Page 34 of Devil's Due: Sarge

I shake my head. “Forget about me. Get to the truck, lock the doors, start the engine, and get out.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“You are, babe. You’re going to do exactly as I ordered you. Get that fine ass in the truck and get the fuck out of here.” I shoot glances to the left and right. The Hangmen are on the verge of pouncing. Way too close for comfort. She’s aware of them, of their proximity now.

Tears roll down over Greer’s beautiful cheeks, making them glisten in the sun, though she doesn’t make a sound. I die protecting her, so be it. But if she survives, then I die redeemed. Claire, my boy—I failed them. Not Greer. I won’t fail her.

She reaches her delicate hand up to touch my face and kisses me. I taste the salt and wetness. It guts me to have to do this, to let her go, but I suck in a breath and shove her, whispering, “Go.Now.”

Thank god Greer knows how to follow orders. The momentnowleaves my lips, she takes off running, pulling the keys and unlocking the truck with the key fob. Men begin chasing her, but she got the lead. I don’t tear my eyes away until I see her reaching the truck safely. Unfortunately, watching her means I’m not watchingthem.

Caught off guard, I stumble to the side trying to catch my bearings as the first strike lands above my ear. I’m a good fighter. I’ve got military skills, but they’ve got numbers and weapons. The next punch to my face lands through brass knuckles, and my eye immediately swells shut.

Sweat and snot and blood fly. I’m holding my own the best I can until a knee to my solar plexus knocks the wind out of me. Though I manage to keep on my feet, it’s enough of a distraction for one of them to plunge a switchblade through my ribs. Then I stumble backward a few steps. I’ve been cut before. I’ve been shot. But I’m not Superman.

“Yer fuckin’ dead,” is the last thing I hear before it all goes black.

13

Greer

It doesn’t seem possible. The whole scene unfolds before my eyes like a movie in slow motion. Large, angry bikers chasing me. I barely get into the truck and lock the doors before they reach me, pounding on the doors and the hood. Pounding on the glass. Their angry curses slurring as they assault my ears. In the middle of all that, the stupidest thought comes to mind. Of all the things to worry about, I keep thinking they’re going to dent the metal. Shock will do that to a girl.

Then—snap—it’s like my brain finally blinks back online, and I get myself together enough to start the engine, throwing the truck in reverse. From their cries of pain, I know I’ve caught some feet underneath the tires in the process. They keep beating on the doors and side, only harder now. Sarge said leave. There’s still debris on the road, the larger trees that had blown in during the storm. I back up as far as I can and then I see it—I see him fall. I see blood gushing from his side and it feels as if some other entity invades my body and all I can do is watch the events unfold. My foot hits the gas pedal, flooring it, the tires squeal as I jut forward, plowing through the group of angry bikers.

I hit them hard enough to send some of them flying. I drive right over the others. They’re probably dead and I’m the one who’s killed them, but they’re trying to kill Sarge. My beautiful, kind, thoughtful Sarge. He might still be in love with his dead wife, but I’ve started falling in love with him and Iwill notlet them take him from me. He might not ever truly be mine, but he’ll be alive and breathing… and if it’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the world needs Sarge alive and breathing in it.

One of the men, he has a blade in his hand held above his head looking every bit ready to bring it down to end Sarge. He turns to the sound of the engine and his eyes grow huge — I see them shift as if he’s thinking about what his next move should be: run or kill Sarge. And I also see the moment he makes the wrong choice. The eyes are the window to the soul and his soul is black. When I push even harder on the gas pedal, I make sure it’s touching mat as I race toward him. But it occurs to me that I can’t hit him head-on or risk killing Sarge in the process and at the last possible minute, as he’s bringing his blade down, I shift the wheel to hit him with the end of the bumper on the passenger side. He flies up in the air and tumbles over the cab, hitting the back lift of the truck. Thatdidn’thappen in slow motion.

I slam on the brakes, skidding and squealing the tires, shift into park, and run around to Sarge. He’s slumped on the pavement. My eyes burn from the tears, making it hard to see. What to do… What to do… What to do… The smartest idea is to get us the hell out of here as fast as humanly possible. Dropping down into a squat, I drape his arm around my shoulder. This way, I should be able to push up andno—that won’t work. He’s out cold and he’s heavy. With no other option, I wrap my arms around his torso and drag him backward over to the truck.

Some of the men start to stand. I’m fully aware of them starting to stand, wobbly legs or not, and I begin to panic. Panic helps no one. I open the passenger door and flip Sarge to get his top half in first, followed by his pelvis and legs. It’s a struggle. He’s so heavy and the blood oozing from his wounds, coating my hands, makes his body and my fingers too slick to get a good grip, but I refuse to give up. I’m going to lose him… I’mnotgoing to lose him.

One final push and he crumples onto the seat, allowing me to slam the door. The men who aren’t dead or unconscious stumble like zombies as they try to reach the truck. I run back to the driver’s side and hop up into the cab, making sure to lock the doors while taking off again, weaving around large branches, hitting bumps, going over the ones I don’t have time to veer around.

I need to find us a hospital. As I’m speeding, he’s bleeding. Without thinking, I reach my hand over to hold his.

“Hang on, Sarge… Please, hang on.” Tears continue to roll down my face.

Once the interstate comes into view, it feels like we might actually make it. There are signs. One sign reads, “Hospital.” I don’t even know what town I’m pulling into and at this point, I don’t care. I just need them to save him.

There’s a circle drive that takes us right up to the sliding doors leading into the emergency room. Throwing the truck into park, I leave it idling and run inside. Since I’m covered in blood, they pay attention.

“I need help,” I shout and in a second, nurses and doctors are on me. They’re checking me over—hands, too many hands to keep track of, try to look for wounds and get me onto a stretcher. “Not me!” This, I scream at them. Scream it.Desperationdoes that to a girl. “In my truck. He’s in my truck.” While they stare, stunned, I point outside to the truck. It takes only a second for them to roll the stretcher initially intended for me out to him. And as they wheel him through, I lie my ass off because despite how badly I need to be here with him, to tell them that we’re together and that I love him, I can’t be late for the meeting with Drew. I can’t get held up by police questioning that will surely follow.

“I… I…” The waterworks start all over again. Who could blame me? “I found him, beat up and bleeding. Off the highway. I think someone dumped him. I don’t know his name. I don’t know anything about him.”

Someone who seems to be in charge orders me to stay put and wait for the police to show, that they’ll have questions for me. Yeah, the moment their eyes are off me, I make my escape with tears continuing to pour down my face.

I’m an awful person.

What kind of woman just leaves her critically injured boyfriend behind?

The situation has left me no choice. I slip in behind the wheel of the truck and get out of the circle drive moments before the police turn in coming from the opposite direction. I’m covered in dirt, and sweat, and blood, a full tank of gas and no money. Sarge had been paying for everything. I couldn’t even pull into a hotel if I wanted to.

With my hand shaking so violently that I can hardly press the button on his contact, I manage to do just that, calling Vlad.

His voice is the most comforting—no, make that the second most comforting sound in the world to me right now. Sarge’s voice would be the most comforting, but that point is moot for the moment.

---