Sara raised her head. The world tilted sideways. She could barely make it to her feet. The pain in her belly forced her to walk doubled over. She tried not to think about Will experiencing the same agony, but worse. She had to steady herself on the car as she made her way around to the other side.
Vale had already opened the door. His lips looked bruised. His eyelids drooped. He was decompensating faster than she had hoped.
“Gimme,” Carter said, grabbing the revolver away from Vale.
Sara had no choice but to help the injured man from the car. Vale’s arm went around her shoulder. His other arm was still looped around his chest, his finger jammed inside the gunshot wound.
“Hurry up.” Carter waved the gun to get her moving.
Vale tried to push himself up with his legs. He was muscular, much heavier than he looked. Sara took a step away when he was expecting her to step forward. Instinctively, she tried to keep him from falling, but she could not move quickly enough.
Vale landed on his back. What little breath he had left was knocked out of him. He gasped for air. His eyes were wild.
Sara went to her knees. She didn’t give a shit about Vale. She didn’t want to be punched again. She pretended to examine him—looking at his pupils, pressing her ear to his heart. His shirt was raised. Blood dribbled in a steady stream from the gunshot wound. Bright red, not venal blood but arterial. The bullet had entered through the axilla, where all the nerves and arteries were bundled.
Dash was out of the van. He helped Vale sit up. He told Sara, “A hand with my friend, if you don’t mind?”
There was something weirdly commanding about his polite, calm tone. He wasn’t helplessly panicked like Vale or blinded by anger like Carter. Dash struck Sara as the type of person who could wield his moods like a sword. She didn’t want to ever find herself on the sharp end.
Along with Dash, Sara used her shoulder to raise Vale to standing. They got him to the van. He was able to crawl on his own into the back.
Sara felt Dash’s hand on her shoulder.
“Let’s take that off, please, ma’am.”
He had noticed the watch.
Sara turned the face down as she undid the strap. Instead of handing it to Dash, she threw it into the woods.
“Thank you,” he said, as if this was exactly what he’d wanted to happen. He motioned for Michelle. He didn’t have to give her instruction. She silently helped move the delivery man out of the van and into the BMW.
Why was she so compliant?
“Gonna fuck you up,” Carter whispered to Sara. He edged into the van on his ass, dragging his stiff leg across the floor.
The driver’s side door shut. Michelle put on her seat belt. She turned on the ignition. She put both hands on the wheel. She stared straight ahead, waiting to be told what to do next.
Why?
“I just need another coupla three seconds.” Dash had managed to open the fuel door to the BMW. He pulled an emergency road flare out of his pocket. He struck the top, which was like a giant match head. Burning white sparks shot out like a sparkler.
He told Sara, “You might want to hurry.”
Sara got into the back of the van. The last thing she saw before she closed the sliding door was Dash jamming the burning flare into the mouth of the gas tank.
He jumped into the front seat. “Go.”
Michelle hit the gas. The van lurched. They took a sharp turn around the building.
Gasoline burned, but only the fumes could cause an explosion. Dash had timed it right. They were fifty yards away when the shock of the blast reached the van.
If the police found the BMW, all the forensics would be burned away.
The blood on the steering wheel. The blood on the seats. The delivery man’s body.
All gone.
“Shit,” Carter muttered. “Shit-shit-shit.” The knife had shifted despite his best efforts. He was cupping his groin. He glanced over at Sara, a helpless look in his eyes.
She looked away.
Dash called, “We good, brothers?”
“Yeah,” Vale mumbled.
“Hell, yeah,” Carter said, though his voice was hoarse.
Sara listened to the steady drone of the wheels on the road. She reached into her empty pocket. She used her thumb to methodically clean beneath her fingernails.
She had scratched Vale’s back when he fell down, gouging out rows of his skin.
At the site of the car accident, she had touched Merle’s head wound and rubbed her fingers clean on her shorts. She had run her palm across Dash’s wounded shoulder. She had transferred Hurley’s blood from the back seat of the Malibu. She would put her hand in the pool of blood seeping out of Carter’s leg when they eventually dragged her out of the van.
Sara knew the statistics. They were taking her to a second location. Statistically, her chances of survival had been cut to roughly 12 percent.
She was not going to end up like Michelle Spivey—alive, but not alive.
Whatever it took, she was going to make these men kill her. Her only job between now and then was to take a piece of them down with her.
Sara wanted her family to have closure. She wanted Will to get vengeance.
Her own sweat was on her shorts by virtue of the fact that she was wearing them. Vale’s skin cells were in the pocket. Merle’s blood would transfer from her hand. Dash’s blood. Eventually Carter’s.
Their DNA would conclusively link all four men to Sara when her body was found.
Sunday, August 4, 2:01 p.m.
“Where are they taking her?” Will grabbed Hank by the shirt and gave him a violent shake. “Tell me where, God dammit!”
Hank stared up from the bloody pulp of his face. His teeth were broken. His nose was bent to the side. His jaw was crooked.
Will scooped up the revolver from the sidewalk. He cocked the hammer. He took aim.
“Don’t shoot him!” Cathy screamed.
Will felt the same jolt of recognition. Sara’s voice, but not her voice.
“She’s gone!” Cathy gripped the shotgun with both hands, shaking with grief. “You let them steal my daughter!”
His eyes started to water. He had to squint against the sunlight.
“You did this!” Cathy stared straight at him. Straight into him. “My son-in-law would’ve never let this happen.”
Will felt her words harder than any blow he’d ever taken. He uncocked the hammer on the gun. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He forced the part of his brain that understood Cathy was right to shut down.
A siren whooped. An Atlanta police cruiser screeched to a stop ten yards away.
Will tossed the revolver onto the sidewalk. His hands went into the air. He told Cathy, “Put down the—”
“Put it down!” the cop screamed. He rested his gun on the open door of his cruiser. “Now!”
Slowly, Cathy placed the shotgun at her feet.
She raised her hands.
“I’m GBI.” Will worked to