Page 35 of Defending You
Cici followed, and they both dropped to a crouch behind the weathered planks. “Stay low.”
Her breathing was ragged, but she nodded, eyes wide. “How do they keep finding us?”
“No idea. Sit tight.” He left her hiding there and looked through a crack in the barn wall, waiting for the truck to come, praying it would pass right by the narrow path.
But if his plan worked and the sedan was stuck on the trail, then the truck would have no way to get past it.
Those men shouldn’t have found them. Not after the train, not after swapping cars. Something was off—way off.
He bolted to the far end of the barn, where another set of doors was closed, these secured with a rusty bolt.
Not exactly helpful, considering the broken windows on either side. He spied an old ranch house—almost as small as the trailer where Asher had grown up. Past that, a narrow path wove into the woods in the direction of the pond. The trees were overgrown, the grass surrounding the house knee-high.
Asher turned and searched the barn, looking for anything that might help him create a diversion.
A sound had his stomach souring. He ran back to the front as the truck rolled into view on the trail.
Back up. Nothing to see here.
It was moving slowly and deliberately. Just when Asher started to think it would do as he prayed, the pickup aimed for the barn and parked a dozen yards away.
Four men spilled out.
The bald guard from Springfield, his bulk unmistakable, a handgun glinting in his grip. Another guy—older and wearing a suit—barked orders, pointing at the barn. Was this the slick-talker Cici had told him about?
The other two men weren’t familiar. One was tall and built. His hair was cropped military style, and he had a bushy beard. The other was shorter, leaner, and probably faster on his feet. His face was clean-shaven, and he had longish brown hair with just enough curl that Asher imagined him adding product to make it look just so.
A linebacker and a pretty boy.
Those two headed for opposite sides of the property, weapons drawn, scanning the woods.
“They’re coming.” Panic carried on Cici’s whisper.
“Quiet.” He unsnapped his holster and pulled out the Glock. He had his training and the advantage of cover. He could shoot through the gaps in the walls, then move before they retaliated.
He could kill all four without breaking a sweat.
But, as Bartlett had reminded him, this wasn’t a war zone. He was in rural Massachusetts, where it wasn’t okay to shoot people because they’d followed you.
He’d prefer not to end up in prison. And he’d prefer not to have to live with more bodies on his conscience.
He needed something to slow his enemies down, to distract and confuse them. His eyes landed on a rusted gas can in the corner, half-hidden under a tarp. A long shot, but it might work.
He crept over, keeping low, and shook the can. A faint slosh. It would be enough. He grabbed a splintered board, wedged itinto a gap in the barn wall, and doused it with the gas, letting it drip down the dry wood. He doused more gas on the wood from there to the front of the structure, then found an old rag.
He moved back to Cici. “Start moving.” He pointed at the broken windows. “When I light this, you go out and head west—toward the pond. There’s a path, but stay off it. Don’t stop.”
“Where will you?—?”
“I’ll be right behind you.”
He hoped, anyway. He found a crowbar and then silently opened the SUV’s door.
She started creeping toward the windows. When she was almost there, Asher started the engine and wedged the crowbar against the gas pedal.
He yanked the gear shift into reverse and dove out.
The SUV barreled backward.
