Jericho rolled onto his side and stared at Wade. “You said you wouldn’t have sight lines. You said you were out of—”
“You didn’t like my ‘run away’ plan. Now don’t tell me you don’t like my ‘blow shit up’ plan, either, or my feelings will be hurt.”
Jericho stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. “I fucking love your ‘blow shit up’ plan. Is there more of it?”
“Maybe.”
“I love you.” The words were out before Jericho knew they were coming, and he panicked a little. “Your plans. Your explosions. Your—” Wade was still so calm, but looking back at him with a light in his eyes, a light that Jericho never, ever wanted to extinguish. “Your you,” he finished. “I love you.”
“And you’re not just saying that because we’re both about to die?”
“Maybe I am. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”
“Well, okay, then.” Wade smiled, then turned back toward the front of the station, raised his gun, and fired, possibly at nothing. “They’re going inside, most of what’s left of them. They’ll either be slow ’cause they’re watching for traps, or they’ll be fast and getting themselves blowed up. So we’ve got a bit of time. You want to cut around back and find a good path?”
And clearly Jericho was just as much of a flip-flopper as Wade had said he was, because now that Wade was on board, Jericho wanted to bail out. He wanted to take Wade’s hand and drag him away from all the mess, all the violence and death and even the explosions, although those had actually been pretty cool. Kayla had sent a team to the school, and that would probably be enough. If it wasn’t enough, was it really Jericho’s problem? Hadn’t he done his part? Wasn’t it time for a beach somewhere?
“Junior!” Wade said, his voice just a little sharp. “Let’s go. Bad guys. School. Remember?”
“Yeah,” Jericho said. “Sorry.” Maybe if there hadn’t been a school involved, he could have left. But a building full of kids, two of whom shared his blood? No, he couldn’t walk away from that. Damn it.
“Keep your head in the game,” Wade scolded, and he started off toward the fields, jogging cautiously from car to car as he worked his way through the parking lot.
Jericho followed. This was Wade’s show now. Hell maybe it had been all along. Maybe Jericho could save himself a lot of trouble if he stopped thinking so much and just did as he was told.
He managed to cling to that philosophy as they headed around the back of the station. Wade’s smile was bloodthirsty when they heard a muted thud from the other side of the brick wall, and he said, “Tripwire number one. They’ll know to be looking now, so the second one might not catch ’em. But they’ll be slower.” He glanced over. “We probably have time to stop for a quick drink, if you want.”
“Tempting. Your call.”
“Ah,” Wade said as they made their way across the street and through the pedestrian gate of the school playground. “We’re having a visit from cooperative, tractable Jericho. You have any idea how long he’ll be around for?”
Jericho stared across the field toward the one-story school building. Two pickups were pulling onto the tarmac, men and guns in the back of each. One of the trucks was driven by Mike Darby, who’d graduated high school with Jericho and Wade and now had five kids enrolled in the elementary school. Of course he was there.
The other truck, though? Ex-sheriff Morgan was behind the wheel. Kayla’s dad, who’d been a self-righteous asshole not only when Jericho was a kid and had deserved it, but also after Jericho’s return. And the bastard had been selling information to criminals while he was on the job and even after he’d retired. Hell, he’d been selling information to Wade. “I think cooperative Jericho is on his way out,” Jericho said. “I think we’re about to have a visit from stubborn, pissed-off Jericho.”
“Well, he’s always been one of my favorites,” Wade said, and he nudged Jericho forward with his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go make a plan.”
It was overly generous to call “get between the militia and the school and shoot at the bad guys” a plan, but Jericho liked it when things were kept as simple as possible. He didn’t like it so much when the defenders spaced themselves out, taking whatever cover they could find, and he found himself huddled behind the same dumpster as the ex-sheriff.
“Push that end around,” Morgan ordered. “We’ll have better sight lines.”
So tempting to disagree, but the benefit was too damn obvious, so Jericho did as he’d been told, then cast his mind around their environment to find an order he could give. He almost told Morgan to go double-check that the door to the school was locked, but the bastard would probably tell him to do it himself. And he was a lot more spry than the old guy; it made sense for him to be the one moving out of position. So he jogged over, rattled the door, then jogged back to the dumpster and dialed his cell, feeling like an idiot. What the hell kind of battlefield had cell reception? Still better than using the damn hashtag. “We’re in position at the second location,” he reported when Kayla picked up. “We’ve still got air support incoming?”
“Air support and ground support,” Kayla confirmed. It was reassuring just to hear her voice, even if she sounded a bit strained. “There was a significant increase in interest once we started reporting the body count.”
“I’ll bet. You have eyes on the front door?”
“Yup. Nothing yet.”
That was likely good. No, it was definitely good. The longer the militia was inside the station, the better the chance that air support would arrive, and tracking the bastards would be much easier with an aerial view. “The new guys know about the weaponry we’re looking at?” Jericho asked, thinking about an RPG taking out a low-flying chopper.
“Affirmative,” Kay said. “Hockley and Montgomery are with me, and they’re reporting back. We’ve got a fucking news crew over here too. They’ve been filming the whole thing from the motel window, and they keep trying to get closer.”
“Okay,” Jericho said. It was all okay. There was a hell of a mess on Main Street, and there might be some civilian injuries. Of course there would be. But over all, this could have been—
He saw the beginnings of movement over at the fence line. Maybe a dozen men, and if that number included the four prisoners it meant Wade’s booby traps had done their jobs well. The militia were staying low and slow, but they were coming. And as he stared out toward them, fighting to determine numbers or weaponry or anything he could use, he found himself distracted by something much closer. A small red light, a tiny black box attached to the side of the dumpster he was hiding behind. Wires ran from the box up to the insides of the bin.
“The dumpsters are wired!” he roared. “Get away from the dumpsters! Take cover!”
