I was aiming for his chest, but I’m crouched and got the angle wrong—he’s silhouetted in the doorway, limned by bright silver moonlight. I see his head rock backward and black liquid spray behind him.
Oh god.
Oh god.
Nausea ripples through me. I choke it back.
Do what I have to do. Stay free, stay safe.
I have the phone in my pocket still; I pat it to ensure it’s still there.
Men moan.
I rise to my feet and tiptoe toward the door, gun held in both hands, barrel pointed down at an angle. I listen.
Nothing.
I make my way for the door, resolutely not looking down at the mess I’ve made of the man’s skull. A hand catches at my ankle, and I pause, look down. A young face peers up at me in the moonlight, all scraggly beard and scared eyes. There’s a wet spot on his chest, the wetness is spreading quickly. My foot slips in blood. Tears pool in my eyes, but I blink them away.
No.
He chose this path.
I was defending myself.
“I won’t go back,” I say. “You tell him that.”
“B…bitch,” he mutters. Hate, unreasoning and taught, darkens his eyes. “You…bitch. You’ll get…your lesson.”
I tug my ankle free and tear my gaze from him. “Tell him who shot you. Tell him what I said. Iwill notgo back.”
One of the men was wearing a vest; he’s scrabbling on his back, gasping, trying to rip the vest off to get to his chest. He rolls to his knees, peering at me.
The one who’d been wearing night vision goggles has stopped screaming, now sobbing quietly. “I’m blind, I’m blind,” he repeats endlessly. The man on his hands and knees reaches for me.
I aim my pistol at him. “Don’t,” I whisper. “Please don’t.”
He reaches for his weapon, just out of reach on the floor—the effort topples him forward, and I hear a sickening crunch as his face slams into the floor. He moans, slumps to the floor. I kick the weapon farther away.
I emerge outside, into the moonlight. Look back into the room. Four bodies. One is unmoving and silent. A wet puddle glimmers black under his head.
“I am Naomi,” I say out loud to the still, quiet night, my blood singing, my words raging past gritted teeth, “and I am no man’s victim. I—will—NOT—go—back. You tell him that. You tell him.”
There’s a hulking vehicle parked about a thousand or so yards away on the side of the narrow dirt road on which the B and B is perched. It’s a pickup truck with monstrous, oversized tires and a thick chrome exhaust pipe behind the cab, and a whip antenna for a CB arcing from front to back.
I climb up into the vehicle, wrinkling my nose at the stench of old body odor, cigarettes, motor oil, and farts. I crank down the window and then start the car. I’ve never learned how to drive, but I don’t really have a choice. I’ve seen it done many times.
I can do this, I tell myself. I repeat it out loud. “I can do this.”
There’s a gear shifter near my right knee, and only two pedals. I can do this. I depress the brake pedal as far as it will go, pull the shifter down to the D, and then touch the gas pedal. The snarling motor roars, and the huge truck jumps forward with a spattering spray of gravel. I ease off the pedal, letting the vehicle come to a stop, catch my breath and try to calm my pounding heart. Try again, more gently. This time, I’m more successful—the truck eases forward less violently, and I apply a tiny bit more pressure, so it rolls a little faster. A little more.
I’m still holding the pistol in one hand, I realize, and shove it into the holster at my side.
My hands are shaking. A bitter knot of vomit congeals in my throat, and panic thrums in my chest, burns behind my eyes: a belated emotional reaction to what just occurred.
I drive another few thousand yards before I have to jerk the wheel over—too hard, so the back end slews wildly and I almost run off the road before I can slam on the brakes and skid to a stop. I throw open the door and half-tumble out of the truck, toppling with a painful thud to the gravel. I crawl beneath the twin streams of yellow-white light from the headlights. Dust motes swirl in the beams of lights; a moth flutters, dances.
Bile floods my mouth, and a sob heaves out of me. I can’t stop it, and don’t try—I let the vomit boil up and out of me, into the dirt and gravel. My gut churns, twists, heaves, and I vomit again, and again. Mucus strings from my nose. Pebbles dig into my hands and knees.
