Page 27 of Kings Fear No One
He was creating a distraction.
My head snaps up to find Abraham’s used the last few seconds to hurl himself over the edge of the balcony. I rush toward the railing to locate him.
He’s a blip in the dark, running straight for the tree line.
I open fire on him anyway before he disappears altogether into the night.
He’s not the only one who gets away.
When it’s all said and done, there’s a handful of others like Mandy and Xavier that escaped. The majority were not so lucky, slaughtered on the spot like they deserved.
The believers we’ve rescued we drop off at the nearest hospital.
“What about her?” asks Ozzie, jutting his chin at Teysha. “We had her checked out at the hospital, but she didn’t stay with the others. Is she coming with us?”
Teysha’s passed out in the back of Silver’s truck. At some point while waiting, she nodded off. I take a moment to realize I never considered what would come after. I never thought about what would happen once we made it out.
Opening the door to nudge her awake, I ask her what she wants. If she’d like to remain at the hospital where the other captives are being treated or if she wants to stay in the truck and come the rest of the way with us.
She blinks blearily at me, barely conscious. “I’ll come with you… please…”
I give a tight nod and then shut the door to let her fall back asleep.
“She’ll come with us to Pulsboro,” I say. “For now. ’Til we get everything sorted.”
“Makes sense. Isn’t she Syd’s friend too?”
I have no idea.
I don’t know a thing about the woman other than her name and the gold cross she wears around her neck. The same gold cross Abraham slashed. But as I climb back onto the bike I’m riding on and take a look at her through the truck window, I spot the telltale signs of captivity. Even after her doctor’s checkup. The vague bruises and nails caked with dirt. Worn clothes that you once filled out more.
Tonight’s not the night to have all the answers. It’s time to rest.
9
TEYSHA
“They’re called the Chosen Saints and they’re one of the most dangerous cults in the country,” says the five o’clock news anchor. On the screen next to her is a photograph of the Chosen Saints’s logo: a large cross covered in vines and flowers. “They are believed to operate in the states of Oklahoma, Louisiana, and Texas. Investigators believe they have several factions in Ludic county alone.”
The anchor proceeds to brief her captive audience at home on all the warning signs that the Chosen Saints are in the area. She cautions against walking alone at night and giving personal information to solicitors.
“Keep doors and windows locked,” she says definitively.
Frustrated by the generic advice, I change the channel with the TV remote. “I’m sure everybody that’s been taken left the front door open, Barbara.”
“Who’re you talking to?”
The gruff voice comes from the hall. Logan appears a second later on his way to the kitchen. He’s leather and denim from the torn jeans he wears to the motorcycle boots that clack on the floor tiles.
My gaze drifts from the TV screen for the first time since the last commercial break.
Logan geared up and ready to walk out the door isn’t unusual. I quickly learned this only days into living under his roof. He stays on the move, barely ever home.
But the sight of him isn’t any less affecting. Logan wears it well. Over six feet, ropey muscles, blue eyes, rough beard. What’s not to find visually appealing?
“The TV,” I answer, blinking out of my thoughts. I press the mute button on the remote. “Where are you headed?”
“The saloon.”
