Page 2 of Empowereds

2

T wo men rode in the pickup, a driver and a man brandishing a gun in the truck bed.

Charity’s heart slammed into her chest. The markets employed security guards to keep order and dissuade raiders, but security guards kept their weapons out of sight unless problems arose. Even then, she hoped her first instincts were wrong, and these men belonged to the market.

Milo put the Jeep in park and lifted his hands to show he was unarmed. “We don’t mean any trouble. We just came to trade.”

The man in the truck bed smiled, showing a golden tooth. Charity had read about those but couldn’t believe anyone with gold would use it on a tooth. “Get out of the Jeep,” he yelled. “Now!”

Milo didn’t move. Zia and Charity sat statue-still. “Is the market closed?” he asked.

The man with the gold tooth jumped from the truck and swaggered toward the Jeep, the gun pointed at Milo. “Out of the Jeep, scrappers! Do you think I’m bluffing?”

It was a possibility. More people had guns than bullets.

The gun barrel flashed, and a clap cut through the air. Zia screamed. Milo gasped, gripping his hand as blood seeped between his fingers.

Charity blinked in shock. The man had shot Milo because they hadn’t moved quickly enough. Or maybe he’d done it to prove he had bullets. Otherwise, Milo might have gone for his own gun.

Raiders. Or worse, slavers.

“Get out now!” the man shouted.

Charity lifted her hands and scooted toward the Jeep door. “Don’t shoot! We’re getting out!”

In the front seat, Milo cursed while Zia took crying gasps. Was there any way to get the key from Milo’s neck and into the glovebox without being shot? Probably not.

“We’re getting out,” Charity yelled again. “Give us a second.”

The man laughed. He thought injuring Milo was funny. There was something chilling about that.

Another man, rifle in hand, strode over to the Jeep from the direction of the market. His scraggly brown beard and greasy brown hair hadn’t seen a shower anytime recently. “Don’t resist, and we won’t have to shoot no one else.”

He yanked open the driver’s door and pulled Milo out.

“Don’t hurt him!” Zia yelled, her voice high with hysteria. She reached for Milo, nearly tumbling out of the driver’s side after him.

He looked like he wanted to punch the man and was only barely restraining himself. His eyes were wild with anger and fear.

Fear for us, Charity thought. She and Zia were both young and pretty, the sort of women slavers paid a lot for. Charity sprang out of the Jeep and went to Milo. Don’t let the injury be in his wrist , she prayed. If it was, he could bleed out in minutes.

Blood covered his hand and dripped to the ground. “Where did he shoot you?” she asked.

“The side of my hand,” he muttered through tight teeth. “It’s just a nick.”

She wasn’t sure whether he was lying, whether he could even tell how bad it was. The wound might be beyond her nursing skills, but her mother could probably help him. If they could reach her.

The bearded man stepped close to her, sneering. The stench of sweat hung from him. “No talking! From now on, don’t speak unless we tell you to.”

Charity clamped her lips together to keep a response from jumping out. She wasn’t sure what she would’ve said anyway. She couldn’t think straight. Her hands shook, and she hated herself for not being braver. None of this should be happening. Why hadn’t her father’s visions warned him about this?

Zia put her arm around Milo’s waist, worried he needed the support.

Both men from the truck joined the bearded man. The driver wore a red bandana wrapped across his forehead. Dried blood dotted his shirt. Probably someone else’s. A gold chain glittered at his neck. These men were rich and horrible.

Charity glanced at the tents, seeing them differently now. What had happened here? Had the government attacked the place for some reason, driving out the organizers and their security forces? Maybe the raiders had moved in then, not only to scavenge but to capture people who arrived with goods to trade. The raiders knew that news of the market’s shutdown would take a while to get out.

Four of the men who walked around the tents were definitely raiders, but most of the people loading things onto trucks were captives. They wore shock collars and worked under the watchful eye of armed men.

Zia and Charity seemed to be the only women. She felt so foolish for being here. How had they all forgotten how dangerous the world could be?

The bearded raider nudged her with his gun. “Follow them.”

Charity hadn’t heard him issue the command but Zia and Milo both trudged toward the market, hands raised. Blood dripped down Milo’s arm, streaking the sleeve of his shirt. Charity had given him that shirt last year for his birthday, a bright blue button-down in nearly new condition. Now it was stained red.

The gunmen marched them down a row and took them behind the last tent, the biggest one that market officials used. Through an open flap, Charity saw a few toppled chairs and scattered garbage. A computer perched on a table in the middle of the room, a bit of order among the chaos. Shock collars were stacked next to the computer.

One of those shock collars was meant for Charity. She gulped and dragged her attention away. She couldn’t look at them. Her mind flashed to her family, and she was glad Gregor hadn’t come today. Her parents would still have him.

Two trucks sat behind the tent, one probably too damaged to function. The front tire was a shredded mess, and bullet holes punctured the driver’s side door. A man unloaded boxes from its bed and put them into the back of the second truck. The whole place smelled of rotting things.

The bearded slaver gestured for them to stop by the tent. Not only he, but the other gunmen stayed to guard the group.

“Stand there,” the bearded slaver snapped. “Keep your hands up and don’t move.”

While the driver sauntered up to them, the bearded man waited nearby, gun at the ready. The other slaver went to the damaged truck, leaned against the side, and pointed his gun at them from there. He was acting as a guard while the others did … whatever they were going to do next.

The driver lifted his phone to take a picture of Milo. “Smile. You want to look good for your buyers.”

Milo glared at him, his blue eyes seething.

“You’ve got to tend to his hand,” Charity said. “Right now. Or you’re not going to get much for a man who’s dying of blood poisoning.”

The driver stalked over to Charity. His eyes were narrow, hateful. He lifted his hand to hit her. “Didn’t we tell you not to talk?”

She pressed her lips together and waited for the blow.

He dropped his hand and took her picture. “You’re lucky I don’t want unnecessary bruising to lower your price.” He stepped over to Zia, took her picture as well, then tapped buttons on his phone.

All the while, Milo’s hand dripped.

The driver slipped his phone into his pocket and patted down Milo’s pants. “Nothing here.” He probably meant some innuendo by that because he smirked as he said it. His hands went to Milo’s shirt, and he pulled the key from around his neck. “You got something good locked up?”

“That’s the key to my house,” Milo said flatly.

“Score,” the man said. “I hope it’s nice.” He moved to Zia. Charity grimaced as he searched Zia, lingering on her curves.

Zia spat in his face and received a shove that sent her tumbling to the ground. She stood back up, anger burning in her eyes.

The driver turned to Charity and put his hands on her waist. He stood too close, and the scent of body odor and cigarettes made her want to gag. He grinned. He was enjoying this.

Charity couldn’t do anything but stand there while his hands traveled over her. They stopped on her jeans pockets, and he pulled out the matchbook and stubble of a candle. “What are these for?”

She didn’t answer. Nothing she said would make sense. It’s supposed to save my life.

He smiled an oily, mocking smile. “Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?” He licked his lips meaningfully. “Pretty soon, cat might not be the only one.”

Nausea roiled her stomach. How could this be happening? Her father had let them come. It should’ve been a safe trip.

The driver tucked the items into her shirt pocket. “Hang onto these for a minute, sweetheart, and let’s see what else you got. Now I’m curious.” He put his hands on her hips and slid them down her thighs.

Charity wanted to knee him. Her legs ached with the effort to restrain.

A clanking sound came from the truck, and the man unloading it swore. The driver looked over his shoulder to see what the trouble was.

The worker stumbled and dropped a portable gas tank over the side of the truck bed, the type of tank people carried with them when they went on long trips. The lid popped off and gas gurgled onto the ground.

Some splattered the gunman standing nearby. He cursed and wiped at his eyes. The driver turned to yell at the man. “Don’t you know how much that costs!” He strode toward the truck.

Fear flashed across the worker’s face. He jumped over the side of the bed and fumbled with the can.

Gas was leaking out, and Charity had the matches in her pocket. Her gaze shot to the closest gunman. He still had his rifle pointed at her, but his attention was focused on the gas can. She pulled the matches from her pocket and took one out.

She paused. If she threw a lit match at the gas, maybe she, Zia, and Milo would die. She had no idea how big the explosion would be, or if the gunman standing guard would shoot them. Could she take the chance she might kill them all?

The man who’d been unloading the truck was a slave, wasn’t he? Bent over as he was, she couldn’t see his neck. If she threw a lit match at the gas, he was a dead man.

As Charity stood frozen and undecided, Zia ripped the matches from her hand. She lit the whole book on fire and flung it toward the gas can.

Before the matches even hit the puddle, flames shot up, engulfing the three men by the truck. Heat pushed into Charity, so sharp and quick that she stumbled backward. The men ran from the flames, burning, screaming, flailing onto the dirt.

A sputtering of shots rang out. Retribution. Charity dropped to the ground and looked for Milo. Her brother stood nearby, the rifle in his hand, pointed at the now downed and bleeding guard.

The guard hadn’t shot anyone. Milo had. He must’ve wrestled the gun away from the man when Zia threw the match.

Milo turned the rifle and shot the burning men too. That was probably a mercy. Their flailing and screams stopped.

Charity got to her feet, eyes averted. The smell of burnt hair and flesh filled the air.

Milo turned to Zia. “Are you all right?”

“I will be,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.”

Milo handed her the rifle. “Shoot anyone who runs around the tent. I’ll get the other guns.” He hurried to the burned men, pulling off his shirt as he went. He used his shirt to pick up the gun the bearded raider had dropped, protecting his skin from the heat.

Zia raised the rifle, pointing it first at the left side of the tent, then the right.

The other slavers must have heard the screams and gunshots. They wouldn’t be stupid enough to run around a blind corner. They would approach carefully, creeping along the sides of the tent.

Charity took Zia’s arm and pulled her through the tent door. And there, sure enough, on the left side, she saw the shapes of two men darkening the tent wall as they hugged it.

She pointed to them, then second-guessed herself. What if they weren’t slavers? Did captives have a reason to slink along the tent wall?

Zia didn’t question. She shot through the tent. Both men went down. Both screamed, then fell silent.

Charity headed toward the door. “We need to get out of here. They know we’re in the tent now.”

Zia followed her out. “I’ll cover you. Get their weapons.”

Get their weapons? Charity didn’t want to go anywhere near the injured men. They might still be alive and able to shoot. And certainly, every other slaver would shortly descend on them. They needed to get in the functional truck and look for any road out of this place. Before Charity could say this, Zia headed out the door and darted to the left side of the tent.

Milo came over, spotting Charity as well, even though he probably didn’t know what she was doing.

Was Charity the only one who wanted to live? She groaned. Whatever, fine . She wasn’t going to be remembered as the cowardly one. She’d already hesitated throwing the match so Zia had to do it.

Zia peered around the corner of the tent at the downed slavers and waved to Charity that the way was clear.

Charity dashed along the wall toward the men. Neither moved. They lay in heaps, their guns still clutched in their hands. Blood darkened the dirt and pooled under them.

I’m not going to die , Charity told herself. After all, her father’s vision said the matches saved her. They had. Sort of. Although, technically, Zia had saved her. Had Charity messed up the prediction? That could happen, and once you didn’t follow the prediction’s instructions, all bets were off. Maybe those men were only pretending to be dead to fool her.

She reached them, and, yeah, judging from the damage, they weren’t pretending. She pried the rifle from the first man’s hand, then went to the second man and grabbed his. The guns felt lighter than she expected for something so deadly.

She turned to run back along the side of the tent. Zia was no longer peering around the corner. Milo had taken her place, and his expression showed his worry. His eyes suddenly focused on something behind her.

“Drop!” he yelled.

Charity dove, hoping that smacking two rifles into the dirt wouldn’t cause them to discharge. She also wondered in a detached sort of way if Milo had simply been telling her to drop the weapons. If that was the case, they might laugh about her reaction someday. Well, not really. She was never going to laugh about this day.

Milo fired and bullets whizzed over her head. Someone behind her screamed, and she heard the thud of a body hitting the ground.

Was it safe to move? Should she stay down? The sound of distant shouting echoed through the tents.

Milo waved for her to get up. Her trembling limbs had other ideas. Peeling herself off the ground took forever. She kept her gaze on Milo. He was watching the area and would tell her if more raiders appeared.

She sprinted, breathless, to her brother. Zia stood at the truck, searching the front seat, most likely looking for a key. “I can’t find anything,” she called to Milo.

“We’ll have to search the dead men,” he called back.

Charity winced at the thought. She didn’t want to look at their charred bodies let alone rummage around for a key. The stink of burnt flesh hadn’t dissipated. “Can you hotwire the truck?” she asked.

“Maybe,” he said. “Unless it has anti-theft tech.”

Slavers had probably disabled that sort of thing when they first stole the truck. She wouldn’t let herself consider the possibility that a slaver had purchased the truck from the government like a respectable citizen.

While Milo checked the truck’s security system, Zia searched one of the burned men. Charity kneeled by the bearded raider and dug around in his front pockets. Nothing. She rolled him over and noticed blood on her hands. No time to wipe it off now. The only thing his back pockets held was a can of chewing tobacco.

They needed the key, had to get out of here quickly. She couldn’t have come this far just to be recaptured. The slavers would do horrible things to them for killing so many of their people.

Charity should’ve been the one to throw the matches. Everything would’ve worked out if she’d been the one to throw the matches.

“I can hot wire it,” Milo said.

Yes . Charity picked up the rifles and bolted away from the dead man.

She was nearly to the truck when a panicked voice behind her called out, “Don’t shoot!”

Charity spun, rifles lifted. A teenage boy in a shock collar stood in the row between the tents, slowly approaching with raised hands. Curly brown hair topped his head in wild disarray. His eyes were wide. “The other slavers fled,” he yelled. “You heard that truck pull out of here, right? That was the last two. It’s only us captives left now. None of us have weapons.”

Charity hadn’t considered this possibility—that the slavers would cut and run. Maybe she shouldn’t have been surprised. The slavers knew her group was armed and had already managed to kill several of their number.

She relaxed, but Milo kept his rifle trained on the kid. “How do we know the raiders didn’t send you here so we’d lower our guard?”

The teenage boy stopped, and his shoulders gave the briefest of shrugs. “You can search the tents if you want. I just…” he stumbled over his words. “I need to get back to my family in Topeka. My name is Callum Newman. If you could take me someplace where I can contact my parents, they’ll figure out a way to get me home.”

Milo’s eyes narrowed. His gun remained raised.

“He’s telling the truth,” Charity said.

Zia’s eyes were equally narrow. “How do you know?”

Charity dropped her voice to a whisper. “Dad told us we’d be bringing something else back, and we’d know it when we saw it.” She waved a hand in the boy’s direction. “I see it.”

Apparently, Milo did too. He sighed and lowered his rifle.