“Don’t you move, missy! Hands up where we can see them!” the same voice said.
Summer froze in her tracks, her eyes moving toward the voice as her arms went up.
The beat in her chest ran wild, seeing nine men with rifles pointed at her. They were Frost’s men, none of them wearing sleeves, about twenty yards away, near the same entrance where she’d tied the dolly to the worktable.
An instant later, they began to spread out in pairs, working themselves around the equipment with their rifle sights trained on her. There were a few sections of the conveyor system standing between her and them, most on the other side of the gaping hole in the floor, giving her a few seconds to think.
A voice inside her mind yelled RUN!
Summer ducked for cover and took off, heading away from the patrol using a hunched-over running style, zigzagging her course.
She expected the Neanderthals to open fire, but they didn’t. There were no commands from their leader, either, almost as if this encounter was planned in some way. All she heard was the clatter of their boots hitting the floor.
Her mind couldn’t let go of the fact that Frost’s men hadn’t started shooting. Maybe they were out of ammo and couldn’t shoot, or possibly they weren’t allowed to shoot.
If either was true, she had the advantage. The threat of force only works when the risk is credible. If they weren’t going to shoot, then she had nothing to fear, other than getting caught.
The wall section dead ahead didn’t have a door—at least not that she could see. She turned right and kept low with her feet moving, searching the area ahead for an exit.
The equipment in this section of the cannery was different from the paraphernalia she’d been buried under from the main production floor. This section had huge machines with handles and doors along the farthest wall, stacked next to each other with almost no space in between.
Each one had an overhead vent, probably for some kind of heat-related finishing work, she guessed. Two of them reminded her of exhaust hoods over a stove; tapered at the highest point, but fat and wide near the bottom. The rest were thin with a curved end that fed into long stretches of rectangular sheet metal, much like the ductwork she’d seen in the silo.
Before her next step, her mind flashed a sudden thought, showing her a snapshot of her Seeker Map lying on the flat infeed table.
Damn it!
She’d left it behind.
Summer stopped her feet, turning her head in the direction she’d just come from. Maybe she could sneak past the men and snatch it, assuming they hadn’t found it already.
It took another second to realize her idea was not only a mistake, it was most likely impossible. Even though Krista would be super pissed at her for losing the map, it wasn’t worth getting herself killed in the process.
Summer resumed her trek, wondering if the Nomad might still be around and watching. If so, would he step in and help her? Something inside told her the answer was no. She’d never get that lucky twice.
Deep down she knew he was gone, off to save someone else. Or else he didn’t want to tangle with Frost or his men. The Nomad carried a pair of swords, but they were useless against the range and power of assault rifles, according to Krista and constant preaching about weapons and ballistics.
Right then, another phrase came tearing into her mind—one that Krista had had drilled into her. The only way to stop a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun.
Summer passed a yellow plastic tub with roller wheels. It was about three feet tall and twice the size of a bathtub in length and width. She could see inside as she moved past the container.
It was filled with gloves, most of them blue and torn in at least one spot. Finger holes were the most dominant defect. Plus there was also a smattering of masks mixed in—the same type she’d seen Liz Blackwell use in the infirmary.
There was a door ahead, just beyond a stack of empty storage units. Well, almost empty. The scattered remains of shredded boxes and torn paperwork sat on some of the shelves, almost like someone had detonated a grenade inside a box of old reports.
Three fifty-gallon drums hugged the wall between the door and the shelves. They were blue, like the gloves, and made of plastic. She wondered what was inside but didn’t have the time to stop and pop their lids. If she ever got back this way, she needed to check them out. Perhaps they contained something worth scavenging.
She grabbed the door’s lever-style handle and pushed it down. The latch released after a metallic click, letting her swing the door open and see outside. Freedom was only a step away.
Summer wasn’t sure why, but she decided to glance back along her path. It was probably the pull of her Seeker Map. It was all by itself, wondering if she’d abandoned it.
At least there was no sign of the men yet. So far, so good; however, she knew they’d be there any second.
It was time to make a run for it.
CHAPTER 15
Franklin Horton waved Team Two forward on his left. Team Three was already in position, driving the target toward the far corner of the cannery to keep her hiding spots to a minimum.
Teams One and Four had remained behind to cover their unit’s six in case the girl somehow managed to elude their pursuit and double back.
The adrenaline in his chest confirmed what his mind was thinking—somewhere ahead was a clever adversary. She’d already given them the slip once, and her ingenuity had cost Slayer his life.
Unlike Slayer, Horton wasn’t about to underestimate this girl, not when his life was on the clock. Failure was not an option for any commander under Frost’s rule, and there was zero chance this girl would cause the end of him.
Every cell in Horton’s body told him she was close, hiding in the shadows, probably watching his every move. But the sheer amount of equipment and the poor lighting conditions forced him to advance with caution.
He wasn’t sure if the girl had an ambush planned. It was possible, given the extensive amount of time she’d spent in this location after their last encounter. Ambushes can come at you from any angle, especially when you are not familiar with the sector being swept.
Horton worked his way around the hole in the floor and caught up to Team Three, nestling in next to the shortest of the two men, Sketch—all 5-foot 9 inches of him—a 39-year-old dark-skinned man who doodled when he was bored.
Sketch tilted his cover up with his free hand, revealing his receding hair line and buzz cut. The black man with a dimple in his chin gave Horton a folded piece of paper. “Found this, commander.”
Horton opened the paper and scanned it. It was a map of some sort, with grid lines and numbers. The No-Go Zone was clearly marked.
“Important, sir?” another man asked him in a guarded whisper.
“Probably,” Horton said, his eyes moving from the map to the redhaired man who ran with the nickname of Dice. His long, flaming red locks made him easy to identify and remember. So did his perfectly white teeth and athletic frame.
Dice was relentless when it came to his morning jogs, claiming he pounded out eight miles a day. However, since nobody else ever tagged along, that fact couldn’t be verified.
Even so, Horton had no reason to doubt the 44-year-old, wondering if Dice jogged as often in his former life as a dealer in Las Vegas. Dice was in fabulous shape and was more than capable of defending himself.
Horton had seen it first-hand when they first encountered the Scabs as a unit, and Dice used lightning-fast Karate moves to take out a slew of the crazed cannibals.
The man’s unique backstory was easy to remember because of the Karate Master that Dice had studied under—a feisty female Sensei who was also a world champion. Someone named Pam Poland that he’d first met at a trade show in Vegas back in the day.