Chapter 22 Raine
Raine
The Jeep fishtailed hard, tires struggling for grip on the waterlogged road. Boone wrestled the wheel, cursing under his breath as the two sets of headlights grew larger in the mirrors, closer with every second.
“They’re gaining,” he muttered.
No kidding. The growl of their engines vibrated through my chest, louder and hungrier with each turn.
I twisted in my seat, rifle braced against the window frame. Rain streaked the glass, but the outlines of the vans were clear—dark hulks cutting through the storm.
“Keep it steady,” I snapped.
Boone snorted. “Sweetheart, this is steady.”
The first van swung wide, trying to box us in. I leaned out the window and squeezed the trigger, muzzle flash lighting the cab. The windshield spiderwebbed under the shot, and the van jerked, skidding into a ditch.
The boy in the back whimpered, burying his face against his mother’s chest. I shoved the guilt down. This wasn’t about clean hands. This was survival. The older man leaned over both of them, trying to shield them from harm.
“Nice shot,” Boone said, but his voice stayed grim. “The other one’s not slowing.”
He was right. The second van roared closer, bumpers grinding against our rear fender. Metal screamed. The Jeep lurched sideways, nearly sending us into the trees.
“Hold on!” Boone shouted.
I clung to the dash, heart hammering. The survivors screamed behind me.
The van pulled back for another hit, its lights blinding through the rain.
I chambered another round, jaw set. “Next one’s mine.”
Boone threw me a look, quick and sharp. “Stoker’s gonna kill me if you die on my watch.”
“If I die,” I shot back, eyes locked on the van barreling toward us, “it won’t be because you didn’t give me the angle.”
He barked a laugh despite himself, then yanked the wheel hard, lining me up.
The van surged closer, engine screaming.
I took a breath, aimed, and pulled the trigger.