“One more,” I agreed, pressing a kiss to Sophia’s forehead. “Be good. I’ll be right back.”
Dutch’s truckcrept along the back roads toward Howie Hardy’s small house on the edge of town, headlights off to avoid detection. The dashboard clock read 1:47 AM. My fingers tapped an anxious rhythm on my thigh as we approached, that familiar prickle of danger crawling up my spine. It was the same feeling I’d had living with Langston, the quiet warning system that hadkept Sophia and me alive for years. Something wasn’t right. The evacuation had gone too smoothly, like we were being allowed to gather everyone in one place. I’d mentioned it to Dutch, but he’d dismissed it as normal paranoia after what we’d been through. I wasn’t convinced. Langston never made things easy.
We parked behind a line of scraggly junipers, keeping the truck hidden from the main road. Dutch winced as he climbed out, his bandaged shoulder obviously paining him more than he’d admit. The cold bit through my jacket as we picked our way across Howie’s overgrown yard, past the rusted truck parts.
I knocked softly on the back door.
No answer.
I knocked again, louder this time, my heart speeding up with each second of silence. Dutch shifted beside me, his good hand reaching for the shotgun slung across his back.
“Howie?” I called softly, trying to keep my voice down. “It’s Evie Phillips. Are you in there?”
The silence stretched, broken only by the distant hoot of an owl. I pressed my ear against the door, straining to hear any movement inside. Nothing.
“Something’s wrong,” I whispered to Dutch. “He should be home. His truck’s here.”
Dutch nodded grimly. “Stand back.”
He tested the doorknob, which turned easily in his hand. The unlocked door swung open with an ominous creak, revealing Howie’s cluttered kitchen. Newspapers stacked in teetering piles. Canned goods lined up on the counter. Coffee cup still half-full on the table, a thin film congealing on its surface.
But no Howie.
“Fuck.” Dutch backed away from the doorway. “They already got to him. We need to?—”
Too late.
A figure stepped out from behind the truck, the silver star on his chest catching the starlight. Sheriff Wade Parker, his service weapon drawn and pointed steadily in our direction. His movements were smooth, precise, nothing like the friendly, slightly disheveled man who’d welcomed Sophia and me to town six months ago.
“Stay where you are,” he said, voice flat as pavement.
Five more figures emerged from the shadows around us – Carol Ruper, Riss Hollenbeck, Dr. Hill and his wife, and Gus Wagner. All wearing the same blue shirts. All moving with that eerie synchronization that made my skin crawl. All armed.
Dutch shifted slightly, putting himself between me and Parker. “Been tracking us somehow. Carol probably saw us leaving town earlier.”
Parker’s empty gaze fixed on me, unseeing yet focused. “Evelyn Winslow, you are required to report for processing. Resistance will be met with necessary force.”
The ground seemed to tilt beneath my feet. Winslow. Not Phillips. They knew. Langston knew. Had he known all along? Had our six months of safety been nothing but an illusion, a cat playing with a mouse before the final pounce?
“Like hell she will,” Dutch growled, his gun coming up faster than I would have thought possible with his injured shoulder.
“You are interfering with retrieval operations,” Parker continued in that same flat voice. “Stand down.”
Dutch didn’t budge. “Over my dead body, Wade.”
“Non-compliance noted.”
The gunshot tore through the night, shockingly loud in the stillness. Dutch staggered back against me, his weight suddenly heavy. I caught him as he slumped, felt the warm wetness spreading across his shirt where the bullet had found his already wounded shoulder.
“Dutch!” I lowered him to the ground, panic rising in my throat.
“Run,” he gasped, pressing the rifle into my hands.
Carol stepped forward, rifle raised, face blank as a doll’s. “Resistance is counterproductive, Evelyn Winslow. Your daughter will be collected separately.”
Sophia. The mention of my daughter sent a surge of something primal through my veins, washing away fear and replacing it with cold, hard focus. I’d felt this before – when I’d finally decided to leave Langston, when I’d realized the cult was planning to take Sophia from me. That crystalline clarity where nothing mattered except survival.
I checked Dutch’s rifle with steady hands, finding it loaded and ready.
