Page 101 of Chalk Outline
Locked onto Minh’s head, I take a deep breath, and a Bodies by Drowning Pool blares in my earpiece.
I appreciate Braxton’s humor because it instantly puts me in the rhythm.
I pull the trigger, and that smirk is scraped off his face real fast as he drops to the ground. Everyone takes a collective step back and reaches for their firearms seconds before the bloodbath begins.
One drops dead. Two drop dead. Three drop dead.
Twenty-something guys fall to the ground one after another until the last one stands. Devon remains frozen in place, hiseyes darting from side to side. I aim for the spot between his eyes and… bang!
No one threatens what is mine.
“There’s a fire escape to your right. Get down immediately. I’m calling first responders to get to the kids, and we have to bounce,” Braxton instructs me, pounding on his keyboard with such intensity that it might break by the end of the night. “There’s a vehicle still outside, along with Rick and Mira.”
“Leave them.” I already knew this day would come. To reach Third Eye and that boss no one seems to know about, I need to become the plan.
Climbing down quickly, I run past the man I kicked off the roof, who is impaled on a sharpened spear, slicing through the air.
“What are you doing?” Mitch runs toward me.
“Get out of here,” I order, snatching the jiggling keychain from his hands and handing him my rifle.
“Go to Braxton and get out of here. That’s an order.” I unlock the chain from the truck door.
His brows knit together, concern flooding his expression. He looks at me and says, “Be careful.” With a final glance, Mitch sprints away into the darkness of the night.
As I unfasten the chain from the large doors, I pull one open.
A breath catches in my throat, and I can’t exhale until a small hand clutches my jacket to get my attention. A hundred terrified faces stare at me. The thought of all the horrors they have faced so far paralyzes me.
The rage sinks down my bobbing throat only to surge back up, exploding in my mind. It feels like someone has crushed it mercilessly.
Trauma, abuse, fear, and violence are evident in their eyes. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. These kids don’t deserve this. Ittakes me back to when I was a kid, surrounded by circus clowns and a predator who walked among innocent children.
The youngest are toddlers; the older ones are no more than eight, possibly nine. Tears stream down their faces. Some cry, some comfort others, and some clutch their little legs to shield themselves.
So many innocent lives are destroyed for what? Money? Sick and twisted fantasies? Those involved lack any shred of humanity. There is no forgiveness for people like them who breathe darkness and spew evil. Absolutely none.
“Hey,” I whisper to the little girl clutching my shirt in her fist. Her pink sweater is stained with mud. Her eyelids flutter open and shut at the same time, showing signs of sleep deprivation—but what really makes my blood boil is the purple bruise on her left eye. Who would want to sleep in a truck while strangers scream around you and take you away from everything you know? It’s better to stay awake. “It’s going to be okay. What is your name?”
“Mattie.” Her voice sounds weak and hoarse, probably from screaming. “Are you taking us home like Winona promised?” She coughs and pulls away from me, but my heart stops at the mention of the name coming from the little girl’s chapped lips.
“How do you know that name?”
“She was the woman from the 911 call. She told me she would send everyone to look for me.”
My heart flutters, and I blink back tears.
A small smile of reassurance tugs at the corners of my mouth before I nod. “Yes, Mattie. You’re going home.”
A gun’s cocking sound draws my attention just before the barrel presses against my head. “Don’t move,” Rick’s voice rumbles with deep, unnerving anger, startling the kids, while the ones who stood take a tentative step back.
My nostrils flare. I shut my eyes and slam the truck door so they won’t see what is about to happen.
“I said, don’t move.”
I’m slammed headfirst against the steel door, and the barrel of the gun pokes my temple.
“Say hello to my little friend,” he says while aiming the gun to the side. This “little friend” is nearly my height, muscular, and pointing a gun at me with a fierce look in his soulless eyes. His tense posture shows his frustration and anger. “Don’t do anything stupid, or he shoots. And fair warning, he’s a little crazy.”
