"Things must be quiet," Bill said. "Looks like he's still here."
"Yeah," Jack agreed. "Or he's waiting for us."
Molly swallowed hard. She did not like that idea. Not at all. Jack killed the engine and they got out slowly. Molly reached back into the Jeep for the shotgun.
Given that she had very little experience with weapons, the shotgun was the best weapon for her. Big bang, a lot of damage on a wide radius.
Bill carried a small canvas bag in which he had placed the tiny grenades that had been in the crate in the back of the Jeep. Jack had three nine millimeters, one in each hand and one clipped to his belt at the small of his back. Bill had identified the other gun in the crate as a twelve-year-old assault rifle, but they all thought it wisest to leave it right where it was.
What they were doing was crazy enough without a weapon like that in the hands of someone who had never fired one before. Bill claimed to know how to work it, but then, after all, he hardly needed one.
The wind seemed to die quite suddenly as they slipped along the front of the building, trying to stay out of sight. What breeze there had been dropped away, and Molly felt too warm, as if the air itself was stalking her, the humidity preying upon her.
At the door, Jack moved ahead. Molly and Bill were side by side and she could feel the raw, animal power emanating off him. He was tensed and ready, and suddenly she understood the word wild in a way she never had before.
Molly was concerned that the door might be locked, but Bill pulled it open and ushered them in. Jack went first, arms bent up close to himself, guns aimed at the ceiling. Back to one wall, he slid quickly up the corridor to the first junction. Molly breathed a sigh of relief when there was no reaction within. That meant that they had been right about the receptionist; she would hate to have terrorized the woman. After a moment, she followed Jack into the building, shotgun held up straight the way Bill had shown her. She watched as Jack ducked his head around the corner, then turned back to nod wordlessly before continuing along the corridor.
As she was about to pursue him, Molly felt Bill's powerful grip on her shoulder. Alarmed, she spun to stare at him, wide-eyed, now extraordinarily aware of the beat of her own heart in her eardrums, the rise and fall of her chest with each anxious breath. He slipped past her, made it clear to her that she was to take up the rear. Ahead, Jack moved quickly, almost stridently, down the hallway toward the door to the sheriff 's office. It stood open, a soft golden light coming from within, a counterpoint to the harsh overhead illumination in the hall. Bill caught up to him a second before Molly did, and tapped him on the shoulder.
When Jack turned to look at them both, his eyes were wild, and Molly realized exactly how frightened he was, scared for himself, for them, and at the idea that they might not be able to stop the Prowlers. She knew him well enough to realize the latter scared him the most.
After a moment Jack let out a long breath and stepped back just a bit to let Bill go in ahead of him.
Unarmed.
Bill pointed at each of them in turn, the gesture taking in their weapons, maybe emphasizing their importance - or not, Molly could not be sure - and then indicated that Jack should go to the right inside the door and Molly to the left.
They both nodded.
One hand up, Bill ticked off three fingers.
Then he strode into the sheriff 's office. Jack darted in behind him and to the left, both nine millimeters raised.
Molly swept into the room and leveled the shotgun. The sheriff was behind his desk, paperwork all over the place, a cup of soup at the edge with a plastic spoon in it, still steaming from the microwave. The large, potbellied man's eyes were hard and angry, but not afraid. He began to rise, reaching for the gun at his hip.
"Put your hands on the desk, now!" Jack shouted.
Incredulous, the sheriff froze, but he did not comply. His hand was only inches from the weapon that rested in its holster.
Molly pumped the shotgun once, directed its barrel toward him.
"Do it, Sheriff," she said. Her voice sounded cold to her, distant. But there was a reason for that.
Something was wrong here. Something just did not feel right about any of this.
With a grunt, the sheriff did as he had been instructed. He bent slightly over the desk, palms out flat. His eyes darted to each of them in turn and then went to Bill, who had not said a word.
"You're interrupting my dinner," he said gruffly. "The paperwork I could do without. But my soup's going to get cold."
"Who eats soup in this weather?" Bill asked, almost as though he were amused by it all.
"Thought I might be coming down with something," the sheriff revealed.
Jack glared at Tackett, then glanced quickly up at Bill in confusion. He dangled the gun in his left hand down at his side, but kept the other aimed directly at the lawman.
"Where's the lair?" Jack demanded.
The sheriff exhaled loudly. "What the hell are you talking about?" he snapped angrily. His furious gaze was on Jack now. "You want to kill me, rip me up like you did the others, not much I can do to stop you. But where does it go from here, boy?"
"Don't try to play with my head!" Jack roared. He took two steps
