Page 130 of Luck of the Devil

Fuck.

I raised my rifle and released a round at the rear of the SUV. Bullets pinged off the metal, but the vehicle sped off, tearing down the county road—heading toward Malcolm’s tavern.

Were they after the papers?

Malcolm would die before giving them up.

Panic mushroomed inside of me. Even if I got away from these assholes, Malcolm’s car was a burning heap. How was I supposed to follow them?

Then I spotted the second SUV.

I just had to take care of the rest of these guys and go after him.

Rationally, I knew it was an insane plan. Hell, it wasn’t a plan at all. More like a wish, but I was determined to make it happen.

I turned and peeked around the tree. I spotted a man sprinting up the hill. I pulled the handgun from my waistband and braced against the tree, firing three quick shots toward his chest and neck.

He stumbled, clutching his throat. I was close enough to see the bewildered look in his eyes as blood streamed between his fingers. He dropped to his knees, his rifle swinging from the strap over his shoulder.

I stepped out from behind the tree, pointing the handgun at his head.

“Where are they taking him?”

His eyes filled with fear, but not of me. He knew he was dying.

“Where are they taking him?” I shouted. I knew there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d tell me, but I had to try.

He opened his mouth to speak. Nothing came out, but I could easily read the fuck you on his lips before he fell to his side, the light fading out of his eyes.

Dammit.

I shoved the handgun back into my waistband, raised the rifle, and scanned the trees.

The woods were silent other than the crackle of the flames and creaking of the expanding metal.

Then I heard it.

A moan.

It came from farther down the hill. I saw a pair legs sprawled on the ground, the upper body propped awkwardly against a tree.

I crept closer, rifle ready, praying for answers but prepared for another fight.

The wounded man’s face was pale. My earlier shot had caught him in the shoulder. The wound gaped open, soaking his shirt in blood.

He was bleeding out.

He glanced up, flinching when he saw me, bracing for the end.

“I not going to kill you,” I said, stepping closer. “But only if you tell me where they’re taking him.”

He licked his cracked lips. “I know I’m dead anyway. No one’s coming to save me.”

My heart dropped.

I could torture him, but I hadn’t sunk that low.

Not yet.