The nail gun’s muzzle twisted, repositioning. Ashley’s first two nails had gone high, so he was adjusting his aim. Trial and error. It was the very same gap Sandi had peered through before, now being used against them.
“I hate him,” Darby whispered, rolling onto her belly, whipping her slick hair from her face. “I hate him so much—”
“What’s he doing?”
“Nothing.”
“Is he shooting nails at us?”
“It’s fine.” She tugged Jay upright, by the wrist. “Come on, come on—”
They slid into Espresso Peak, taking cover behind the stone counter as — THWUMP-THWUMP-THWUMP — an onslaught of shrapnel pierced the air, pinging off the floor, the walls, the ceiling. The pastry case shattered. Styrofoam cups bounced. A carafe banged like a gong and hit the floor beside them, splashing warm water. But the counter and cabinets, a forty-five degree inlet, protected them from Ashley’s direct fire.
“See?” Darby patted Jay, checking for injuries. “We’re fine.”
“You said he wasn’t shooting nails at us—”
“Yeah, well, I lied.”
THWUMP-THWUMP. Two pounding impacts on the wall above them, and something slashed Darby’s cheek. Like a bee sting, then a rush of warm blood. She ducked low and sheltered Jay from more ricochets, shielding her body with her own. She saw tears in the girl’s eyes.
“No. No, Jay. It’s fine. Don’t cry—”
THWUMP. A nail slapped wetly into Ed Schaeffer’s shoulder, twisting his body in a rictus of floppy horror, and Jay screamed.
Darby held the girl close, ignoring the gash on her cheek, stroking Jay’s dark hair, trying desperately to hold it together: Oh, Jesus, this is it. This is the last ounce of stress she can take. I’m going to watch helplessly as she locks up and dies—
“Please, don’t cry, Jay.”
She sobbed louder, hyperventilating, fighting Darby’s grip—
“Please, just trust me—”
THWUMP. A nail thudded off a cabinet, peppering them with wood chips.
“Jay, listen to me. The police are coming,” she said. “They got held up, but they’re still coming. They’ll check every rest stop on this highway, especially the one with an almost-identical name. They’ll save us. Just a few more minutes, okay? Can you last a few more minutes?”
Just words. All of it, just words.
Jay kept sobbing, her eyes clenched, building to another bracing scream, as — THWUMP — the cash register tipped, crashing down beside them, keypad buttons skittering across the tile like loose teeth.
Darby held the seven-year-old close amid all the violence, shielding her face from shrapnel, trying to soothe her panic. She was certain it was over — that Jay’s nervous system couldn’t possibly handle any more trauma — but then something came back to her. Surfacing from her memories; her mother’s warm voice in her ear: It’s okay, Darby. You’re fine. It was just a nightmare.
All you have to do is—
“Inhale,” she told the girl. “Count to five. Exhale.”
THWUMP. The Garfield clock exploded off the wall, showering them with plastic bits. Darby brushed away debris from Jay’s hair, touching her cheek, keeping her voice level: “Just inhale. Count to five. Exhale. Can you do that for me?”
Jay took a breath. Held it. Let it go.
“See? It’s easy.”
She nodded.
“Again.”
She took another. Let it go.
“Just like that.” Darby smiled. “Just keep breathing, and we’ll—”
“Daaaaarby.” Ashley kicked the table and it honked on the floor, scraping a few inches. Broken glass teeth sprinkled from the window. He huffed as he pushed. “You could’ve been my girlfriend.”
Darby rose to her knees, dizzy with gasoline fumes, pushing aside tipped Styrofoam cups, and aimed Lars’s black handgun over the counter. Aligning the green-painted sights, her finger on the trigger.
“I’m not normally like this,” Ashley howled outside. “Don’t you understand, Darbs? I wasn’t going to kill you. I don’t even . . . I mean, I don’t even drink or smoke—”
Jay winced. “He’s . . . he’s going to get inside.”
“Yeah.” Darby closed her right eye, aiming the Beretta. “I’m counting on it.”
“We could’ve gone to Idaho. Together.” Ashley kicked the table again, scooting it forward another scraping inch, shedding splinters. His voice boomed in the pressurized air: “Don’t you get it? We could’ve gone to Rathdrum. Rented the loft over my uncle’s garage. I’d do jobs with Fox Contracting. You’d be my girl, and we’d leave our cities behind, you and me, and I’d show you the river I grew up on, and the trestle—”
“Is he telling the truth?” Jay asked.
Darby sighed. “I don’t even think he knows.”
Ashley Garver — a piteous creature that wore so many masks, he didn’t even know what he looked like beneath them. Maybe his heart was breaking, even as he discovered he had one. Or maybe it was all just words.
“You could’ve been my girl,” he wailed, “but you fuckin’ ruined it—”
Darby aimed the Beretta as the table shifted again. But she couldn’t fire yet. She would have to wait. She’d have to wait until Ashley Garver was visible, until he scraped the table aside and vaulted in through the broken window. Then, and only then, could she—
No.
She froze, the trigger half-pulled. The hammer cocked back, a heartbeat away from dropping. Something else, something terrible, had just occurred to her.
No, no, no . . .
The pungent taste of gasoline, sharp on her tongue. The tipped fuel jug had now drained itself empty, a half-inch spreading to coat the entire floor. Fumes crowded the air, sweating beads on the walls.
If I fire Lars’s handgun, she realized with dawning horror, the muzzle blast could ignite the vapor in the air. The chain reaction would incinerate the entire room. There were five gallons spilled in here. The floor would become a sea of rolling fire, like dropping the world’s biggest Molotov cocktail. There’d be zero chance of escape. Darby’s hoodie was drenched with gasoline, damp and clinging. So was Jay’s parka. They’d both be burned alive.
Firing the weapon, in here, was suicide.
Darby lowered the pistol. “Shit.”
“But instead, you killed my brother.” Ashley kicked the table again. An exhaled, wolfish chuff. The table scraped another inch, bumping Sandi’s limp ankle — he now had almost enough space to squeeze through.
Darby almost hurled the handgun in rage. “Shit, shit, shit—”
Jay touched her shoulder. “What?”
“I . . .” Darby rubbed blood from her eyes, reassessing, drawing desperate new plans. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. He’ll never touch you again. I swear to God, Jay, I am your guardian angel, and Ashley Garver will never hurt you again, because I will kill him.”
“I’ll kill you.” Ashley kicked again. “You fucking whore—”
Darby stood up, wiping gasoline off her hands. “Listen to me, Jay. We’re not waiting for the police. We’re not waiting for a rescue. I’ve been waiting all damn night and no one’s rescued me. Almost everyone I’ve trusted tonight has turned on me. We are the rescue. Say it, Jay — we are the rescue.”
“We are the rescue.”
“Louder.”
“We are the rescue.” Jay stood up on shaky legs.
“Can you run?”