Page 14 of Anarchy at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 4)
Twice, I stumble, but manage to avoid serious injury, using the trunks of trees to haul myself to my feet as I careen down the hill at a pace that’s decidedly dangerous.
Even worse though, is the sound of that car circling back down the mountain.
Not long after, I hear it: the crashing of boots in the woods, the cracking of sticks, the rustling of brush. Ducking low, I huddle beneath the reaching limbs of a blackberry bush. The tendrils are like alien arms, reaching out into the darkness. They’re dotted with thorns, and I’m sure I’m bleeding, but it’s sure as fuck better than getting found by some of Ophelia’s goons.
Whoever it is that’s in the woods with me—Charter Crew, one of those hired thugs, whatever—is moving quickly, but not quietly, like they’re so certain that I can’t have gone far that they’re not even trying.
That much I pick up right away. Oh, and the fact that there’s only one of them, too.
Good sign.
I wait for the sound of their boots to pass by my hiding place as they follow the road down the hill. After long enough, they’re likely to switch to the other side and continue their search there. That’s when I can start moving again.
My breathing is controlled, nice and quiet, but I can’t help the shivering. It’s cold out here, and I’m covered in blood. My face hurts, and everything is damp and wet; my clothes are rapidly becoming soaked. Even the damn blackberry bush above me is dripping down the back of my hoodie, cold fingers of water sliding down my spine.
December in Oregon, what are you gonna do?
When the woods are silent long enough to satisfy me, I stand up and keep going, intending on putting distance between me and my pursuer.
I make it all of fifteen feet before somebody comes at me from behind.
The guy—whoever the fuck he is—wraps his arm around my neck. But if he thought this was going to be easy, then he doesn’t know what it’s like when you live for someone other than yourself.
When I fight, I’m not fighting for pride, or because I’m some macho dickface with something to prove. I’m not even fighting to survive. The only reason I fight is for the people I love. And when you’ve got motivation like that, you can break necks like you were born to do it.
Using the slope of the hill and the bodyweight of my attacker, I throw him forward and over my shoulder. His back hits the ground hard, and he grunts. It’s the only sound he manages to get out before I’m driving my elbow into the front of his throat.
The man gags, hands reaching up to grab at me, but I pull back quick enough that his fingertips do little more than graze my face. Bet he has weapons on him though. As soon as he recovers from the element of surprise long enough to remember that, I’m screwed.
As he pushes himself up to a sitting position, I grab for his belt, fingers feeling for a gun or a knife of some sort. It’s too dark to see much, but he’s got the advantage since he already knows where, exactly, all of his weapons are. This is going to be a tough one, Aaron, I tell myself, but then I think about Bernadette again. I think about our girls. If I die here, the course of their lives will be irrevocably changed, and that’s not fair to them. Not at all.
When the guy feels me going for his belt, he reacts just the way I thought he would, reaching for a gun in a shoulder holster under his armpit. I just assume there’s two of them, going for the other side and feeling this spike of adrenalized elation when my fingers clench around the butt of a gun.
An elbow comes back, hitting me in the chest, but even though the impact hurts like a bitch, I don’t move, yanking the gun out of its holster and then falling back on my ass to put some space between us. By the feel of it, I can tell it’s a semi-auto of some sort. The most common safety location is at the rear of the slide, but not always. My fingers fumble for it in the dark, but I can’t find anything.
Come on, man, come on.
My attacker is already turning around toward me, using the sound of my breathing to find me in the dark. With few options left, I heft the weapon up in both hands and point it at the shadow I see moving across the silver edge of the moon. It’s the only target I have to aim at. Please, for the love of god, let this be a Glock or a Walther P99 or something without a safety.
