Page 129 of Silas

I pointedly glance at Jerry’s body. “Ask him.” I jut my chin at the darkness beyond the barn. “Ask the others I’ve killed.”

For the first time, I see fear in his eyes. “I’m your papa,” he says, his tone wheedling now. “You ain’t gonna shoot your old pop, are you?”

Rage boils through me. “After everything you’ve done to me, you think I won’t?” I press the gun to his head, and my finger trembles on the trigger. “You deserve to die, you monster. And it should bemewho kills you.”

“Naomi,” Silas says, inching toward me. “No. Not like this. In battle is one thing. In cold blood…that’s another. Not like this, honey.”

I glance at him. “Ihatehim, Silas. Ihatehim. Ihatehim!” Tears blur my sight. “I didn’t…until now, I didn’t realize how much I hated him.”

“I know.” He reaches for me, for the gun, tugging the barrel away from my father’s skull. “But not like this.”

I back away. Blink hard. Keep the gun on my father—on the man who fathered me, the man who is no father at all. “I’m leaving. I’ll let you live, Buddy Ibsen. But if you come after me again, Iwillkill you.”

I don’t turn my back on him. I lean against Silas and we back away together.

“Are you okay?” I murmur to Silas.

He grunts. “Vest took it. I’ll have a hell of a bruise, and probably a broken rib or two, but I’ll live. You?”

I want to relax in his arms, but I don’t dare. Not yet. “I’ve been better, but I’ve had worse.”

He laughs. “Spoken like a true warrior,” he murmurs, lips nuzzling my ear. “What I said—you know it was—”

“I know,” I cut over him. “I know. You don’t even need to say it.”

“You’ll regret this, Naomi Ibsen,” the man who was my father calls out.

I ignore him. A dark shape materializes from the shadows. A tall Black man with a lot of long thin braids hanging down one shoulder. He’s dressed in pale blue jeans, black running shoes, and a tight black T-shirt stretched around an impressive torso. He’s carrying a machine gun like Silas’s, with a thick barrel which I assume means it’s silenced.

“You must be Malik,” I say to him.

“You must be Naomi,” he answers, with a handsome, white-toothed grin. “The woman who captured Silas’s heart.”

“That’s me,” I say, proud of the description.

“I figured you must be a hell of a woman, if Silas risked what he did, coming to me. But then I saw the damage you did in the woods, and girl…” Malik shakes his head, respect in his intense green eyes. “Goddamn. Just…goddamn.”

Silas wraps an arm around me. Squeezes gently. “You did good, baby. Real good.”

Malik’s gun barks, startling me: he’s putting holes in the engines of both SUVs, sending steam and smoke skirling up into the night sky.

“Come on,” Silas says. “Let’s go.”

He pulls me around and we start heading on foot down the two-track. Malik is ahead of us, his rifle slung at his hip.

That old instinct chimes in, one more time:DANGER.

I’m still holding Jerry’s gun.

I turn, listening to the instinct.

Buddy Ibsen is stalking toward us, a small black handgun extended. The gun barks, and Malik grunts in pain, dropping to one knee, spinning in place and bringing his gun to bear.

He’s too late.

So is Silas.

I cup my gun in both hands, line the barrel onto Buddy’s torso.