Georgia missed the next part. It all happened too fast. A tumble of limbs. A collision with the ground.
The next thing Georgia knew, John was on the ground. Face down.
He was grunting in pain.
Georgia stopped suddenly, threw her hands out to stabilize herself, so as not to run over John.
She looked down at him. Struggling to take in what she saw.
His right leg was clearly broken. The femur had snapped in two. The break allowed for an odd, impossible angle.
It shouldn’t have looked like that.
Shit.
It was a bad break. A really bad one.
Georgia glanced behind her, turning her head. There was no one there. But that didn’t mean they weren’t coming.
Georgia ducked down, her hand moving carefully over John’s leg.
The bone had broken through the skin.
It looked horrible.
Georgia had seen pictures before, but she’d never seen it in person. It looked worse than she could have imagined.
Blood and bone. Broken skin. Not a pretty sight.
John was, admirably, trying to keep his noises of intense pain to a minimum.
“Is it bad?” he managed to say, his voice barely audible over grunts of pain.
“It’s bad, John.”
“They’re going to be coming. Leave me.”
“You know I’m not doing that.”
“You’ve got to. Think of Sadie. You’re not going to find her if you’re dead.”
“Who says I’m going to be dead?”
“If you stay there with me, you’re going to be,” said John. “I don’t want my last act to be to get you killed along with myself. This is my fault. My mistake. I’ll take the consequences.”
“What would Cynthia think of that? If I get back to camp and you’re not there. I’ll tell her that I left you to rot on the ground with a broken leg? I’ll tell her that I didn’t lift a finger to help you. And you think she’ll be OK with all that?”
“We’ve talked about it. She’ll understand.”
“You’ve talked about it? I don’t know what she told you, but let me tell you, there’s no way she’s going to be OK if you don’t come back.”
“She knows the risks of this lifestyle . We have an understanding.”
“You may think you do. You may think you’ve accepted the consequences of being in a relationship. You may think that you’re ready to lose her, and that she’s prepared to lose you, but that’s not the case. It’s really not. So I’m not leaving you here. It doesn’t matter what you say, so save your breath. We’re getting out of here together, or we’re not getting out of here at all.”
“You… don’t…” John spoke haltingly, grunting through the pain.
“Save your energy,” said Georgia. “I’m going to get us out of here.”
John just grunted. Georgia didn’t know if he’d decided to listen to her and shut up, or if the pain had just gotten too great for him to talk.
Georgia’s hands were on her rifle. She was looking around, putting her eye to the scope, taking it away. Trying to scout the whole area.
If the men were coming, they’d come soon.
If they came, the best-case scenario was that it was five men against one woman.
Georgia suddenly spotted John’s rifle on the ground.
Crouching, she made her way over to it. Grabbed it from where it had fallen.
“Here,” she whispered, stretching out her hand, holding the rifle so that John could grab it.
She didn’t know if he’d be able to shoot.
He probably didn’t either.
No point in talking about it much.
He’d shoot if he could.
And if he couldn’t, then he wouldn’t.
It seemed as if the only thing Georgia could hear was her heartbeat.
She stared into the distance, waiting for the men. Watching for them. Everything seemed to turn blurry as her thoughts turned towards her daughter.
Where was Sadie now? Would she ever find her?
The chances were slim that Sadie was alive. And even slimmer that Georgia would ever get to her, whether she was dead or alive.
18
Wilson was following Max along a back road. They were walking in the middle of it.
Wilson kept turning around. He was waiting for the moment when he’d see them all coming for them. He was waiting for the moment when he’d know that he’d soon be dead.
Of course, Wilson doubted they’d be killed on the spot. More likely, Grant would want to make an example out of them. Especially Wilson.
What had Wilson been thinking?
If he’d been smart, he would have let Max, the prisoner, die. He would have let Grant do what he’d wanted. Then Wilson could have snuck off into the night any time he’d wanted. He could have taken enough with him to carve out a comfortable little niche for himself somewhere far away, somewhere where no one would bother him.
But he hadn’t. He hadn’t done that.
He’d let his anger get the best of him. He’d let himself lose control.
And yet, despite losing control, he hadn’t killed Grant.
Why?
It was as if Wilson had been unable to break completely free. Despite hearing what Grant had done, despite hearing how power-hungry and insane Grant had become, or had always been, Wilson had been unable to strike the final blow.
Not only that, but he’d prevented Max from doing so too.
He should have pulled the trigger himself.
He should have plunged a knife into Grant’s heart.
At least that way, when Wilson drew his last breaths, he’d know that he’d done some good in the world. He’d known that the psychopath he’d served for too long was dead, hopefully rotting away in a shallow grave, his corpse indistinguishable from the millions of other corpses that littered the country.
“Max,” called out Wilson, picking up his pace. It seemed as if Max was getting farther away from Wilson. He was moving an incredible pace. Limping along rapidly.
Max didn’t answer. And he didn’t turn around.
Wilson had given him one of his handguns, keeping the other for himself.
Wilson had the gun in his hand now.
The weight of it didn’t feel comforting. It didn’t reassure him.
The gun was a reminder of what was going to come. A fight. Violence. Death.
Wilson himself had devices and procedures for situations like this. He knew exactly what to expect.
He’d tried to tell it all to Max. Explain everything to him. But Max hadn’t been interested. He’d just been interested in going. Getting far away.
But Wilson knew that getting far away didn’t matter.
No matter how far they got, the militia men would always be able to catch up to them. After all, they had fleets of working vehicles. Trucks. Cars. Motorcycles. Dirt bikes.
All working. All gassed up. All ready to hunt Wilson and Max down.
The alarms had been sounded early. Everyone had been on alert. Those on guard duty had responded, but hadn’t left their posts, in case an attack was imminent. Those on reserve duty had responded, some of them filling out defensive positions, and others taking up the hunt early.
Max and Wilson had managed to evade the groups of the first responders.
And, so far, they’d been able to keep ahead of Unit B.
Unit B was a crack unit. A special unit. A unit of men who rarely had equals.
Unit B was scary enough. Terrifying, really. Wilson had seen the reports of what they’d done. They had no mercy. They were barely men. More like caged animals. In a fight, at least.
Unit B wouldn’t be all. Grant would respond personally. With his own group. His secret group. The group that did the worst things. The unspeakable things.
Wilson shuddered. A chill ran down his spine. It wasn’t a good feeling, being on Grant’s bad side.