Chapter Fourteen
~ Jojo ~
The first thing I heard was glass. A thin, high note, like a bottle thrown against the wall in slow motion. In the next instant, I felt Rawley’s side of the bed jerk and then vanish, mattress rebounding as if it had been evacuated by a detonator.
The house was dark, but my heart was a strobe, throwing off its own kind of light. I sat bolt upright, ears ringing, every cell in my body straining to resolve the difference between last night’s animal carnage and this morning’s threat.
A second clink, this one duller—maybe a boot scuffing over broken pieces, or a window latch losing a contest with a crowbar. The sound came from the kitchen.
My mouth had dried to parchment. The baby—no, the embryo, barely a figment—felt like a burning coal under my ribs. I clapped a hand over my stomach, as if I could shield it from whatever was coming.
Rawley was already a shadow by the closet, yanking on pants, Sig in hand. He moved without sound, like the entire world owed him quiet. He’d slept with the pistol beside him for as long as I’d known him, and now I was glad for every bit of paranoia I’d once mocked.
He thumbed the slide, chambered a round. I saw the glint of steel in the blue hour light, then the matte finish of his back as he pulled on a shirt.
He didn’t even look at me when he said, “Stay here.” The words were soft, but left no room for negotiation.
I nodded, but my body rebelled. Every instinct in me—weak, soft, city-dweller’s instincts—wanted to dive under the bed and pray the walls were thick enough to keep out whatever had made that sound.
But there was another part, new and stupid and stubborn, that refused to let Rawley walk into the dark alone.
I counted his footsteps. Four across the floorboards, then a pause. I slid out of bed, felt the cold slap of wood against my bare soles, and tried to breathe through the way my lungs had shrunk down to the size of walnuts.
The baby, the baby, the baby. I repeated it in my head with each heartbeat, as if the word could change my chemistry, make me braver or at least more inert.
The only weapon in reach was a chunk of ceramic lamp, which I gripped like a cartoon club, the cord dangling and trailing behind me. I crept to the window, careful not to silhouette myself, and peered into the predawn.
Headlights, low and pointed at the mouth of our drive. The beams cut through the heavy fog that pooled over the pasture, turning every hillock into a suggestion of bodies.
The car was parked maybe fifty yards from the house, engine off, door left gaping. Nothing moved, but I could feel the gaze of it, the way you feel a snake’s eyes even if you can’t see the head.
Rawley was a silent streak down the hallway, barefoot, gun at his side. He stopped at the top of the stairs, then pressed his back to the wall and listened. I could just make out the faintest movement of his lips—counting, or maybe talking to the ghosts in his head.
Then, another sound: the kitchen door opening, the weathered hinges betraying us with their loud, metallic yawn. I could smell the cold river air even from here, the ozone bite of coming rain.
I inched to the edge of the landing, just far enough to see. Rawley was already descending, a panther on the prowl, every step calculated to avoid the boards that creaked. He melted into the dark at the bottom of the staircase.
A new set of sounds: the slow advance of two men, the shuffle of boots on tile, a muffled cough. They were talking, low and guttural, a language of grunts and code.
For a moment I saw everything in the moonlight streaming through the window: the blood-scrubbed floors, the ghost shapes left by the massacre, the jagged hole in the back door window. The two men who stood in the archway were not the kind who shopped at the general store on Saturdays.
They wore masks, but not ski masks or balaclavas—these were hunting masks, with camo and black mesh over the eyes, the kind you could buy at Miller’s Feed if you were too dumb to realize you’d stand out more that way.
One was taller, shoulders hunched, a long flashlight duct-taped to a crowbar.
The other was stocky, wielding a length of pipe wrapped in cloth.
They hadn’t expected anyone to be home. I could see it in the way they flinched, then recalculated, then forced themselves forward, like actors who realized the play had changed but the curtain was still up.
Rawley was out of sight, tucked behind the kitchen island. I could barely breathe for the panic, but I kept my head low, watching through the banister slats.
The taller man led, crowbar up, sweeping the beam across the kitchen. He said something I couldn’t make out, but the second guy laughed, an ugly bray that made my skin crawl.
Rawley waited, patient as death. I’d seen him do this before—wait for the perfect opening, let the enemy overcommit.
The men split up, one checking the pantry, the other heading toward the living room. For an instant, the stocky one’s back was to Rawley.
He moved. A blur, a shark in blood, up behind the guy with the pipe and one-arm-wrapped around his throat, gun pressed to the base of his skull. The crowbar man yelped, but didn’t swing, just froze, flashlight beam jittering as he tried to parse the situation.
I was glued to the floor, breathing so shallow it was almost reverse breathing, like I was trying to inhale myself out of existence. But the fear was different now, less pure terror and more…anger, maybe. How dare they, I thought. How fucking dare they.
Rawley’s voice cut the tension. “Down. Both of you.”
Pipe dropped instantly. The second man hesitated, then, seeing Rawley’s face, followed. Rawley kept them in line of sight as he patted both down, never lowering the pistol. He kicked the weapons under the table, then motioned them to kneel, hands laced behind their heads.
That’s when the third man stepped out from the mudroom.
He wasn’t as big, but he had a gun—a battered revolver, pointed at the back of Rawley’s head.
My stomach did a triple axel.
I didn’t think. I just moved, sliding down the stairs on bare feet, the lamp clutched so tight my knuckles ached.
Rawley saw me the instant I cleared the stairwell. His eyes flicked to mine, a tiny, unmistakable warning. Stay. The word was as clear as if he’d shouted it, but I couldn’t listen.
The third man advanced, gun shaking in both hands. “Put it down,” he said. His voice was higher than the others, maybe young, maybe just terrified.
Rawley, calm as you please: “You pull that trigger, you die first.” The man with the crowbar was whimpering, the stocky guy looking like he was about to puke.
The gunman’s hands shook harder. He didn’t know how to hold a weapon—fingers wrong, safety still on. I saw the moment Rawley spotted it, too.
He went for it.
There was no Hollywood slow-mo, just a blur of violence. Rawley spun, knocked the gun sideways with his forearm, then kneed the guy in the gut so hard he folded like wet cardboard.
The gun clattered to the floor. Rawley kicked it away and then, in a single motion, slammed the guy’s head against the fridge. The impact made a sound I’d never forget, like a watermelon dropped from height.
The other two men started to rise, but Rawley turned on them with such promise of violence that they shrank back, hands still on heads.
I was at the bottom of the stairs now, lamp raised, ready to—what? Hit someone? Smash a face?
The adrenaline made me reckless.
Rawley shot me a look that said, Stay the hell out of this, and I obeyed, body locking up even as my legs wanted to charge in.
He zip-tied the three men, then swept the kitchen for more threats, every move surgical. He checked the rest of the house, then circled back and crouched in front of me.
“You okay?” he asked, voice so soft I almost didn’t hear it.
I nodded, but the tears were already leaking down my face. “They had guns,” I said, stupidly.
He gripped my shoulders, steadying me. “So do we.”
For a second I wanted to laugh, because this was his idea of comfort. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, embarrassed at how little I’d done.
Rawley turned back to the men, who were now moaning and sniveling on the tile. “Sheriff’s on his way,” he said, already pulling his phone to call it in.
I looked at the kitchen, the hole in the window, the splatter of blood where the third man’s nose had exploded across the linoleum. The lamp was still in my hand, useless, but I clung to it anyway.
I pressed my other hand to my stomach, not sure if the embryo could sense fear, but hoping it knew it was safe.
“Jojo,” Rawley said, his voice warm and broken open for just a moment. “Go upstairs and pack a bag. Anything you can’t live without.”
I nodded, this time without argument, and made my way back up, every step a bruise on my feet.
The war had come home, but for now, we were still standing.
The sirens came sooner than I thought. Maybe Rawley had already texted the sheriff, maybe small towns had their own time zone for disaster response. Either way, I heard the shriek bounce off the barn before I’d even found a duffel bag in the bedroom closet.
I was stuffing clothes and the bare minimum of our actual, legal, irreplaceable documents into a laundry bag when the fighting started downstairs again.
Not just shouting—full-bodied, bone-on-wood violence.
A chair toppled, followed by the low, raw grunt that only Rawley made when he put his full weight into a hit.
I forgot the bag and ran. The steps blurred past; my feet were numb from the cold but I didn’t feel it. All I could think was, Not again, not with him bleeding on my kitchen floor.
The kitchen was a slaughterhouse. The zip-ties had held, but only for the first round—one of the men, the stocky one, had managed to break free, and now he was on Rawley with something in his fist.