Page 18 of Protected

He scowls at me and motions with his head.

I jump up and start running toward the trail again, finding an anxious Burgundy lurking there.

Deck motions us both to run and then follows in a backward walk, shooting to provide us cover.

When we’re far enough away to feel safe, Burgundy and I slow down and wait for Deck.

He reaches us, waving us on and scowling at me again.

Who can blame me? I scowl back.

What just happened was a life-and-death situation for me. I easily could have died, and the fear and adrenaline are still coursing through me. I don’t need to be chastised the way his expression is clearly doing.

I already know I didn’t shoot when I should have.

But I’m sorry. The world might have transformed into a hellscape around me, and strangers might want to assault or kill me at regular intervals now.

But I still don’t want to kill anyone.

For a while, I believed I’m angry enough with the world to pull the trigger in a scenario like that, but maybe I’m not angry enough.

We head farther into the woods and wait until all the sounds of gunfire have died. Only then do we follow the trail back toward the big house.

I must have pulled a muscle at the back of my right thigh when I dove from the bullets earlier because every step makes me want to wince.

It’s not bad enough to make an issue of. Not even bad enough to mention.

After a couple of minutes, Deck, who has beenwalking beside me, gives my arm a little tap to get my attention and then gestures down at my right leg.

Of course he would notice. He’s really very obnoxious about not letting even small things slide.

“Oh, did you hurt yourself?” Burgundy asks. She’s been walking behind us, and her voice sounds worried.

“No. No, it’s fine. It’s nothing.” I aim a glare up at Deck’s face. Another annoying thing is that he’s so tall I have to crane my neck to meet his eyes. “I’m fine. Just pulled a muscle.”

Deck breathes heavily through his nose as he meets my gaze.

“Okay,” Burgundy replies. “But if it’s worse than that, you need to let Deck take a look. Even a minor injury can?—”

“I know. I know. I’m not going to tough out an injury that could get infected. But no skin is broken. It’s just the pulled muscle.”

This answer appears to satisfy Burgundy but not Deck. He stews about it silently as we keep walking.

I try very hard not to limp.

We’re close to where the trail ends when a new sound breaks the silence. It’s a low buzzing kind of noise. One I don’t recognize until a small motorcycle appears on the trail coming right toward us.

Deck has already moved in front of me and pulled out his gun—maybe he realized what the sound was before I did—and he fires when the motorcycle doesn’t slow down.

He hits the driver. That much is clear. The bike gives a jerk and then skids, veering sharply to the right.

Unfortunately, it was going fast enough that its forward motion continues even after the driver is shot. It comes right at us. If Deck wasn’t blocking me and Burgundy, it would have slammed into us.

He reaches out to brace himself against the collision with the side of the bike. He manages to stop the motorcycle, but it hits him so hard he’s thrown backward off his feet.

“Deck!” The exclamation chokes in my throat at the horrifying sight of the big man knocked down so violently.

I run toward him, barely processing that there was someone else on the motorcycle behind the driver. A woman who is now pinned beneath the vehicle and the dead body of the man.

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