19
Jem was trying not to look at the barrel when Tean said, “Fire.”
“What?”
“Fire!”
The doc was pointing, and sure enough, the far end of the barn was on fire. The flames were spreading quickly, climbing the wall.
It was the way his brain worked when he was riffing, when everything was going right, when he knew he was going to score because for a few moments, he couldn’t do anything wrong: he just knew sometimes.
He grabbed Tean and shoved him down.
And bullets ripped through the side of the barn.
The spray of gunfire sent chunks of wood and a shower of splinters through the air. Fragments of boards clattered against the floor. Some of the splinters fell on the back of Jem’s coat.
The gunfire went on for what felt like a long time. Under Jem, Tean was perfectly still—not shaking. Maybe not even breathing.
And then the shooting stopped. The air smelled like gunpowder now, mixed with the smoke and the stink of the bodies. Outside someone was laughing. And then one of the assholes howled.
Tean’s body tightened. He tapped Jem’s arm.
Jem got off him, but he kept a hand on Tean’s shoulder to keep the doc from standing.
They crouched below the level of the stall doors.
Tean had splinters in his hair, and he was holding his glasses with one hand.
He turned toward the fire, which had climbed the wall and almost reached the roof.
Then he looked at the other pair of doors.
“Somebody’ll be out there with a gun,” Jem said. “That’s the whole point.”
Tean swallowed, but he didn’t say anything.
After a moment, he nodded. It was his rational voice—the one he used when they were discussing if Jem should buy a new bike, or if Scipio had hurt his leg because he’d jumped to catch a ball, or if it was time for Tean to stop working and pay attention to his boyfriend.
It was the one he used when he was refusing to be afraid.
“They used an accelerant. The fire is going to spread quickly, and as soon as the rafters weaken, the ceiling will come down on top of us. That’s if we don’t die from smoke inhalation first.”
And yeah, the smoke was getting thicker.
“Let’s figure out how many of them we’re dealing with,” Jem said. “Stay here.”
“Jem, I can’t stay here.”
“Then check that side. You want to get a look without opening a door—nothing that’ll let them know you’re there, otherwise they’ll start shooting.”
Tean nodded. Still crouching, he ran to the row of stalls on the other side of the barn.
Jem moved into the stall behind him. The straw scuffed underfoot. Gunpowder and wood smoke and horse shit. If he ruined this pair of ROOS—
It was one of those doors that you could open top and bottom, and the two parts didn’t meet in the middle.
He scooted up to it and pressed one eye to the gap.
It took a moment for him to make sense of what he was seeing: the waist-high grass, the sky, to the left, a cottonwood.
And then he saw him: an asshole in camo and a wolf’s mask.
When he got back to the breezeway, Tean was covering his mouth with his coat, but he held up one finger.
Jem nodded. The air was hot, and the smoke hurt Jem’s throat.
He pulled up his own coat and held up one finger.
He tried not to look, but he did anyway.
The flames were climbing the first set of rafters.
It was a classic setup because it worked. You wanted to get rid of somebody? Set the house on fire and wait for them to come out. It worked with barns, too.
Think. Think. Think.
He’s counting on you. You’ve got to get him out of here.
“We have to run,” Tean said.
Jem shook his head.
“We’re going to die if we stay in here.”
You can’t talk to them. You can’t trick them. You can’t make them think you’ve got the upper hand. Hell, you can’t even get close enough to beat the shit out of them, not without giving them a chance to put a bullet in you.
He’s counting on you.
You just have to get to the car. If you can get to the car—
The crackle of the fire was louder now. The heat hammered against the side of his face. Overhead, wood groaned, and a loud pop came from the roof.
“Jem, we have to go!”
If you can get to the car.
Shoving Tean ahead of him, Jem moved back into the stall. He took a deep breath—the smoke was making it through his coat, and his throat was raw. Then he checked his pockets. Car keys, barrette, paracord, antenna, wallet.
“Wait until he’s down,” Jem said. “Then run for the car.”
“What are you going to—”
But Jem wasn’t listening. He was counting down.
Three.
God, please let it work.
Two.
You’re ice. You’re so cold you’re frozen. You couldn’t do it wrong even if you tried.
One.
Show time.
He pressed the alarm button on the car.
And nothing happened.
Twice, dumbass. You have to press it twice.
The second time, the alarm blared.
He threw open the door and sprinted out into the sunlight. The dumbass in the wolf mask was still staring off toward the road, his body slack with surprise.
Thirty yards.
The tall grass whipped Jem’s thighs. The sound of it against his jeans was a hiss that got louder and louder.
Twenty yards.
The wolf started to turn.
Ten yards.
The ground gave unexpectedly. Jem’s knee buckled. He started to fall. Caught himself. Kept going.
Five yards.
The wolf brought the rifle up.
Everything was slow. The sunlight beading on the stalks of grass. The glisten of the cheap-ass fur on the mask. The camo pattern the dumbshit had chosen for the barrel of the gun.
Still five yards.
The muzzle swinging toward Jem.
He threw the keys like he was launching a patented Jem Berger fastball.
The yard had looked perfect for playing catch.
It was a beautiful throw. The keys hit the man in the face, and even with the mask for padding, the impact made the man shout. The barrel of the rifle dropped, forgotten for a moment, and Jem closed the last few feet between them.
He had the barrette in one hand because this was killing work, and as they went down together, he drove the sharpened piece of metal into the man’s side—over and over again.
He’d had a foster mom who thought she was going to make all their clothes, and he remembered her sewing machine, how fast the needle had gone up and down, up and down.
In and out. She’d put it through her thumb, and she didn’t make them any more clothes.
Up and down.
In and out.
Rolling.
Dust in his mouth.
Weeds slashing his face, scratching the back of his neck.
The weight of the other man’s body.
Jem’s hand was wet.
And then the pain caught up with the man, and he screamed.
A backward elbow caught Jem in the jaw, and the world went negative. He fought through it, grappling with the man, but the man landed a kick to Jem’s thigh, and the impact sent Jem onto his side. He lost his grip.
The sky was the blue of a cereal bowl. The air smelled like grass.
Jem scrambled to his feet, spinning—limping, his thigh a dead weight—
A gunshot cracked the air.
The wolf was running around the corner of the barn.
And Tean had the rifle.
“Shoot him!” Jem dragged himself toward Tean. “Shoot him!”
Tean followed the man with the gun, his hand loose around the trigger. But he didn’t fire.
With a cry of frustration, Jem yanked the rifle away from Tean. His hand was covered in blood, but that only registered at a distance. He set the stock against his shoulder, aimed—
And the wolf was gone. Disappeared around the barn.
Flames danced along the wooden structure. With a long crack, something gave way, and the roof began to fall. It tilted inward at one end. Sparks spun up. And then there was a single, loud, snap, and the roof crashed in.
Jem staggered sideways, gun still glued to his shoulder, working his way around the barn, ignoring how he had to drag his leg. Even at a distance, the heat off the burning barn was intense, and he wanted to turn his face away, put up a hand. But he didn’t. Not yet.
Nothing on the other side of the barn.
Nobody.
They were gone.