little buggers as much as the next reader.
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