Chapter Twenty-Four #3
“No, that is not what I mean,” Lawrence said sharply. “When you stage a coup you wipe out the previous administration. Take
care of it.”
“But—”
“Gut ’em or shoot ’em. Your choice.”
Horror filled her at his words. Jeremy paled, and it wasn’t her imagination. She knew nothing about him other than he was
Lawrence’s brother, and she wouldn’t have known that much if not for Ted. Was he the kind of man who would do as his brother
ordered, no matter what?
She had to do something, anything. She tensed, nothing on her mind except blindly rushing Lawrence and taking her chances
with that rifle. If she could distract both men for just a little while, not even a minute, maybe the others could escape,
maybe they could barricade the door—anything.
Jeremy let his arm drop to his side. He was still holding his rifle, but he wasn’t aiming it at anyone. “I’m not killing a
bunch of old women and a kid.”
Lawrence erupted in fury, spinning toward his brother. “Damn it, you always were a pussy. I’ll do it myself!”
Planning required calculation, and she didn’t have time for that. She simply leaped, driven by desperation. She tackled Lawrence from
behind, driving her shoulder into his hips. He staggered but didn’t go down; she grabbed at his legs and jerked, lost her
own balance, and sprawled hard on the floor. Her face was nauseatingly close to the blood-splattered boots. He stumbled again,
recovered again, and still didn’t fall. She grabbed one of his ankles and jerked, then drew her legs up and kicked as hard
as she could, catching him behind the knee.
He grunted and stumbled forward again, but the son of a bitch still didn’t go down. Sobbing, desperate, she tried to scramble to her feet.
Lawrence turned around and pushed her, hard; she landed on her back, the breath knocked out of her. He kicked her in the side,
on the thigh, cursing at her with each blow. The pain was excruciating, paralyzing. Dimly she thought she should fight through
it, but at the moment all she could do was curl up and cover her head with her arms.
Jeremy backed away from the bedroom door, hands up in a way that indicated he wasn’t getting involved. Over Lawrence’s shoulder
Sela glimpsed a blur of movement. Meredith rushed forward with the vase in her hand, while Barb—Barb!—was swinging one of
Carol’s crutches. Olivia had the other one.
Sela rolled away, somehow finding the strength, desperately hoping Lawrence’s attention would stay on her and he wouldn’t
notice the poorly armed women. She came to a stop against the couch and could go no farther. Lawrence came toward her like
a demon, his expression twisted with rage. She closed her eyes, waiting for the gunshot that would end her, or another savage
kick. Maybe she hadn’t been able to save herself, but maybe the others could make it out, somehow. Ben. His name echoed in her mind.
The sound of the blast was deafening.
She didn’t feel anything. What—?
She opened one eye and saw Lawrence in a boneless, awkward heap a couple of yards away. Weakly she struggled to her knees,
not understanding and wanting nothing more than to get away while she could. Then there was a blur of movement and Ben dropped
down to wrap his arms around her, hugging her tightly to him.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice raw and close, so wonderfully close.
“I thought he was going to kill me,” she said numbly, still dazed and not with the program at all.
“Are you hurt?”
“He was going to kill us all, Carol and Olivia and—”
“Are you hurt?” Ben bellowed.
She blinked, looked up into those blazing, beautiful green eyes. “No.” That was a lie. Her side was on fire where Lawrence
had kicked her, and her leg was numb. She expected that would change any minute now, and she’d really miss the numbness. But
she wasn’t dead, she wasn’t shot, and both of those were big pluses.
He helped her to her feet, never letting go. That was fine with her, because her leg wouldn’t hold her weight right now. She
had no intention of letting go of him anytime soon, anyway.
Lawrence was definitely dead, half of his face missing. Sela turned her face into Ben’s shoulder, sickened by the sight. Jeremy
stood to one side, disarmed, pale, his focus on the rifle Trey held on him, rather than on the raised vase and wooden crutches
that were also threatening him.
“Lawrence told Jeremy to kill the others, but he wouldn’t do it,” she said into Ben’s shirt, afraid they were going to execute
Jeremy on the spot. Maybe they should; she didn’t know what else he’d done, if Darren was injured or dead, if Harley, who’d
been at the front door when Lawrence had arrived, was alive or dead. All she knew was that if Jeremy had done as his brother
ordered, Ben and Trey wouldn’t have arrived in time to save anyone.
The stench of death was strong in the room. Olivia rushed at her, crying; Ben didn’t release her, just pulled Olivia in and
held her, too.
Sela tried to think of practical matters, tried to turn her thoughts away from the death that surrounded them, but for right
now she was both numb and filled with a relief that pushed out everything else. Ben was alive. Carol, Olivia, Barb, and Meredith
were all alive. She’d been prepared for the worst, the worst hadn’t happened, and she hadn’t yet adjusted.
It was Barb who sucked in a deep breath, surveyed the dead man on the floor, and said, “It’ll take forever to get this mess
cleaned up.”
In the bedroom, Carol was crying with harsh, throat-scraping sobs. Olivia pulled free and ran into the bedroom to her grandmother.
“It’s okay, Gran,” they heard her say. “It’s over. We’re fine.”
“Fine” was a stretch—a big stretch.
Other men, both members of the patrol and their own close neighbors, came into the house, one after another. Ben deposited
Sela at the table, and Barb brought her some water. Sela listened to their whispered conversations. Darren had been coldcocked
but would be okay, and was sitting up . . . but Harley was dead. Lawrence had cut his throat; he’d never had a chance.
Harley . . . Tears stung Sela’s eyes, and she stared down into the glass of water. He’d been such a good guy, always willing
to help in any way he could. He’d been the one who would stop on the highway to aid strangers with car trouble, the one who
smoked briskets and took them to families in need.
If Lawrence could die again, she thought she’d tear him apart.
Jeremy’s hands were bound with zip ties, and a couple of the men roughly took him out of the house. Sela didn’t know where
they were taking him and didn’t care.
Meredith looked around the room, her eyes wide, her expression drawn with worry. “Where’s Ted?”
Ben took a deep breath, then sighed. He reached out and put his big hand on her shoulder. “He’s been shot.”
Meredith sucked in a ragged breath and slow tears dripped down her white face. “How bad is it?”
“Bad,” Ben said reluctantly. “He’s still alive, but—I’m sorry.”