Page 113 of The Boy Who Cried Bear
“Don’t talk,” I murmur. “Voices carry.”
He nods, and his voice drops again. “What they’re doing out there, it’s … it’s … I wouldn’t have believed it if you told me. That poor kid. They tried to…”
His voice drops so low that I pick up my pace to hear him. I can’t help it, and when he spins, part of my brain screams at me for being so goddamn stupid, falling for the ruse.
Thank God for my fast reflexes, because when he lunges, my gun flies up before he can grab me. Behind me, Dalton moves fast and says something, but my entire focus is on the young man at the end of my gun barrel, his own weapon pointed at me.
“Put the gun down,” I say.
He doesn’t answer.
“Put the gun down or I am going to take it from you.”
“I’m not the guy you’re looking for. You have this all wrong. I tried to save the kid.”
I kick with my bad leg, and my foot connects with the front of his right thigh. He lets out a scream as he falls back, a scream of agony that doesn’t come from my half-assed kick. It comes from that kick connecting with the spot where Max stabbed the guy who tried to strangle him.
When Jay stumbles, I go for his gun, but Dalton is already there, grabbing his arm and wrenching it to the side and then taking the gun from him.
“Tell me again how you didn’t try to kill our kid,” Dalton says, slamming his fist into that same spot and making Jay howl.
“Fine,” Jay snarls. “But it’s still not what you think. They made me do it. Promised me fifty grand for cleaning up Sandy’s mess. That kid isn’t going to be the only one they try to kill. You might hate my fucking guts right now, but I can tell you everything.”
“For a price, right?” I say.
His lips twist. “Of course. You get me out of here and pay me what they promised me, and I’ll tell you everything.”
Dalton snorts. “You mean you’ll concoct a very expensive line of bullshit.”
“So you don’t want the truth? It’s your funeral. I was just trying—”
Jay wheels midsentence and tries to bolt, only to stumble. He’s not getting far on that wounded leg. Dalton shakes his head as Jay tries again, his feet still twisting as he hisses in pain. He manages to get three steps. Then there’s the crack of a branch snapping underfoot, and he trips, face-planting on the ground.
“How long you want to keep doing this?” Dalton says as he walks over to Jay. “We can let you run, but they’re going to find you. I don’t think you have anything interesting to say, but if you really don’t want us turning you in—”
He stops. Then, “Fuck!”
Dalton spins, gun up. There’s a dark spot of blood on Jay’s shirt. It seems to be up on his shoulder, which is strange, but he’s not moving, and I remember the crack that sounded like a snapped branch.
Jay is lying in the dirt and not moving, and Dalton is looking for a shooter.
“Hello!” someone calls in the forest. “We are approaching your location. Please confirm that the threat has been neutralized.”
Dalton’s answer is a string of profanity, but the clomp of boots means the intruder is making no attempt to hide their approach. I move to Jay. I’m lowering myself beside him when I see the blood on the back of his neck. A memory flashes of Sandy being stabbed in the back of the neck and me saying it was the knife-blade equivalent of a CNS shot.
This is a CNS shot. A clean sniper shot that killed him instantly.
So what the hell is that spot on his shoulder?
I touch it, but there’s no hole in the fabric. It’s just a dime-sized spot of blood soaking through his shirt.
“My apologies.” Rogers appears, with two guards behind him, one carrying a rifle. “We shouldn’t have shot when you were so close to him. I’m afraid my man misjudged the situation. We heard a cry of pain, and it looked as if Jay had attacked you.” His gaze sweeps over us. “You seem unharmed.”
“You followed us,” Dalton says.
“At a distance, to ensure your safety. I appreciate your assistance in this matter. We will take it from here.”
Dalton’s mouth works. I know what he wants to say. The hell you will. My jaw aches from holding back the same words.
