Page 3 of Adam's Rising

Adam’s heart pounded faster. He snatched the small backpack off the floor and dug through it, pulling out the revolver. Checking the cylinder to confirm the gun was loaded, he fumbled for the box of bullets, exhaling when he felt the familiar cardboard. He shoved the box deep into his coat pocket.

Peter clutched his hand. “What are you doing?”

Adam brushed off his brother’s hand. “Stay here! I mean it, Peter. One way or another, I’m leaving here tonight. If you leave this truck, I won’t take you with me.”

Adam hated threatening him, but he knew Peter’s greatest fear was losing him. While they all got along, mostly, for whatever reason, Peter had always wanted to be with him — not Thomas.

“Please don’t go, Adam. I’m scared.”

“I’m scared, too, but I have to. Thomas needs my help.” He raised a hand to Peter’s shoulder. “I’ll be back. I promise.”

“You can’t promise that. Dad and Mom said they’d be right back. And they never —”

“I’m not Dad and Mom.” Adam jumped out of the truck and charged back toward the house. If trouble was coming, Thomas needed him. When they’d hunted, Dad always said that Adam was acrack shot. Thomas shouldn’t have forced him to leave.

With his lean frame, Adam was also the fastest runner. He plowed through the snow, his gaze locked on the truck lights illuminating the entrance to their property.

The trucks suddenly slowed.

The headlights blazed through the barren trees surrounding the cabin — likely meant to blind anyone watching, while casting enough light behind the attackers to guide their assault.

Adam broke off to the left, charging through the trees. He knew their property like the back of his hand. Riding his horse, Bolt, and playing hide ’n seek with his brothers had prepared him for this moment.

He knew the location of every low-hanging limb and hole.

Adam zigzagged through the trees faster than he’d ever run, even as the icy air burned his lungs.

BRRAAAP. A burst of automatic gunfire shredded the silence followed by the CRACK, CRACK, CRACK of bullets ripping through the trees.

Smack!

The impact sent Adam face-first into the snow, the revolver flying out of his grip.

Fast hot breaths buffeted his exposed cheek, icy pins assaulted the other side of his face.

“Stay… down!” threatened the whispered words.

Jeff!Thank God!

“I counted eight. Three are down. But then my damn 1911 jammed.” Jeff stretched his long arms, quickly groping for the revolver. He lifted the .38 and aimed at a shadow rounding the cabin.

A softclick. Then —BANG! — a shot rang out. A heavyWHOMPfollowed as a black-clad body hit the snow, sending up fresh white powder.

Adam clamped a hand against his ear, but nothing drowned out the barrage of gunfire.

Whiz.Whiz.Whiz.

Snow exploded outward, pelleting his body with icy bits.

Jeff pulled the trigger again.Click.BANG!WHOMP. Another body.

On all fours, Jeff skittered forward, military-style, as if crawling under razor wire toward the cabin. He moved to a squat, peeking around the siding, took aim, and pulled the trigger — again and again. Eachclickreturned aBANG —then aWHOMP.

Jeff really was a crack shot.

Quiet engulfed his homestead again.

Jeff lowered his arm, the gun falling slack in his hand. He turned toward Adam. “Thanks for the gun, kid. I would’a been a goner for sure.”

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