Page 127 of Luck of the Devil
I picked up the rifle and raised it over the top of the trunk, scanning for movement. I found a figure in the scope, my nerves buzzing. My mind raced with everything that could go wrong, but if I could thin out the herd, we’d have a better chance of surviving the night.
I inhaled slowly, let it out steady, then squeezed the trigger.
The rifle kicked against my shoulder, lighter than I’d expected. I didn’t wait to see if he dropped: instead, I shifted targets and fired again. A second figure crumbled. Then the third. I swept the scope across the hill, but the smoke was thicker now, swallowing everything in its path.
A rain of bullets showered down on us. I ducked down, pressing my back to the car, waiting for the attack to stop.
Malcolm turned to me, his gaze steadier. “How many’d you take out?”
“Three, but that obviously wasn’t all of them.”
His jaw tightened. “You can count on it.”
The attack began to slow, maybe because the smoke was getting thicker. The chemical fumes were definitely getting stronger.
It was time to go.
I set the rifle on the ground and scrambled back into the car. I dumped the rest of the whiskey onto the jeans, then struck the lighter. The cloth flared with a whoosh, heat licking up my arm. I backed out, heart pounding, and shut the door behind me.
“Okay,” I said, breathing hard. “Let’s get you into a squat so we can be ready to move. Then, if the hill looks clear, we’ll make a break for the trees.”
He gave a sharp nod, then grimaced as he pushed forward, bracing himself with his palms on the ground. His balance wavered, but he held it.
“Do you think you can walk by yourself if I cover you?”
He let out a grunt—annoyed, not at me, but at the situation. He was used to calling the shots, not being the one bleeding on the ground.
“I’ll get there,” he muttered.
I picked up the handgun and ejected the magazine, counting the bullets. Six rounds left. Not enough for a real firefight, but that was what the rifle was for.
“There are six shots left,” I said, handing over the weapon. “I know you can’t aim it, but if someone gets the jump on you, squeeze the trigger.”
Still in a squat, he took it and swayed, his hand darting out to brace against the car. Definitely not a good omen for a twenty-yard sprint under fire. Fighting for balance, he managed to shove the weapon into the back waistband of his jeans.
I grabbed the extra magazines for the rifle and shoved them into my pockets, then tried to scan the hill again. The smoke was so thick I couldn’t see past the hood, but I could feel the heat radiating from the trunk. The fire was spreading exactly as I’d hoped.
“Time to go,” I said, hefting the rifle. “Don’t stop running, no matter what happens.”
I took one last look at Malcolm—concussed, unsteady, but determined—and prayed we’d both make it to the trees alive.
Chapter 33
Carrying the rifle under my right arm, I grabbed Malcolm’s upper arm and hauled him upright.
He swayed but stayed on his feet.
“Good,” I said, my relief palpable. “You take off for the trees, and I’ll cover you.”
He grunted, clearly pissed, but didn’t argue. He staggered forward, nearly face-planting, then managed a few more steps.
I moved behind him, walking backward with the rifle raised, ready to fire.
We made it about ten yards before I spotted a bright orange glow in the backseat of the car. If it blew, I wasn’t sure we were far enough away.
More shots cracked through the night, ricocheting off metal and earth. I doubted they could see us—just like I couldn’t see them through the thick smoke.
So much for the take-them-alive plan.
