Chapter 19 #2
“Okay.” His gaze flickered desperately around the room, searching for something, probably a weapon, but there was nothing for him.
He pursed his lips, trying a different tactic.
“Listen. Dekker is a psychopath. I know that, okay? I know what it looks like to you. I get it. I’m not a moron.
And I’m not a monster, okay? I’m not like them.
But you’ve got to understand. I don’t have a place like this, out here in the boonies, away from all the sick people, with lots of food to hold me over.
I didn’t have anything like this. It’s been six weeks since this crazy disease started killing everyone.
The national supply chain broke down over a month ago, longer maybe.
Do you know how much surplus food stores hold?
Three days. After the panic started, store shelves were empty within days.
Days! There’s been nothing to buy for weeks.
What are we supposed to do? Everyone not sick is so hungry they’re going mad.
People murdering each other for a can of green beans.
It’s not just us. We’re not even the worst of the gangs, okay?
There’s worse out there. What was I supposed to do? ”
“Not join a murderous gang, for one.”
“If you don’t align yourself with the type of people who can protect you, then you’re already dead.”
“And just who are the people you’re with?”
“They call themselves the Headhunters. They’re a group of organized criminals, operating in Georgia and parts of North Carolina, specializing in weapons smuggling, drug trafficking, stuff like that.
But once the virus started destroying everything, they saw an opportunity. They’re traders and service providers.
“The Headhunters travel around scavenging, searching for anything of value. They can get people whatever they want or need—illegal weapons, drugs, expensive, rare medications. Pretty much anything. Communities exchange their resources in trade for services rendered, like offering protection from thieves and marauders.”
She caught how Damien spoke of the Headhunters as “they” and not “we,” trying to distance himself from their brutality, trying to make her believe he was somehow different from Dekker and his ilk.
She scowled. “What other kinds of services?” She suspected, but she needed to know. She needed to hear him confirm it.
“I’m not sure. I’m just a low-level guy. I don’t know everything—”
She tilted the curved razor-edge of the blade enough to draw another trickle of blood. “Tell me.”
He swallowed. The edge of the knife bobbed along with his Adam’s apple. “Sometimes, they trade in… people.”
Her blood went cold.
“Like I said, there’s no law anymore. No one to stop those with certain… appetites. They pay for people. Mostly girls. Young, pretty ones that can be subdued and… trained.” His lips pressed together, as if he were embarrassed. Good. He should be.
“That’s why they want me. To sell me to the highest bidder.”
“I’m not a part of any of that, I swear. Mostly it’s trading in good things, helping people survive, to get medicine and food, and other stuff they need. I’ve—I’ve never even killed anyone.” He said it like a confession, like it shamed him.
Me neither, she almost said. But that would’ve defeated the purpose of the knife—and the threat behind it. Just because she hadn’t killed before didn’t mean she wouldn’t, if she had to. All creatures would fight to the death to defend themselves. It was instinctive.
“Let me go,” Damien said. “Please.”
“No way.”
He sighed. “Then we’re at a standstill. Either you kill me, or you don’t. Eventually, Dekker is going to come looking for me, and then what are you going to do?”
She had no idea, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. “Then I’ll kill you now and take whatever head start I can get.”
“I won’t say anything.” His voice was steady.
He didn’t sound afraid anymore. “Isn’t that worth the risk?
If you kill me, they will hunt you down.
Whether you have ten seconds or ten minutes, they will find you.
If you let me go, there’s a chance I’m true to my word, and they won’t know where to look for you, or that you were even here tonight. ”
She despised his logic, but it rang true. An image of Shadow’s jaws closing around her throat flashed through her mind. An alpha was the one with the power to kill, but who chose not to.
She didn’t want to kill this guy, even though she was fairly certain he was lying through his pretty teeth. She didn’t want blood on her hands. Not yet, anyway.
He looked down at her, his expression unreadable. “Are you going to let me go now?”
Abruptly, she was aware of how close she was to him, his breath rustling her hair, the hardness of his body pressed against hers, his muscles spare and wiry.
His piercings shone in the dim light when he tilted his head slightly.
She could make out the individual lashes brushing his cheeks when he blinked.
Her breath caught in her throat. “No. I can’t.”
“Yes,” he said. “You can. Because you know I’m right.”
“You’re the bad guy.”
“That’s a matter of perspective.”
“Tell that to Carl. Or Phil. That was on you. You nearly killed him.”
“I was saving him—from Dekker. Dekker would have killed him, too, if I hadn’t stepped in. Better to be knocked out than shot in the head. That wound is pretty hard to heal from. I never would have murdered that old man.”
She stared at him in the dark, trying to wrap her mind around his words. They made a terrible sort of sense.
“Damien!” a muffled voice shouted from down the hall.
“You’re running out of time,” he said, his voice infuriatingly calm. But his frequent swallows betrayed his nervousness. He might not sound afraid, but deep down, he was. He didn’t want to die, either.
She watched the blade ride up and down his throat.
Damn it. She hated that he was right. She hated that she didn’t trust this guy as far as she could throw him.
But in the end, she had little choice. Only one option made sense.
These men would come barreling into this room in a minute; she had to be gone when they did.
“Fine,” she said grudgingly. Inhaling sharply, she stepped back, removing the knife from his neck but keeping it up and ready, half-expecting him to scream. Or attack her.
He did neither. He stood, hands loose at his sides, his head tilted. The way he looked at her—wary but curious, fascinated even—it was jarring. She didn’t like it. She wasn’t one of the captive animals meant to be stared at, examined with impunity.
“What’s your name?”
“None of your damn business.”
A ghost of a smile flickered across his face. He took a small step toward her. “Tell me your name.”
Fear jolted her heart. She pointed her knife at him. “Stay back!”
That cunning look was back on his face. Like she was the chicken in the hen house, and he was the fox in search of dinner. But that wasn’t quite right, either. “You’ve stayed alive all this time. I’ve seen so many people die. Strong, capable people. How did you do it?”
From the kitchen, someone shouted. “Damien! Hurry the hell up! Let’s go!”
Raven and Damien froze. They were four feet apart. He had the room to shout before she could reach him. Would he yell now? Betray his promise and reveal her presence? How many seconds did she have? Five, ten? Not enough.
“Run,” he said. “Run, and don’t look back.”
She ran. Feeling far too exposed and vulnerable with her back to the enemy. Sprinting to the window, she clambered up and out awkwardly with the small knife still in her right hand.
Her heart raced, waiting for a bullet to the back. None came.
She nearly stabbed herself as she shoved her body over the sill and tumbled to the ground. Scrambling to her feet, she flipped the pocketknife closed and shoved it in her pocket, then hoisted her backpack and the rifle with the burlap sack over her shoulders. She fled without a backward glance.
The fog had thickened. It drifted between the exhibits in hazy white ribbons, making visibility poor. Ahead and fifty yards to the right, a few lights bobbed like spotlights in the murky gloom.
She swerved sharply, her legs pumping, and sprinted behind the meat storage building.
Pressing her back against the concrete block wall, she peered around the corner.
The fog both helped and hindered her. What hid Raven also hid any potential skulking Headhunters.
She could barely see forty feet ahead or behind her.
The bobbing flashlights drew nearer. She held her breath, waiting for the cries of alarm. Had Damien told them she’d just escaped out the window? Were they hunting her down right now?
Agonizing seconds passed. Then minutes. No shouting. No Headhunters running toward her, guns blazing.
Perhaps Damien had kept his word after all. Relief flooded her, along with another emotion she couldn’t quite name or understand. Now was not the time to examine her feelings. It was time to stay the hell alive.
Raven eased around the far corner of the building, keeping it between her and the group of Headhunters as they drew closer. They weren’t hunting, though. They strolled along the path with their flashlights aimed at the flagstone at their feet.
Heart in her throat, she waited for their voices to dim, for their footfalls to fade into silence.
In her frazzled state, she didn’t remember the hoverboard until she’d started running again. She was too scared to stop. She stayed off the main path and kept to the rear of the exhibits.
Weeds and thorns snagged her pant legs. She ran and ran, legs pumping, adrenaline shooting through her veins, cold breath searing her throat.
She raced past the reptile house, the bonobos, the otters, the eagle, the porcupines, and the ostriches.
Then she circled back onto the flagstone path, rounding the bear enclosure where Kodiak and Sage slept soundly.
The rear gate loomed in the fog, forty yards away.
She reached the narrow space between the bear and hybrid wolf paddocks.
Almost there, almost out of the sanctuary and to the woods—
Sudden voices to her right. Flashlights wavered wildly. Echoing laughter. To her right, several human figures clustered by the timber wolf enclosure forty yards ahead of her.
Instinctively, Raven dropped to the ground to make herself small and invisible. She’d been out in the open, clearly visible if they’d been looking in her direction, if the fog hadn’t obscured her approach.
Grass damp with frost dampened the front of her jacket, seeped through her pants. Cold wetness kissed her cheek. With her face pressed to the grass, she could barely make out their shapes, moving in the mist.
The Headhunters stood between Raven and the rear gate, between her and freedom.
The first gunshot cracked through the air.