Page 119 of Victorious
Mitch set himself up next to the “lobby’s” “refreshment area,” at the only table, which was so small his legs didn’t fit beneath it. But at least the Wi-Fi in here worked. He poured a cup of coffee he had no plans to drink, hoping it would keep him awake through sheer osmosis as he booted up.
From here, he had a decent sight line on the parking lot and kept glancing toward it as he logged into the gardening forum. He was surprised to see a message from Victor.
SHARPENEDSPADE1652: BAD WEATHER?
Mitch frowned. He hadn’t touched base yet, to let Victor know about the sudden move, but somehow, of course, Victor had known.
Mitch’s hands flew across the keyboard.
TURNINGOVERANEWLEAF: LOOKED LIKE IT. PACKED UP TO BE SAFE.
It was the middle of the night now; no telling when Victor would see the note. Or so he thought, but seconds later, the dot beside Vale’s handle turned from gray to green. He was online.
SHARPENEDSPADE1652: ACTUAL STORM? OR CLOUDS ON THE HORIZON?
Mitch hesitated.
He didn’t want to alarm Victor. They’d uprooted dozens of times in the past three years. But the vast majority of those moves had been proactive. Just in case.
So was this, Mitch reminded himself.
But something about the man in their front yard still bothered him. When Mitch had bought the cabin, a deal done solely over email, the realtor informed him that the previous owner was selling it because they wanted to live abroad. Live abroad, those were the words they’d used—but according to the man on the front step, the owner, his uncle, had died while he was serving overseas.
Maybe Mitch was being paranoid.
But after a moment, he answered honestly:
TURNINGOVERANEWLEAF: HARD TO TELL.
Victor’s reply came in the form of a phone number, the command to call unwritten but implicit.
Mitch glanced toward the counter. He considered using the “lobby” phone, but worried it would draw attention, so opted for the one back in his room. He memorized the number, shut the laptop, and headed back, the bell chiming in his wake. Halfway across the parking lot, he heard Dol begin to bark.
Dammit, Syd, he thought, starting toward the stairs.
“Hey!” shouted the motel manager, appearing even more disheveled in the office doorway. “Can’t you read the sign? It says no pets allo—”
The word was cut off by a bullet.
A single whistling instant, then the man’s head snapped back, and he dropped like dead weight.
For a fraction of a second, time froze, Mitch’s mind going blank from sheer surprise. Then, like a recoil, it slammed back into motion. Mitch flung himself behind a post, scanning the parking lot, the rooms, searching for the source of the shot, but it was too dark. He bolted toward the nearest stairs, expecting any moment to hear another whistle, feel the horrible tunneling heat, but he made it to the steps, vaulted up them three at a time, cursing himself for giving Syd her own room, for leaving his, for a dozen choices that didn’t matter now.
He reached room number 12, and pounded on the door, but Syd didn’t answer. Dol’s barking turned desperate, his claws scratching from the other side.
Mitch threw his shoulder into the door, and the cheap wood groaned, then gave way.
“Sydney?” he called as the door buckled inward, but there was no sign of the kid, only Dol, a mass of black fur bolting past him like a bat out of hell, surging full tilt toward the stairs.
The dog’s compass only pointed one way—toward Syd—so Mitch doubled back, pausing only to duck into his room and grab the shotgun he kept inside his duffel.
He pumped it with one hand as he started after Dol, who was sprinting across the parking lot, toward the pool. Mitch headed for the stairs at the far end of the floor, but as he passed the nearest set of steps, a weight slammed into him. No body, just pure force, knocking him sideways, and the next thing he knew, he was crashing down the metal stairs.
Consumed by pain and steel, a barrage of sharp edges as the world spun and the pavement came rushing up to meet him.
Mitch landed hard.
Hard enough to make his ears ring.
