Page 89 of You'll Never Know
“Now,” he says, drawing his gun, “we go inside.”
Chapter 45
REED
Don’t move.
That’s all I can think as the sound of footsteps crunching through the brush comes closer.Don’t. Fucking. Move.Every instinct I have is screaming for me to leap to my feet and bolt. But I can’t. Whoever shot me is too close, nearly on top of me now. If I move, they’ll kill me for sure.
The footsteps stop. Blood seeps from my hairline and into my eyes. Blood that isn’t from the bullet but rather from the stone I hit as I fell—a single glancing blow to the forehead that had me seeing stars. Whoever is there is standing directly behind me now, studying me. I can feel their gaze burning over my neck. I don’t move an inch, don’t breathe, just lie there motionless and pray they’ll think I’m dead. For a second, I think that’s exactly what will happen, that they’ll turn and walk away. But they don’t. Two more gunshots come instead, the bullets punching straight into my back.
The pain is sudden and scalding. I feel something crack. A howl tears up my throat, but I bite it off and lock it behind my teeth. I can’t move even though I’m in absolute agony. And I don’t. I simply lie there, waiting for the final bullet. The one I know will end me. I can already feel the gun moving higher, centering on the base of my skull.
Just get it over with. Make it quick.
But instead of another gunshot, I hear a distant scream. A cry for whoever is hovering over me to—
“STOP!”
I sense a shift. A hesitation.
A radio squawks. There’s mumbled conversation. It’s static to me, nothing more than noise through my still ringing ears. Then it’s gone, and I can hear the dry crunch of grass once more as the man—I know it’s a man now based on his voice—moves closer. If he’s smart, he’ll take that final shot. If he isn’t, he’ll get close and try to roll me over.
Roll me over,I think.Please, roll me over.
A pair of camouflaged knees come into view.
A hand hits my shoulder and pushes.
I take the rock—the one I’ve been cupping in the palm of my hand since I fell—and swing it upward as hard as I can. The man’s eyes widen a second before it connects with his chin. That’s all I can see of him. His eyes. The rest of his face is covered with a camouflage face mask. His head whips back with a satisfying crunch. And then I’m up and slamming into him with my shoulder. We tumble down the hill together. My ribs crackle like broken glass when we hit level ground.
The gun flies from his hand and lands a few feet away. We both scramble for it.
He’s fast.
I’m faster.
My palm lands on the grip a half-second before his. And then I’m rolling away from him, bringing the gun up. But not high enough because he’s already on me, one hand clawing at my eyes, the other grabbing my wrist.
I pull the trigger.
He goes stiff and then topples onto his back. I jump to my feet with the gun still in my hand and rip off his mask.
“No more shooting!”he cries. “Please!”
My mouth falls open. Even through all of the grime on his face, I recognize him immediately. The round cheeks. The buzz-cut blond hair. The empty eyes which are now filled with fear: Officer Calvin Holston.
“Who else is here?” I growl.
“No one.” He winces as he says it, and I see the blood seeping through his fingers, both of his hands cradling his gut.
I level the gun at his head. It’s a Sig Sauer nine-millimeter. I know this because I own a Sig myself. A 44 ACP. I don’t like guns, never have, but after the crash, I decided it would be wise to learn how to protect myself. Pistols like this are one way to do that. Bulletproof vests are another.
I’m wearing one right now, strapped to my torso beneath my hoodie. It’s a level-four tactical combat vest designed to stop even the most high-powered rounds. It’s the only reason I’m not the one lying on the ground in Holston’s place, trying to keep my blood in my body. After the wreck, I grew paranoid, certain Donald Nash would eventually track me down. And when he did, I knew he’d hire someone to take me out. It’s why I wore the vest beneath a collection of baggy sweaters and pullovers for months anytime I left the house. I was certain every stranger I passed would pull out a gun.
When no one did, my paranoia faded, and I started to relax. After a while, I stopped wearing the vest altogether. The only reason I have it on now, is because I’d thought to grab it when I swung by the house to get the shovel. And I’m glad I did. The vest is the only reason I’m still alive. But that doesn’t change the fact my ribs feel like they’ve been hit with a parade of sledgehammers. Every breath hurts.
“No one?” I ask, glancing around. “I don’t think so. Lie to me, and I shoot you again. Who else?”
