Page 126 of Saxon

It all happens in slow motion—JT's face registers shock. His barrel slides around.

Terra, twenty feet away, between two tall thin pines, a Beretta in both hands, standing in a beautiful triangle stance. Rage on her face. Determination. Resolve.

"Well, it's Saxon's little redheaded slut. I'm gonna enjoy you. Breaking you will be quite fun."

"Drop it." Her voice is hard, quivering with adrenalized rage.

"You first." He points his gun at me. "Drop it, or I'll kill him."

"Last warning." Terra's finger curls, tightens.

JT grins. "Maybe I won't kill him." He bobs his head from side to side. "Maybe I'll torture him while you watch, and then make him watch while I fuck every hole you have."

How does this end? I'm not just woozy—I'm faint. My guns are heavy. My head hurts, pounds, spins.

I've got one last ditch effort I can make before I pass out. Before I die—no help coming, here. Shoot him. Kill him. Save her. I’ll be breaking my vow, but I'll be dead, so I won't care.

I look at Terra and see her eyes locked on me.

She shakes her head. Sniffles—rage, and tears. "Don't. Don't."

Jarrod thinks she's talking to him. "Beg harder, maybe I'll consider it."

I grit my teeth and fight with the last of my strength, my vision twisting, narrowing, spinning. Haul my gun up. Line the iron sight on his skull.

Take the slack out of the trigger.

Everything wavers.

Two of him.

Which one do I shoot?

The pair of him turn to face me. Two of his big stupid golden guns aim at me. "I'm bored of this," he says, his voice muffled, faint.

BAM.

The shot startles me. Did I…?

Something thumps to the ground beside me. Jarrod. Wavy brown hair side-parted and slicked back, fair skin. Brown eyes wide…

Sightless.

A hole in the middle of his forehead—a big one. A messy one. An exit wound, not an entrance wound.

I peer, dizzy, fighting to stay conscious. Terra lowers her pistol.

Scrambles over to me, sliding in the dirt. "God, you're a mess, honey."

"L-leg."

She looks down. "Oh fuck."

"Tour…tourniquet." I swallow dirt and knives, it feels like. "Stick. Shoelace."

I stay conscious as she strips the lace out of my boot—the injured side. Slips one end of the shoelace under my leg a few inches above the wound. Ties the shoelace off in a tight knot, and then ties the ends of the cord to the stick, which she then twists.

Once the bleeding has visibly slowed, I hold the stick in place while she uses my other shoelace to tie the stick down.