Chapter 72
Seth
Beau drives fast with both hands locked on the wheel. His knuckles are pale under the dash lights. His jaw is clenched so tight I can hear his teeth grind when he breathes. He keeps swearing under his breath.
Brooke sits in the passenger seat with my phone in her hand. She keeps refreshing the tracker screen until her thumb slips from sweat. The dot is gone. The app keeps loading and failing. Grant either killed the tracker or switched vehicles. Either way, he did it on purpose.
I sit in the back seat and keep my knife in my hand. My mind keeps dragging up images I don't want.
Brooke’s voice goes tight. “There.”
Beau brakes hard enough that my shoulder hits the seat. Headlights sweep across a van on the shoulder, angled wrong, silent, dead. The driver door is cracked open, and that small gap looks staged. The hazard lights are off. The whole thing feels like bait.
Then we hear Krueger. His barking tears through the night from inside the van, furious and trapped. It hits my nerves like a wire pulled too tight.
Beau throws the car into park. We are out before the engine settles. Brooke has her gun up. Beau has his rifle up. I keep my knife ready.
We move to the van first.
I listen past Krueger’s growling, past the engine ticking as it cools.
A voice carries through the woods. Then another. Then Naomi makes a sound that is half protest and half fear.
Brooke moves first.
She steps off the shoulder into the brush, gun up, breath shallow. Beau follows immediately, rifle raised, eyes scanning the dark. I follow them with my knife in my hand, keeping my steps quiet.
The forest swallows the road light fast. Leaves crack under our boots. Branches slap our sleeves and faces. The voices get clearer, we hear some sort of struggle. Naomi’s voice tightens, and then it cracks. We slow at the edge of a clearing.
Then we see it.
Travis is on the ground near a tree, wrists zip tied behind his back. Blood spreads beneath him, soaking into the leaves and dirt. Too much blood. His face has gone gray under the moonlight, and I can’t tell if he’s even alive.
Brooke’s hand flies to her mouth, covering it before the sound can escape. I feel the way her body locks up, the way everything in her wants to run to him.
Beau shifts slightly, his voice cutting in under his breath. “No. Brooke, wait.”
Her shoulders tense harder.
Naomi is on her back a few feet into the clearing, her wrists zip tied behind her. Dirt and leaves cling to her skin where she must have fought. Her leggings are gone. Grant stands over her, one hand still at her hip, the other holding a revolver.
Elise and Ryan are farther back, zip tied and shaking. One of Grant’s men stands near them with his rifle raised to their heads, watching them like they are already dead. Another stands off to the side of Grant, scanning the trees, waiting for movement.
We stay low at the edge of the clearing, watching, waiting, trying to line it up so we can take every one of these fuckers out without giving them a chance to put a bullet in Naomi or the kids.
Grant tilts his head, looking down at Naomi.
“Here’s how we’re gonna play this.”
He spins the revolver in his hand.
“We’re gonna play Russian roulette.”
My grip on my knife tightens.
“I’m gonna stick this in your cunt,” he crouches slightly, lowering the gun, “and I’m gonna pull the trigger until your luck runs out.”
Naomi’s scream cuts through the clearing.
That’s our window.
Beau fires.
His rifle cracks once, and the man near the kids drops before he can turn. Beau fires again, and the second man goes down just as fast. Brooke fires once as well, hitting the third man and the sound overlaps the second shot. The clearing fills with echoes and the smell of burned powder.
Grant jerks upright, startled, head snapping toward the noise. His hand leaves Naomi for half a second, and that half second is all I need.
I sprint.
He turns toward the movement, trying to find a target, trying to decide who to shoot first. He sees me too late.
I hit him hard and drive him to the ground. His hands come up fast, clawing at my throat and jacket, trying to shove me off. I punch him once in the face. I punch him again. I hit him until blood spits from his mouth and his eyes blink too slow.
Brooke fires again.
Grant’s hand jerks, and he screams. She shot his hand, and the sound is ugly. He tries to curl that hand against his chest, but his body is still fighting me.
He bucks under me and twists, trying to throw me off. His good hand scrapes the ground, searching.
A knife flashes in his grip. He drives it into my hand.
Pain explodes up my arm. My fingers spasm, and the knife in my other hand almost slips. Blood runs hot and fast between my knuckles.
I slam my weight forward anyway and hit him again with my free fist.
Grant uses my split second of pain to wrench his body sideways. He shoves hard and scrambles out from under me. He gets to his feet and runs, clutching his damaged hand close while his other hand pumps for speed.
He crashes through brush, and keeps going.
Brooke drops beside Travis the moment Grant breaks away.
She presses both hands to Travis’s bleeding body. Her hands start shaking as soon as she makes contact, but she keeps pressure, teeth clenched, eyes locked on him.
Naomi crawls toward Elise and Ryan with her hands still bound.
Beau moves to the kids first. He keeps his rifle up with one hand and cuts Elise’s zip ties with the other. He cuts Ryan’s next. He gets Naomi’s wrists free right after. Naomi immediately wraps her arms around both kids, holding them close, shaking too hard to hide it.
I push myself up, cradling my bleeding hand against my chest. My skin feels too hot and too cold at the same time. My heart hurts in my ribs.
Brooke looks up at me. Her face is smeared with blood that isn’t hers. Her eyes are wide and wet.
“Go!”
I don’t move fast enough.
“Go!” Her voice breaks on the word.
My eyes flick to Travis. His breathing is thin. Brooke is pressing down with both hands, refusing to let him slip away. Naomi is holding the kids close, whispering to them, trying to keep them from falling apart.
Beau looks at me and gives one short nod. Letting me know he has them, that Brooke won’t be alone.
Grant is still running.
If Grant disappears, he will do this again. He will keep coming until he wins.
I make the decision. I turn and chase the sound of his footsteps.
My wounded hand burns with every heartbeat. I keep moving anyway, because letting him vanish is worse. I can hear him ahead. He is loud now, crashing through the woods. The trees thin and the road appears again.
Grant bursts out first and heads for his vehicle.
I sprint to the truck. The keys are still in it. I get in and start the engine with my good hand.
Grant’s taillights jump ahead as he peels off. I follow right behind him.
He fires first. His arm hangs out the window and muzzle flashes light the road. The first shot shatters my side mirror. Glass snaps across the cabin and bites my cheek. The second shot punches through the windshield and misses my head by inches. I duck and keep driving.
He fires again.
The bullet rips through the passenger side window. The smell of gun powder fills the car. I keep the wheel straight and push harder. The road curves.
Grant takes it too fast.
I take it faster because I can’t let him widen the gap. I close the distance.
He glances back, and I catch his face in the mirror. His eyes are wide. His mouth is open. He is not laughing now.
I hit his rear. His car fishtails. Tires scream. He flips. Glass and sparks tear through the dark as the car rolls, then slams down onto its roof. Metal grinds against asphalt before it finally comes to a stop.
I brake hard and shove my door open before my car even settles. Smoke curls up from the wreck. The engine ticks. Something inside hisses.
For a moment, everything goes quiet. Then I see movement.
Grant drags himself through the shattered window, coughing, one arm hanging wrong while the other claws at the ground. He pulls himself free and hits the pavement hard, rolling before trying to push himself up.
I move in fast. I grab the back of his shirt and rip him off the ground. He twists and swings with his good arm, catching me across the jaw. My head snaps to the side, but I don’t slow down.
I hit him back harder.
Bone cracks under my fist. He stumbles, but he stays on his feet. He shoves off me and runs straight for the trees.
I watch him disappear into the dark for half a second, then I go after him. Blood runs down my hand and drips from my fingers, but I keep moving. I can hear him ahead of me. He is loud and uneven, crashing through brush without control.
I close the distance fast.
He stumbles and goes down hard. I hear the impact, hear him curse as he tries to scramble back up.
I come through the brush just as he turns.
He has a knife in his hand. He lunges. The blade comes straight for my throat.
I knock his wrist aside and drive into him.
We hit the ground together, rolling through dirt and leaves while he tries to get on top.
He slams a knee into my ribs. Pain cuts through my side, but I stay on him.
He swings the knife again. The blade slices across my arm, shallow but hot.
I grab his wrist and slam it into the ground once, then again. The knife slips from his grip and disappears into the leaves. He goes for my throat instead, fingers digging in as he tries to choke the air out of me.
I drive my forehead into his face. His nose breaks under the impact. Blood pours immediately. His grip loosens.
I roll on top of him and start hitting him. The first punch lands and I see Brooke in that manor, dragged inside while he stood there and let his brother torture her.
I hit him again.
The next one lands and I see the footage, her parents, the way Grant stood there with my father and John while they murdered them, like it was just another job.
I hit him again.
My mother’s face flashes through my head, the way she looked into that camera right before he took her from me.
I don't stop.
Then I see Travis on the ground, blood spreading under him.
Each hit lands harder than the last, everything in me coming out with it. The anger, the loss, every thing he did that he never had to answer for. His head snaps side to side, blood spilling across his face, his body slowing under me.
I could kill him right here.
It would be easy.
Too easy.
My fist stops mid-swing. I stare down at him, breathing hard, blood running from my hand onto his shirt.
No. He doesn’t get that.
I grab his collar and slam his head into the ground.
Once.
Twice.
The second impact takes the fight out of him. His body goes loose under my hands, his eyes unfocused, breath uneven. I watch him for a second to make sure he is out.
Then I reach down, grab both of his wrists, and wrench his arms behind his back. I tear a strip from his shirt and bind them tight, pulling it until there is no give.
He groans once, barely conscious, but he doesn't fight.
I haul him up by the back of his collar. His weight drags heavy, his feet barely keeping up as I pull him through the trees. Branches hit his body as I drag him forward. His boots catch on roots and rocks, but I keep moving, forcing him back toward the road.
By the time we break through the treeline, he's half-conscious and barely upright.
I shove him against the side of the truck and grab his jaw, forcing his head up. Blood covers his face. His eyes struggle to focus.
“You don’t get an easy ending,” I tell him.
He tries to speak, but nothing comes out.
I drag him to the back door, shove him inside, and make sure he stays down. Then I slam the door shut and move around to the driver’s side.
Tonight is not the end.
Tonight is the beginning of his suffering.