Page 42 of Edge of Secrets (The Edge Trilogy #2)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Nell

“ T hey’re coming,” John said to Haupt. “We have to cut loose. Curtis and Turturro are meat. Didn’t see Gerard. Probably dead, too.”

“They’re coming? Who is coming? How did they know where to come? How is it possible?” The man’s voice rose to a shrill, querulous squawk. “You stupid, incompetent?—”

“You want to berate me on our way to jail, or save it for later?” John snarled back. “Move it!”

He slashed the ropes that bound my arms. They fell free, numb and tingling. John yanked a handful of my hair, jerking until I cried out. “Be good, bitch,” he hissed. “Or I’ll gut you.”

He hoisted me up and flung me over his shoulder, letting my head and arms dangle down over his back.

Something banged against the door. “Nell!”

Duncan. Oh, God. “Duncan!” I yelled.

“I said, shut up, bitch!” John swung up his gun, riddled the door with bullets.

Light shone through the pattern of holes, and I screamed again, in horror and despair, but John was running now, and my voice was jolting in my throat, my torso bouncing and thudding against his back.

They burst out the back of the barn. I couldn’t see where they were going, just green leaves, the ground behind John’s pounding heels, his loose belt, his T-shirt riding up to reveal pimple-spotted rolls of flab hanging over the waistband of his jeans.

The sound of his footsteps changed—a hollow thud on wooden planks. Haupt hurried along beside them, huffing and puffing.

A bridge. I saw weathered planks below John’s booted feet, water murmuring and gurgling beneath us. John swung around, started shooting—a deafening barrage of bullets. My whole body jiggled with the jackhammer explosions.

My blood-slicked hand tightened around the splinter. I worked it down until the sharp part protruded a couple of inches, the blunt part clutched in my fist. The point was wickedly sharp. I gathered my nerve for the blow.

I concentrated everything I had to give into that sharp point: my love for Duncan, for my sisters, for Lucia, even my childish devotion to Elena. My reverence for beauty, for love, for art. My respect for effort, honesty, bravery. All the things that couldn’t be bought.

John turned. The gun rose up. No. Because he had no right to hurt me, or Duncan, or anyone else.

He had ... no … goddamn … right.

I stabbed down, driving the splinter deep into the meat and fat that covered his kidney. He squealed, and his shots went wild.

Bam , Duncan’s bullet blew John’s gun out of his hand. It flew up, curling and turning in the air. John lunged to catch it one-handed, but it danced off his fingers and down. An eternity later, it splashed into the river.

“Put her down.” It was Duncan’s voice, cool and even.

John stared back, panting. He laughed. “Sure thing, shitbird.”

He heaved me over the bridge railing.

I flew, fell, down, turning, spinning, and cold green water closed over my head.